me on Judgment Day

The child in me sucks up to the earth
as dreams and youth cling like coffee stains on teeth

The actress in me outgrows her need of an audience
embracing the spotlight even as the curtain falls

The mother in me is showing her children the door
with sweaty palms refusing to wave goodbye

The ghosts in me are hushed but ever restless
like grocery store shoppers in line to pay the bill


When you look me in the eye

what do you see?

Do you see a daughter

who is teachable and good?

This isn’t all of me yet.

When you look me in the eye

what do you see?

Do you see a sister

who cares and is cared?

This isn’t all of me yet.

When you look me in the eye

what do you see?

Do you see a friend

who tries to understand?

This isn’t all of me yet.

When you look me in the eye

what do you see?

Do you see me changing

and painfully evolving?

And yet,

This isn’t all of me yet.

Closet Diaries (poem #3)

Let me tell you something about belts

I am used to wearing one, and I own

a brown belt, leather belt, black belt.

To me a belt is a symbol of power

like how father whipped us into telling truths

and how mother held her silence like a crown, then she started wearing one too

And my sister wears a belt

we fight over belts, among other clothes

In high school, I repurposed a necktie for a belt.

and I felt more empowered when a classmate did the same

Belts are awesome,

but I wonder

now that I’m thirty and thinking of maybe starting a family someday

if I’m going to use it’s superpower and would it work the same?

Closet Diaries (poem#1)

Is it weird?

if I tell you,

I want you to hurt me.

I want a pain that is mine,

and not secondary…

Please don’t get me wrong

I love secondary stuff—

that hand-me-down dress

my sister used to wear

so gracefully;

the boxer shorts that used to be my father’s

made me feel like I’m a fighter;

that sexy lingerie from the thrift shop,

I liked them.

They make me wonder

what stories they went through

to arrive at my closet.



Heart, if you must love

I pray that you get

to love the kind of love

that gives birth

to a star.

The kind of love

that creates

a little more beauty

or a little more light

in the vast universe.

And if you are gifted

with that star…

Heart, always be grateful

but do not just rely

on the sparks

to warm you

in the cold

and in the lonely


Heart, I pray you learn

to translate your beats

into music;

and make sense of your sadness,

make sense of your anger,

make sense of your pain,

make sense of your hate,

because love is all about these, too.

And on days when you get tired

and there will be such days…

I hope that someone could

watch your star for you.

If there will be no one there

to keep the fire burning

to keep your light shining

I pray that you will still

find peace

and the courage

to embrace the night.


We all wanted to be found

We sing, we write, we dance,

We participate in the art that is life

Feel the beat of our hearts in songs

Feel the weight of our thoughts in words

Feel the rise and fall of grace in our moves

Inaudible are the pain behind the melodies

Invisible are the ink stains in our hearts

Intangible are the consequences of missteps

Still, we rise from graves of doubt.

First prose

I needed a home for my thoughts
so I was tempted to write you
But there’s this looming fear of baring myself
—another display in the circus of life

I needed a home for my thoughts
to make a cozy space for the pain
Or it would find a way to explode again
the aftermath of these vagabond feelings

I needed a home for my thoughts
and finally convince this chaos to settle
And so I knock and plea and bargain
for I can barely afford the rent!

If Inks were Wine

My ink betrayed me,
spilling out my vulnerable heart;
No, I don’t want to start.

But here I am, wishing,
my pen on hand — the magic wand;
dreaming for words
to console me, define me, unvex me.

In my mind’s eye, I look like a puzzle,
perplexedly unresolved;
A pat on the back, the Author of life draws nigh…

Nonetheless, a nincompoop,
losing grip playing with words;
No, I don’t want to start and sigh,
pining for clean white sheet again.