Below are some of my poems, both published and unpublished.


I will admit

That oftentimes

I felt rather uninspired.

That I was searching,

deep below heaven,

for something

to fill a void. 

That sometimes,


felt more like a coffee shop 

than where i paid rent.

That I would mistake my legs

for walking sticks 

and familiarity

as a concoction of comfort and ingenuity.  

I find that 

there is a certain 

shade of pink

that reminds me 

of my grandmother. 

It brings me back to five, 

sitting at her table

eating crustless pb&j 

with a glass of innocence,

as she rubs my head,

her hands a skin-colored pink. 

But like that sandwich

lacked crust,

I found, too,

that I had been lacking. 

I ordered eggs,


with a side of desperation,

the void only changing

to a shade of yellow.

I will admit that I have always

felt nomadic.

Too many homes,

none of which my father built

But I am grateful

for my lack of address.

It gave me

my sense of adventure. 

My compass often

goes askew,

but my feet

are always firmly planted, 

toes pointing north,

thumbs pointing inward.

And I’ll tell you,

there's nothing more grounding

than holding that compass

in between your thumb and your pointer

searching for a home

and realizing,

over three thousand miles away,

that home had been where your thumbs

left imprints. 

The same spot where your grandmother

rubbed your head. 

The same hands that combed the backyards

of the houses,

none of which your father built,

for missing marbles.

The same mind

that realized

they were homes

just the same. 

It is not until you graced 

your nomadacy 

with a purpose

that you realized 

you carried home within you

and slightly on your back

Because your shoulders are heavy

but so was your heart,

and you often bet

that if you pried your thumbs deep enough 

the organ beating in your chest

would be clad with a compass, 

spinning and stalled all the same. 

It would be beating,


in your hands,

saying, “I was never a void;

you were never nomadic,

but never cease

to order your eggs

with a side 

of desperation,"

looking just about

the same shade of pink

that brings you back

to pb&j,


and your grandmother. 


“I know nothing of the hearts of men”

Is one of my favorite lines

From a book i read

When i was someone else

If we bandaid ourselves

Do we stop from bleeding? 

Have I always been her? 

Will I always be her?

I should hope not. 

I feel sick

Are you sick?

Is she sick?

Are we all fucking sick?

Are we all fucking, sick?

Punctuation is imperative,

My old professor told me once

I always left it out

Add it to the list

If we stuff it under the rug

It doesnt exist, right?


My mind looked like your grandmother’s shitty furniture 

Covered in plastic 

She never had anybody over, though, 

so who the fuck was it for? 

Just in case,

She always said. 


Me too. 

Any time i peeled back the plastic

I felt sick

I could see her

In their eyes 

What is familiarity and comfortability if we know nothing of either?

Yet feel the exact same

When I’m with her

Dichotomy meets me in an alley, 

my old friend

What do you have over the counter for regret? 



I feel sick. 

I’m running out of plastic

And patience. 

It wasn’t even about that

I didn’t even notice

The fucking moon

Yet when I’m with her

I do 

“Dear, why self-sabotage?”

They ask

Why because i like the taste

Of familiarity 

Even though i like the taste

Of her 

I don’t even know who she is

I don’t even know who I am

That’s the trouble with the plastic, though,

Because i do know

Im just afraid of peeling back too far

What if someone sits down on that shitty couch

And ruins it? 

Is that redundant?

I felt sick. 

But really 

It was never even about that

Why try and justify stupidity 

When you simply know nothing

Of the hearts of [wo]men

“Why self-sabotage, dear?”

Why not? 

We all float along idly anyway

Until Eliot's human voices wake us

And we drown 

But for some odd reason

So soon

I found myself 


To drown 

in her

“So, why self-sabotage, dear?”

The plastic. 

I felt sick. 


I tried to write a poem

About romance

In its truest form,

And I deleted it, 

Because why 

Speak of falsities?

I would write a dictionary 

for you

if i knew its contents. 

Show me,

Tell me,

Taste me. 

My romance 

Has been squeezed 

Onto the top

Of a pin.

I can look at it

With a magnifying glass,

The one I lost

Last summer

While I was staring too hard

At the wrong girl. 

Did you know,

In the South of France,

I realized,


I loved her?

Did you know,

In the South of Maine 

She realized,


How another tasted? 

There always remains


In romance. 

I know much of one

And nothing of the other. 

I can’t bite the bullet;

I’m too busy

Biting my lip. 

Are you as tired as I am?

Of complacency 

And convenience 

Being mistaken

For love?

Give me desperation. 

I want someone to think

I am the be all,

The end all,

The reason the moon

Follows the car. 

I want to defy logic 

And comfort

By becoming both. 

Are you as tired as I am?

Of late nights

And early mornings,

Of staring at each other 

Over coffee

Overcompensating our mouths

With caffeine 

Out of fear of speaking truths

That show each other

Who we are?

I want to know you

And me

Through you

And me. 

Are you as tired as I am?

Of being scared of truth? 

I want to show you

The way my tongue

has more than one use. 

I want to make you cum

With knowledge of yourself.

Show me

Who you are

Through rose-colored lips.

I am who I have always been.

I just need you

To take your thumb

And drag open my bottom lip,

Beg for me,

Beg for my truths.

Yearn for me.

Be the moon that follows the car.

I want to convince you I am

The reason it rose this evening;

I want to convince you I am

That novel you’ve searched for. 

I want to convince you I am

The start and the finish

Of every word

You’ve never heard. 

And I want you to say,

“This I have always known,”

As you sink yourself into me 

And breathe a sigh of relief

“This is what i meant,

This is what i meant all along.”

I want to be longed for 

And to long for.

What is it

About you

That tastes like peaches

And honey

And my past?

I’m tired of searching

For what’s right in front of me.

Is it me that fucks it up?

Or the weather?

It was sunny when I met you;

I should stop anticipating showers.

I need to convince you

It is I 

That is the only North Star.

I am exhausted,

Don’t you see?

From knowing people

And knowing nothing of them. 

I yearn to pour myself into your mouth.

It is the emotionally unattached 

I flock to.

I like the taste of familiarity. 

I am telling you a recipe,

Are you listening?

I want you to weep

And speak of regret,

Of having not followed the path

That brought you to me sooner. 

I want you to weep,

Of having ever colored with another. 

I want you to weep,

Of the art you will have to relook at with new eyes. 

I want you to weep,

Of having to relearn love now that I stood before it. 

I want you to weep,

Of longingness. 

Of hope. 

I want you to weep

To the moon ,

To tell her that you are sorry

That you were so long

Commanded by the sun

When she had been in front of you

All along. 

But I open my eyes 

And it is myself weeping

All these truths

To myself in the mirror

For you have gone,

Just as swiftly as the moon,

Just as swiftly as the South of France in mid-June. 


The other day, I gave myself to many. This might strike you as bold, strange, perhaps entirely taboo. And in many ways, you’d be correct. But nevertheless, I undressed, removed my skin, let it dangle down my sides like loose, nude fabric, and exposed myself to strangers. You see, there’s nothing like that sweet release I get as I drip my naked truth from my orifices (all of them) into their orifices (all of them). Sometimes, I hear it tastes just like honey. Other times, I hear it’s bitter and leaves a few unsatisfied. Sometimes this exposure, this intimacy is thankless work, but we know that when it’s bad it’s still alright and that when it’s good it’s pretty damn good. 

But before the aftermath, you’re together on this otherworldly plane, indiscernible from reality and fiction (and that’s when you like it best). You’re trying to navigate your kinks—and theirs—but if we’re being honest, which we always are, the only thing we fetishize more than other people are ourselves. And believe me, there’s moments when your true pleasure points may seem to fit better underneath a cloth of secrecy, but darlin’, who really wins when you don’t ask for more? 

We know that nothing beats soaring through plateau to reach climax (hopefully simultaneously), where the earth opens, you open (and not like a flower because that comparison has always been too dainty for what gets you off), and you cannot decipher where you end, they begin, the ground ends, the ground begins, because in that moment, everything and also nothing is in sync. 

But we mustn’t forget the pain, the trauma, the abuse, the hate, the tears. The “please don’t look” that gets whispered in the dark because honesty is the scariest form of visibility yet we crave to be understood. We are human, creatures of habit, ones that remember that one time (many times) when the reaction we expected was instead a click of a tongue, a slap to the face, a hand on the throat (and not one we asked for). Yet we still always come crawling back, even if gripping our skin as it falls off of our limbs, begging to be seen properly this time, our mirrors covered at home. Pain breeds stagnation which breeds regret. This is a vicious cycle. 

And believe me, there are days when it’s more painful than it is climactic. And we typically peel our skins off in front of mirrors, but sometimes everyone likes an audience. So I keep tissues near, and my pen closer. Because no matter the results, the writing is always worth it. 

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