If one day I decided to live in a clock Would you meet me there? On the hands of time — As they say. I don’t know what I’m messing with. All the butterflies can be fucked like I just crushed the wings of it in front of a young child eating ice…

A conversation on society’s sexualization of young girls — Puberty is a beautiful thing, but it’s also very reckless. It comes when it wants, but you never truly know what it is, or was, until you’re out of it. As a young girl, puberty hit me hard — So did the unwanted sexual attention. Besides the fact that my…

Good things to write are easy to read. Words smell of iron. Like lightly banging the back of the head. Hurting you, in grade-level honors literature. As you cry about the boy with too many veins, or the red slices of an arm — you’re misguided; no longer an emo…

Much to my surprise, as a 24-year-old adult woman, I discovered I was Latino, and, no, not because I didn’t know who my parents were. Non-Hispanic but Latino, yes. I am a First Generation Black American Woman — Something I didn’t realize was a specific experience… until college. I remember…

A Poem on Life’s Seasons — Seasons don’t change in a day. My bones have been cracking into place for months. As I end the cycle of dark clouds, the stiffness I acquired from the isolation doesn’t go unnoticed. Every day I’m reminded of the time my body sat frozen in dry ice. New seasons start…

A poem — Floating; I face up to the light Rays bouncing into the blue from blue. Floating in a never-ending sea of blue — cliché, classic? It’s silent down here. I guess I’ve spent so much time down here I don’t hear the gurgling of the bubbles by my ear. What’s left sits at the edge of…

I want to roll your eyeballs back this way. Pass the light behind me and twinkle. Your hair, that would’ve been cut in the perfect fantasy, will be stained in your red matter. I don’t know if your senses are yelling, wake up! The sun’s bright, and the pillows fluffed. I wrinkled my shirt for this, heated…

There are very few people who acknowledge spells. But, I have to say all art is magic. Sometimes stories, or vivid images, flow out onto the physical plain, a page, and before you even realize what it looks like, you’re halfway done. I don’t know its source.

I’ve been flooded in magazines. Somewhere in them is a pretty face, like mine. It’s 2d, despite my 3d life. The Pretty Girl Who Battled the Shark! It’s panicking hunger ruffling the water, surprising the blue with my kind of red. I hurry off every child who mutters too long…