By Olimar E. Maisonet-Guzmán
Not For Your Comfort
i want to go back
to my caribbean-ness,
the pulse of drums that raised my grandmother,
sea salt prayers in my veins,
heat that lives in my hips
when i walk,
when i laugh,
when i love without apology.
i want the mirror to speak to me again
in the language my mother taught me:
morena bella,
brown eyes like dark rum,
curls that spiral like conch shells,
like stories passed down through generations
of women who never learned to shrink.
but in his make-believe world
of checked-off boxes
and beige everything,
i became the disruption.
the one who brought thunder
to spaces that preferred whispers.
the one who moved like tidal waves
in rooms built for still water.
i was his temporary rebellion
before returning to what was safe:
pale skin that never challenged,
quiet voices that never questioned,
love that came with instructions
and stayed within the lines.
but i am descended from women
who danced through hurricanes,
who built kingdoms with calloused hands,
who taught their daughters
that our fire is not a flaw—
it is our inheritance.
i will not dim my wildness
for anyone's comfort.
i will not translate my passion
into palatable portions.
i am the sun.
the salt.
the rhythm that runs in my blood—
and i choose to love someone
who celebrates the storm,
not someone who waits for it to pass.
The Girl Who Speaks In Color
i am the sun.
the salt.
the girl who speaks in color.
i do not come quietly.
i rise.
i blaze.
i warm everything i touch—
and never ask permission.
my joy has volume.
my grief has rhythm.
my body remembers
the hush of lips pressed to my forehead,
the linen that cooled my skin in summer,
the silence that meant safety—
not absence, but love without needing words
i am not a flavor.
i am the meal.
the heat.
the hands that stir the pot.
seasoned, steady, unapologetic.
i do not ask for belonging.
i belong to myself—
to the sky that mirrors my fire,
to the ocean that raised me,
to the language that moves
without needing translation.
i speak in color
because color is how i was made:
bright, layered,
alive.
and I will not be explained.
Oli is a diplomat and writer based in Paris, exploring how culture, emotion, and quiet acts of defiance shape the journey to becoming whole.