para mis padres

I don’t know how to

thank you

in a way that will ever feel

like enough,

for the way you built me from


from hard work,

spinning me from

threads of equality

and revolt,

teaching me to

give without take,

to love in a

way that

fills and does not


I keep your flowers on the windowsill

you creep into my bones on wintry mornings
while the light tiptoes its way across my white bedsheets and
I recall Bukowski in my head claiming love like
serious illnesses

while I smuggle earl grey
tea in between the lips of December promises and
wonder how you recover from love that spills
into your coffee cup or if

love is even love if
it requires recovering from.


ghost of mine

It is funny the way the ghost of you follows me in everything I do.

I wander the aisles of grocery stores and pick out plastic packages of frozen mangos and I think about whether you would find it funny the way I explore the entirety of the store only to return to the things I know.

I sit and watch movies and pick them out from digital lineups and organize the pillows on my bed just right and I picture the way you would look if you sat there next to me, and the things you would say at the scenes I know you’d like, and the way it would feel to kiss you in the dark of the night.

I walk the streets in the morning and in the afternoons and I imagine the way my face would turn to yours and how the sound of our laughter would overflow the city, and how you would love the flowers and the rainbow colored crosswalks just as much as I.

You fit perfectly in every moment I know to exist, like a puzzle piece of my life I had never encountered but always knew was missing, like we were made to stand side by side and there was no version of reality in which I was not yours and you were not mine.

It is as if since I was twelve years old, I’ve been begging the world if only I could meet you.

letter to the consumer

In the age of information

overload, of ghosts with

flimsy paper power who

shovel cookie cutter thoughts

down our throats to keep us


I do not

desire to be


I do not

ache to be

sweet on your

tongue -—

I want my

body to

burn as you


so that you

cannot hear me

without listening,

so that you

must stop and think

about the way history

bleeds behind the

thoughts that you are


inner demons

you can feel the darkness spreading in your

chest, extending its fingers through the humble gaps in your

ribcage, gathering all your oxygen in one slow gasp and

leaving you breathless, so

you stare hazily at the zipper below your

neck and wonder when you will have the

strength to pull it