Poetic Collective Catalog
They said it themselves; he was a martyr. You know what they say about martyrs, or rather making yourself a martyr: Don’t be one, don’t speak on behalf of, or it will cost you. They will follow until they turn. They will follow until you burn. But they
Poetic Personal Catalog
I exist in the liminal space, the spots the clock sought to erase. Nothing here has the same taste. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this pace. I stare into the sky, questioning— is there even outer space?
Poetic Personal Catalog
I called her Ling Ling; it was an inside joke with the root long forgotten, and we just accepted its cultural appropriation and leaned into it, as most offensive New Englanders do. I was sitting at work, the same desk I occupied from 2009–2014. The year was 2012 when
Poetic Personal Catalog
I stood looking out at the pool, my mind loud with accusation and judgment. You didn’t even use it. Wasted season. Wasted experience. Wasted life. But why? Why was I supposed to use it? Because the seasons said so? Because the calendar dictated it so? Then came the feeling
Poetic Personal Catalog
I watched my mother paint, Concealing covertly — but painting. To cover hate, From a plate of which she never ate. I watched her cover over blue and purple With beige and cream. I watched a woman too afraid to dream. I watched her fake a life She failed to create.
Poetic Collective Catalog
I watched the aftermath of Katrina like everyone else in this country— in awe, ignorance, and from afar. Maybe not. Maybe I saw slightly more, because I saw a population defined by much more than the color of their skin that sent the troubled waters to swallow their doors. But