The Way You Look at Me

a short poem — If we are lovers, I will insist on being in the driver’s seat, not because I don’t trust you, but because I don’t trust myself with you, I’ll drag you around the whole damn city before admitting I’m lost, or that I should have worn the sweater I stubbornly refused, but you’ll already…

In honor of International Women’s Day — Poetry is a woman. Her hips are the stanzas, sustaining your attention, rhyming with your beating heart, her breasts, riddled with similes, will tell narrations of past lives. Poetry is a woman. She will string your words into lyrics, wearing assonance on her lips, listen carefully to her delicate refrain transposing your…

a short poem — the sun creeps in under your curtains, you always liked to lay on your side, the space between your shoulder blades, reminds me of canyons, how the swirls dance together, infusing milk and honey like valleys and geysers coalescing magma and water that places like this exist in the world is a terrifying…

free verse — I hope you remember me not as a concept, a permutation of your desires, but as a shooting star, an accidental finding, serendipitous, never righteous. Perhaps, I may have been a colossal of bad ideas, a neurotic skeptic, at times, seemingly audacious, but I was also an anchor in moments of uncertainty, when your own mind doubted…

But I Still Wish on Them — I tend to lose myself in the pages of every book I open. The characters, they do not judge. Surrounding myself in a tower of books, I traverse through time and space. The best way to understand me is to memorize my highlighted texts, scribbled notes along the margins, torn…

Micropoetry — Fear of time entrenched into every crevice of society, dyed grey hairs, lasered wrinkles, waning memories that falter, deterioration of the physical, a species in denial of aging, moving forward, in reverse, resisting the natural process, a flower does not ask whether it should bloom, it just simply does, we are all hostages to time, yet…

free verse — I want to build a home, where strangers come from near and far, where new relationships meet for the first and last time, there will always be a space for the dwellers, an extra seat for the passerby a table set for the outcasts. I want to build a home, the…

a poem — The words drip from your mouth like cinnamon roll glaze, so sweet it will rot your teeth, it takes all my willpower to not lick the sugared lies, to devour you whole. You said you’d take it all back, do things differently, for a fraction of a second, I believed you, but I remembered…

Would Knowing Your Murderer Change Your Behavior? — A literary concept known as Chekhov’s Gun states, If in Act One you have a pistol hanging on the wall, then it must fire in the last act. So I ask you this, would knowing your murderer change your behavior? If the gut is connected to the brain, why isn’t…