About Floresita de Luna

just your favorite chula chicana stuck in the sunshine riptide of Aggieland. current PhD student at TAMU. ask me anything about: ecology, ecosystems, biogeochemistry, and social equity through justice. not famous, just loud on twitter.

a good memory

sometimes, I think of the day we met

of how different our pretenses were for meeting the other.

In truth, I wanted to scam you. To use you,

unfurl you like a napkin, wipe away the dust from packing my skeletons back in the closet,

and throw you out.


sometimes, I think of the day we met

of how you looked at me when I called your name.

In truth, I wanted to feel powerful. To use you,

wrap you up in my words, smear into you the greasy gaudy nature of my persona

and cage you in.


sometimes, I think of the day we met

of how I looked into your eyes

and in that moment, the apparitions came to me

In truth, I was stymied by your gaze. How could I use you,

ignore the bloom of sage that are your eyes, gloss over the smooth sound of your voice,

and throw you out?


Sometimes. I think of the second day we met

of how I looked into your eyes

and in that moment, the apparitions came to me

In truth, they met the grey green wall of your gaze and decided. To use you,

wrap themselves in your form, tear away the soft cloths of your words,

and trap me.


Sometimes, I think of the second day we met

of how I looked into your eyes

In truth, it felt like being in pouring rain, freezing and cleansing simultaneously

And all I wanted was to use you,

to let you wipe away the greasy gaudy nature of my persona, unfurl my crown,

to let you wrap me in a thousand soft cloths

and return me to the ground.







a secret?

hey, listen

blue eyes beautiful

you can’t hide


not yourself, not your feelings, not your thoughts


hey, listen

blue eyes beautiful

you can’t hide


not the shaking of your voice, not the quivering in your hands, not the crumbling of your thoughts


hey, listen

blue eyes beautiful

please don’t hide


can’t you see that I am hooked on every thought, every motion of your hands, and every shaken word

that tumbles out

from your perfect peachen pout?




everytime I think I am finally old enough

have finally done enough work with people unlike you

have finally walked or biked or flown around the world far enough

everytime I think I have impressed every other white man with blue eyes enough

to forget everything about you


to forget every moment of hot-faced shame or every stomach dropping moment

where you all looked at me,

laughing with those perfect white teeth pulled back to talk about how much I suck


everytime I think I’ve escaped the shadow of all those memories

of thinking I could just sit on the jetty, on the cool black stones until

the bioluminescent sea carried me away


everytime everytime everytime

you come rushing back to me,


or really, I come falling back to you

like the day the sand disappeared from beneath my feet

and suddenly I was drowning in the freezing sea

nothing but sightless soundless blue water above me


desperately crying for help

each wide mouth scream filling my lungs with crystalline pain

eyes flowing their own tiny sea until the salt seared them shut

limbs thrashing desperate for a hold on something, someone


until the waves flung me back onto the sand

reeling and retching and crying

for everyone to see.


hold me tight (or don’t)

hold me tight

(or don’t)

this isn’t that song, you know

you can’t just peep and pick and choose

the pieces of my latinity that you’ll worship to infinity

you either hold me tight

(or don’t)


this isn’t that movie, you know

you can’t just say you love

my brown skin my black eyes my sacred hair my divinity

just to reject the traumas you can’t fetishize into something you can own

you either hold me tight

(or don’t)


this isn’t that book, you know

you can’t just spend everyday

listening for hours about the million ways I’m nothing like you

just to dismiss this halfway house of an identity the minute your whiteness can’t save it

you either hold me tight

(or don’t)


So either hold me tight with a body nothing like mine

(or don’t)

If this isn’t how our story goes then say so

there’s a million stories in my culture that tell me exactly what you’ll do

I’ll keep a candle lit for you, because what else is love for but forgiving men like you

But I hope the distance between us cuts you like a knife

the next time you either hold me tight

(or don’t)





al otro lado de la pared

on the other side of the wall

that plexiglass fortress that keeps you

sequestered away in that little office of yours

complete with windows barred in rusted iron

there’s a million sounds to reverberate the air


there is

the sound of your tongue


against your teeth when you talk


there is

the sound of my feet as I skitter over to you


a baby’s footsteps on the hard corporate carpet


there is

the sweet serious baritone of your laugh


honey flowing from deep in that broad chest of yours


there is

the sound of wounds healing the


of your hand on my back the


of your fingers in my hair the

softest thud


of my chin on your shoulder when we hug the

prosaic hum of our bodies falling into safe rhythms



all these million sounds to reverberate the air

in front of that red-iron barred window

where you’re sequestered away in that office of yours

a tiny fortress of gleaming plexiglass to keep you

on the other side of the wall.


las canicas

what if I told you that

whenever we talk I spend what feels like endless hours

staring into the depths of your eyes

marveling at the perfect smoothness of your irises

how there is not a single ridge or pore or dip or divet

not a single flaw in the perfect disk of your eyes

instead the rivulet of colors

the warmest hazel the deepest grey the softest blue

all flow outwards from your pupil

a hundred thousand rivers

crisscrossing on the flat plane of your iris

their overlapping flow uniting to make the perfect jade of your eyes

a sea in which I would glad spend

a hundred thousand years embraced.


playing numb

are the thoughts still intrusive if its been four months,

or can you just be another in the litany of voices in my head?

I’m asking for a friend and that friend is me cause

between me and myself, between

hours of bike rides and the screams of little cousins

between the tequila I drank Wednesday night and the way white men talk to me,

I still remember everything.


and the hurt isn’t sharp, not anymore,

its more of a dull throb somewhere between my uterus and kidneys

the way pancreatitis feels once your enzymes reach 2K over the healthy limit of 20

and just like that night my gallbladder exploded, it seems

like I keep retching up more and more and more

every hour on the hour

of the things you did the way I felt

continual flows of bitter yellow bile dumped from the cavern of my mouth

But somehow I’m not getting better.


and maybe this means I need an intervention

except instead of a blonde doctor weaving a tiny robot’s hands through my entrails

it’ll be a white man weaving his careful green eyes and soft words around my head

avoiding the pieces that still scream ouch, ouch when touched until the day we both die


or maybe like the errant gallstone that blocked my liver ducts, that

scritchy itchy feeling under my ribcage

I’m still holding on to some calcified chunk of what happened

maybe that’s why I still remember the words you said so clearly

every time someone touches my arms

or when the smell of an IPA hits my nose

or when I catch someone staring at my sacred hair


words like

do you think that black kid is gay 


why do the gays need to have marriage why couldn’t they just have civil unions

maybe they do love each other the way my wife and I do 


of course I know that police treat blacks differently, I used to sic cops on black kids when I was breaking the law 

and even

I am waiting to see if you are okay 


I am waiting to see if I am okay, too.