- age difference
in my youth,
my family took me
on road trips all over the country.
I drank coffee and tea
with women who were wise
and men who were haughty.
I witnessed the aftermath
of how forceful
nature can be.
when I stood at the precipice at Cappadocia,
where I gazed upon
the breathtaking fairy chimneys.
I trekked underground
through tunnels in hidden cities,
built in secrecy for Zoroastrian refugees.
I took in the sight of cisterns and minarets,
raised up in former centuries.
I walked barefoot, without pain,
all across the greatest salt seas.
walked from Harlem to Brighton Beach,
it took me 16 hours on feet;
that one day in New York,
back when I was in my teens.
and found pieces all over the world
that fit a part of me.
as I piece myself together day by day,
I know that I am not complete.
I know that,
when my aching feet,
brought me to you last week,
I felt at ease,
but still almost childlike;
even though I am thirty,
and you’re only
- a short poem
Let my gaze meet your hungry eyes;
Let us breathe together, heavy with lust.
Your capable hands forget how to be gentle when they touch my skin.
Let us live, and love together.
I want to hear rain again
like it felt before the PTSD.
none yet clean enough to drink.
it’s like a metaphor for my life:
being stuck; drowning in myself.
- you are my destruction
I’m being haunted by a ghost.
He’s never really there,
but sometimes he makes a sound,
and makes me think I’m not alone.
He’s like cigarettes to me;
they both destroy me slowly,
but I can’t stop reaching for them when I’m low.
He doesn’t know how to love;
he can only run away.
But I, when I feel something,
I run towards it with all my heart.
I’m not afraid to love,
and I’m not scared of ghosts.
- ellerin (your hands)
always seeking mine to hold for comfort;
at night, wielding a knife to cook for me;
when you write, holding your pen the wrong way,
and holding on way too tightly;
your hands, my love,
are precious to me.
they are calloused from work;
there’s dust under your fingernails.
even if divine angels came down from heaven,
and reached their holy hands out to me,
I would reach for yours instead,
because your hands, my love,
they captivate me, then set me free.
My brain is trying to kill my body slowly:
“You ate yesterday; you don’t need to eat today.”
What kind of self-destructive reasoning is that?
skip meals all day; eat cake at night.
You need those calories, after all,
but they make you feel more tired than before.
Get a hold of yourself; you’re an adult!
Besides, what’s so bad about being fat?
“You won’t fit your favorite clothes.”
So what? You’ll buy some new ones.
“You want to be the smallest person in the room,
and I hate it.
- openness 📖
How much would you like to know about me?
You can care only so much.
You don’t want to know every struggle
that every individual goes through.
How much do you really want to know
about my background, sexuality, passions, and loves?
Maybe we can connect
if you find a thread that ties us together.
Do you really want to know
what makes me sad, angry, indignant?
Will you grow hateful and malicious,
if we don’t see eye to eye?
Before I lay myself out in the open,
before I strip my heart bare,
I just wanted to ask:
do you really want to know me?
I forgot what I was going to say;
it’s on the tip of my tongue.
Here comes a torrent of new thought;
do I have it in me to make sense of it all?
My hands long to be busy;
my toes will not stop wriggling in anxiety.
Peace is a concept foreign to me;
although dad says it can be found in piety.
I no longer have faith, so I won’t pray
to God to cure my ADHD.
I just take it day by day,
and hope that I can just be.
- growth mindset
- baby fever – an original spoken word poem about motherhood, anxieties, and abuse
- Poetry Reading: Landscape (original)
- baby fever
I never want to be a mother.
I love to teach,
and I yearn to help a child
see life through the lens of beauty.
I never want to be a mother.
How could I be a good parent,
when I never learned the ways,
from my mother who once said:
“You were the biggest mistake
I have ever made.”
I don’t want to be a mother,
but I do
want to cook for a child and say:
“Look at all the different ways
that you can make eggs;
which one do you like the best,
- My Promise to You
I will always be honest and open;
I will always write from the heart.
You will never see ads on my site,
except for the crafts I make by my own hand.
I will not deceive or mislead you,
and I will try my best to be kind.
I have no poetry in me;
in me, there are valleys
full of dark memories,
there are rivers foaming against the rocks,
full of incomprehensible thoughts and anxieties.
In me, there are mountains,
made of challenges I am yet to overcome;
struggles with my sense of self-worth,
fear of the unknown,
a cruel view of my own self.
There are dark clouds made of past mistakes,
threatening and ominous,
obscuring a blue sky full of hope,
the sun shines through,
and love endures.
- What Brings Me Joy
The smallest things in life bring me joy;
seeing my husband smile,
hearing my cat greet me at my feet,
the smell of fresh pastries,
and the warmth of a cup of tea.
I love using my hands to create;
beautiful little boxes for tidy drawers,
paper flowers that last forever,
crafting, and writing.
I find joy, sometimes bittersweet,
in memories, keepsakes,
and personal treasures that remind me of
a time when I laughed from the heart,
a place where I was filled with wonder,
or a person whom I loved.
- Quarantine Life
I’m just tired
of you treating me
like my father did my mother.
of you slamming doors
and raising your voice at me.
You tell me not to take it personally,
but how can I not,
when I’m the only person around?
brought us closer,
so you want to go far
away from me.
I love you,
but I’m tired.