People think poets sit down inspired.

most days, I sit down haunted.

haunted people notice things differently.

we notice tone changes. hesitations. the exact moment somebody stops looking at us softly. the loneliness inside crowded rooms. the exhaustion hidden underneath “I’m okay.”

pain sharpened my attention before it sharpened my writing.

bullying taught me observation. discrimination taught me self-awareness. girlhood taught me emotional caution. loneliness taught me imagination. grief taught me language.

sometimes I envy writers who learned poetry through beauty first.

I learned it through pain.

through trying to explain experiences that did not feel explainable at the time.

I think that is why conversational poetry matters to me so much.

I do not want poetry that sounds unreachable.

I want poetry that feels overheard. human. slightly trembling.

I want writing that sounds like someone confessing carefully.

that is the kind of poetry that stays with me.

not perfection.

I love your fucked up bones Spine shaped like a serpent Ribs that float, abandon their post So your breath escapes And your heart leaks out I love that they scare me I love being scared I love that I can feel your insides change When I lay by your side When I touch you