‘Potholes’, ‘Hidden’, ‘Vintage’, ‘Listen To Your Friends’, ‘Secrets From My Mid-Twenties’ & ‘Weird’
Yazmin Munoz is a Mexican American poet and photographer from Dallas, TX. As the eldest of 13, she is passionate about engaging in conversation with everyone. Through her creative work, she seeks to connect, heal, and address systemic issues affecting our communities.
Potholes
Hitting potholes
and cursing at myself
because I should’ve seen it coming
and swerved to the side.
I can’t afford more damage.
These roads are deceiving–
an illusion of smooth texture
when you’re looking at them
from a different perspective,
but cavities cemented before me
always seem to show up
when I least expect it.
Potholes
in my mind
like an obstacle course,
and I’ve never been athletic.
I’m at a physical disadvantage,
yelling at my legs,
“Run! Move! Do something!”
but they won’t move an inch.
With each step, my limbs falter
now shaking from effort.
Potholes
leave me stumbling,
more bruises on my knees,
self-inflicted consequence
of pushing my luck.
A scrape causing blood to seep
dripping on the asphalt,
but I wipe it off and try to keep going.
Potholes
that can’t be filled.
I’ve exhausted all resources.
I succumb to the defeat
of driving on a road
that is incomplete.
No warning of construction,
just obstruction of broken concrete.
I hit a road that says,
“dead end ahead.”
All that is left to contemplate
is a question carved into me
by my deepest fears:
if the voids of life
only cause me to founder,
where do I go from here?
Hidden
I hide you
in my poems.
I keep you around
to remind me of what we had.
You are a bookmark
in a chapter of my favorite book.
Flipping through the pages,
I find you and read your words
over and over again.
I hide you
in my poems.
You are always the sunset
leaving for the night,
and I’m never sure
if you will return burning bright.
When you are around
I feel the pain of your smolder
and peel the skin
from my sunburn,
expeditiously waiting to be
burned again.
I hide you
in my poems.
You are the key
to a door I want to leave locked.
I tell myself I lost you,
but the truth is
you grew heavy in my pocket,
and I am tired of holding your weight.
I threw you off a bridge
into the dark, crashing water of a river–
the way I always wished
you would dive into me.
Brass slipped through my fingers
and with it fell the illusion of you.
When you confessed that your hands
were not strong enough to hold me,
but then closed my door so effortlessly,
I knew I could never go back
into that house.
I hide you
in my poems.
I keep these metaphors around
to remind me of why
this chapter must now close.
Love to be reminiscent of you,
but relieved to remember
you’re gone.
Vintage
I am vintage–
a rare find in a thrift store.
Digging through totes
and sifting through clothing racks,
uncovering piles of clutter,
and you discover me
at the bottom.
Rarity becomes me,
let me be seen.
I am vintage–
an old soul with a bright mind
who deserves to be cherished
and carefully kept.
A milk glass physique
and a uranium glow,
only held in hands who know
the value I hold.
I am vintage–
but I am not falling apart.
I am built sturdy
with meticulous detail
and surprisingly ahead of my time.
Own me only with adoration;
let my love be timeless,
a heritage unequivocally designed.
I am vintage–
put me in a record player
and hear me portray
all the sounds of years past;
sounds waves through the air
will bring mirrored melancholia.
In my ridges, you’ll find yourself
like a cylindrical rhythm
bringing you closer to me.
Care gently for the vinyl of which I’m comprised,
but if you scratch me,
I might not play the same.
I am vintage–
imploring to be reclaimed.
Listen To Your Friends
My wisest friend told me
that the things someone loves about you in the beginning
will end up being the things they resent you for in the end,
and I never wanted to believe her.
Upon reflection,
I found my attributes become a foreign language
to those who try to love me–
my boldness mistaken for insanity,
my wit becomes weird,
and my independence turns me cold.
I was a geode stuck in the muddy Iowa earth,
and men picked me up and just to crack me open
for all of my layers to be seen.
I thought that sharing that kind of vulnerability
meant they would appreciate me.
And for a second, they always do.
Every person who has seen the hidden parts of me
promises I’ll be theirs for safe keeping
until I become too much.
The periphery of my crystals shine exquisitely
until the edges prick your fingers
and then I’m locked away
with the rest of your masochistic keepsakes.
You’d think by now, I’d be an expert on leaving.
But I like to stay on the shelf
of those who have no intention
of loving me the way I need,
just in case they get their shit together.
I keep journals noting every intricacy of my being,
but it’s no use sharing them with men
who don’t know how to read.
And even if they did,
what they would find would leave them displeased.
I’ve cracked many riddles in my life,
but I’m not sure how to be a person
someone wants to keep.
Secrets From My Mid-Twenties
Being manic pixie dream girl
gets you a lot farther than you’d think.
As a woman,
being weird and hot
will open doors
and cosmic portals
men could only dream of.
You learn a lot about
how men think
when you’re manic pixie dream girl–
men spill their secrets to you
at the very possibility
of getting to encounter your galaxy.
He’ll contain fractions of the depth
you’re comprised of,
but you probably let him
believe he’s intellectual.
Yet with your wisdom,
magic in your fingertips,
and 10 years added to your life,
you revert to your teenaged mindset
and dive headfirst into
hopeless romantic fantasies.
Dreaming of the day you’ll be whisked away
by some amorous abduction,
discernment has no power
over the very nature of your being.
You hear the words he says but
you choose to ignore him
when he tells you
he can’t give you what you need.
To him, you were never more than a dream–
manic pixie dream girl is only
a fickle, otherworldly being
trapped by the sorcery of smitten fallacies.
Even the most transcendent of women
fall into the trap of the human condition.
Weird
I don’t really want to be anywhere,
And it’s weird because
There’s so many places I love to be.
Everything makes me feel uneasy,
I could probably blame the social anxiety,
But the truth is,
It’s a side effect from reading the news lately.
My brain is yelling at me to do something—
Anything other than be seen.
My favorite coffee shop in town
Doesn’t bring the same comfort it once did.
The foam on my latte was too thick
And if I have to hear these white guys next to me
Talk about planes for another minute
I might be sick.
A world around me spinning,
And a body overwhelmed with feeling insignificant,
Wishing there was a guide
For existing in the ruins of America.
My legs are tired from running,
I can’t even stop them in my sleep—
The doctors call it restless leg syndrome
In reality, this rumination
Rules my inner being
And I cannot escape it
Even with these pills they’ve prescribed me.
I’ve never felt like I fit
Anywhere I go—
Not in my home or with my family
Or even when I’m the star of the show.
An outsider looking in,
I always get close to belonging,
But it’s a game I’ll never win.
I fought my fate for as long as I can remember—
I’ve never wanted to be alone,
Being lonely felt like surrender.
Independence, self-sufficiency:
Overcorrection of sexism now an integral part of my being,
And while I’d like some company,
It feels bold, even scary
To fight isolation.
In a world that tells us to be needless,
And to rely only on ourselves,
It’s an act of rebellion
To create community.
I try so valiantly to find what I need,
And while I’d like some company,
It seems the best I can do
Is attract onlookers giving me their sympathy.
Miranda Keith (she/her) is an Iowa native who received her bachelor's degree in Human Development and Family Studies from Iowa State University in 2022. She is a poet, photographer, and entrepreneur. Miranda's work focuses on the paradoxes of being human, the pain and joy of love, and existential crises discovered along the way. You can find Miranda on Tik Tok, Instagram, and Tumblr as @metaphoricallymk.
