notes on a dying stranger

stage four lung cancer looked less
like a nebula of dark cells floating,
pushing past pink tissue and alveoli

but rather
it was a plastic halo stuck between
a trembling lip and sickly nose;
it was hair growing unevenly above
hunched shoulders;
it was slender fingers folded atop
graying emaciated thighs
in anticipation.

in the room, there was only one photo of her:
she was smiling there
with full cheeks and
brighter skin.
she stood a foot apart from her son and husband,
both of who were in a close embrace.

the medication stopped working a long time ago
and everyone is holding their breath.


crying in three parts

the sea bore me during low tide.
my tiny body raced into the rocky shore,
and my back bled crimson and yellow.
it was here that i learned how to wail.

a set of arms curiously trace the scars. i
read this as love, and we sift our hands underneath
each other’s flesh. our arms in an embrace for eternity.
our eyes glossed over with tears.

i perform a surgical procedure on myself:
scalpels, scissors​, and two pairs of arms​
hanging a lifeless blue from their tendons.
i weep from the butchering. ​

anatomy of a hiatus (to be repeated, possibly)

hello. if you have been following my blog or are a highly attentive reader in other ways, i would like to address that unannounced hiatus of an odd scale. in the time i have posted “prognosis” and this post, i have:

  • finished my first year of college
  • published in a literary magazine for the first time
  • performed my first poetry reading
  • developed another couple of catharses to ponder on.

first off, my introduction to college was a ride full of uncertainties, good and not as good. i found the major i love, and i can see my future self thanking me. and yes, there was certainly a happy ending for me, provided that one did not venture too far into my personal life.

as for my writing, i realize that this blog may remain simply a hobby for quite some time. in time, i believe that may change. it was a happy surprise to see my words in a paperback alongside many other beautiful and exciting writers. i especially loved hearing and seeing the impact of my words in person. i never thought strangers would be so excited about my writing until then. but as much as i would love to further my reach, i am also working on a path completely separate from the one you see on this blog.

in sum: i am alive and well. perhaps not as well as i would enjoy, but well enough to write (and that’s all that matters in the end).

thanks for reading.

the day after

the sun seemed to hang in the blue sky
with no intention of setting—
its certainty scorched
relentless against my skin.

and so i lay calmly beneath it,
so as to let it peel me clean and
evaporate the mist that remained
from that endless beautiful twilight.

and i will gather the salt on my face.
i will let it dry my tongue
of the words that poured
nourishingly and sweet.

and i will hold this body with my own hands.
i will heave it upwards
to let it face the horizon
with a smile well-rehearsed.

string of fate

We stood together with our faces pointed towards the sky. You spoke of your grandmother’s house–– of cicada songs and distant laughing, a gentle summer’s breeze and glassy evenings. I imagined a smaller version of you, one with pale lemon hair and missing glasses, running through a long field of overgrown grass. You disappeared in the horizon where the trees met the earth. My eyes then open to the moon, and I followed its light to your face. Your irises reflected the same hue of gray, and your face has grown more angular, more certain in its direction. In that moment, I figured I had known you for longer than 4 years. The scar on your cheek still shines a bit, and the odd curvature of your spine makes it to where my back fit snugly. Your hair around the chin shows more burgundy than brown, and your slight lisp cradles your teeth the way we’ve held hands–– innately and sometimes shyly.

I clutch the string, no longer taut from pulling but tangled in a knot.


sunlight flickered past leaves, projecting
a kaleidoscopic green upon my eyelids.
the road bent through the mountains,
swallowing cars into its peaks and
lulling its children to sleep.
the landslides grew distant as the
pavement thumped to the rhythm of a heart.
a distant echo of the archipelago was
etched into valleys as rice terraces,
and the gods loomed where the clouds
scraped the grass.
to this day the ground whispers of
brown feet adorned with beads and shackles,
of tongues that have tasted tinola and blood.