Before You Fall in Love with a Writer

An excerpt from my book root, available now on Amazon.



Before you fall in love with a writer, understand that every chapter must matter. You cannot confine a writer to your territorial/reactive impulses. Even the past has the potential to become art framed by a pen. It is the way we as writers navigate. Please, find a way to be okay with that. Don’t hold our compasses (words) against us. It is possible to live just as deeply in a writer’s heart as we live in our minds. We’re just as present in our hearts. Just, sometimes…our imagination is the only passport we have. Only you know if you want to board separate jets. But know this…no one can love you as consciously or as freely as a writer. No one sees you like a writer sees you. You are already poetry waiting to be written. Feel the world, hold my hand. Tight.

Fleeting Woman

A Short Story

Photo credit:  Aaron Mello

Photo credit: Aaron Mello

She lives in your subconscious. She’s the poem that inspires you to write your own. You only wish you had half the spine of the notebooks she vastly occupies on your desk, never finding the courage to utter a word to her. Not one. She gives words real currency: all those nights tirelessly spent trying to recapture her. The nights you become a ransom writer.

A flicker of thought.


In the rain.

Muted colors.

Chasing her mirage.

Echoes of the unsaid.

Stubborn pavement.

Sweeping mind.

Highest frequency.





The Bone Fields of Revelation

Originally published in NR Magazine, Volume 5



Youth is an elusive suggestion of brief and magic moments —this atomic labyrinth we’re constantly struggling to recapture. When you’re young, there are no translations for the circus inside your head, the war inside your chest. I needed those. I needed to create them so that I could interpret them to feel safe in my own mind. To be free to feel my heart expand and contract. The connections I’ve made internally and the dimensions I’ve traveled to through poetry in attempts to bridge the gap between my younger self and my present footing are incomparable. In these defining moments, I feel empowered enough to want to leave a fingerprint on them: I’m supposed to be writing. Admittedly, there is a magic that is lost in the pain of growing. Learning, unlearning.

Me: Thank you for meeting me, here.

Me: Sorry I’m late.

Me: No rush.

Me: That’s what everybody kept telling me.

Me: The poetics of time.

Authentic conversations with myself. I exist in the splice. And I come alive in the sufferance of miles between naivety and wisdom. Parts of my soul are buried here.

Please, give names to wilted flowers.