Let me be painfully honest so that you never have to feel alone.
This is a safe space for activating deep reflection.
I use poetry and short essays as a form of revolutionary healing.
Subscribe To My Substack Below

It’s a Dance I’ve Learned

I’m walking home reluctantly 
as my mind floats to your bed 
and lays on your chest.

The moon spills over me, 
wrapping me in discipline,
begging me to avoid a knock at your door tonight. 

My heavy legs trail home and I am safe
until the sun intrudes 
with the absence of your skin.

Flare Gun

Their love was 
burrowed in insecurities,
often seeking pity at the bottom of a bottle.

Shamelessly swaying across the room 
and on to me,
to whisper an unsought compliment. 
Praying I’d mistake their discharge from a flare gun as fireworks.

I Lay Butterfly

I lay butterfly on the floor 
and open my hips 
as they pop in places
I let him in for warmth
while he scurried for sticky cavities 
to leave his shame. 

I made room in my hips for a 
grown 160-pound child 
to lay in my butterflied embrace.

I opened my hips and his baggage 
stuck to my honey caves. 

I mistook the feeling for love 
and collected so many tears 
the masons overflowed 
until I gave him back to the ocean. 

I made space for his unawareness 
then carried his carcass in the folds 
of my hips.

Now I lay in butterfly on the floor
and I release him.

Red Soil

I watched absent from my skin
as my craving for love settled for facades 
gasping at his food to feed my bellowing belly.

Every time I bit into his neck I imagined the purple juice from a fruit I never had, 
a fruit he never harvested to be. 
After months of feeding on empty bowls, I sat defeated in my garden. 

For countless weeks I tended to his issues, 
weeded his confusion,
watered his abuse, 
and waited for a harvest to feed me. 
My red and fertile soil, gone dry and lifeless.

I pulled at dead roots and looked at his dried-up seeds in exhaustion. 
All this time I had been waiting for life to come
from what my soil had rejected from the beginning.

Overwatering empty pots in ignorance of my needs, 
too hungry in my imaginings of us to know when to let go. 

The Little Prince

He cried while reading me the Little Prince
and compared me to the rose. 

With each line read 
he drew us closer to our end, 
almost as a spell, 
convincing himself I’d leave, 
to protect himself from fate.

I kept imaging him 
one day realizing I wasn’t 
the only rose in the world,
or finding a field of my likeness, 
to only search for my thorns.

The Shorelines of Polyamory

I get to watch the way you love her,
I get to be still, 
and wonder who she is 
in the mornings with you. 

You get to stroke both our centers 
and we allow you with gracious consent. 
I get to pass her in social settings, 
embrace her a with distant familiar 
silently thanking her for selflessly loving you, as I do.   

You get to jump on a plane,
leaving us both for a time, 
and I get to gently observe  
you move through your days,

the way you move through your lover’s fingers,
like water, 
and I'm watching from the shoreline 
amazed.

New York City Rain

I can smell your brisk waters 
slapping on shut windows 
20 stories high. 

I can hear your trickle in through creaky floorboards, 
down stained ceilings into echoing pots that make a symphony 
in my grandmother's kitchen as she prepares food. 

I can feel the heavy summer rain 
on my brown skin, 
on nights where the low is 85, 
and the fire hydrants are still loose, 
cascading a show on pavement
reflected by orange street lights. 

I can hear your screams of laughter 
while people seek out shelter.
The slapping of chancleta to heel 
as I hide my wash and set below bodega awnings. 

I can see your hazed out glow 
through papis car window, 
while we wait at a red light,
watching strangers duck from
the waves of zooming vehicles. 

New York City rain,
I can feel the heavy bodies, 
that rest temple to window in longing relief.

Watching your trails rinse our sorrows.
Baptized in new beginnings.