elements of Sappho

[What came out of an assignment in DS Literature to complete a fragment of Sappho’s poetry.]




so poignantly poised, you will remember

calamity for we in our youth

did these things


yes many and beautiful things

ineffable and inevitable

we lay close on the ground and stared for hours

wanderer Continue reading



Today I feel ancient and unrestored, too many layers of cells on my ability to feel—but I’m terrified of what it means to cut the last threads on a supernova—there are thrashing whales in death throes underwater—there are balloons I fill with questions, watch them float up endlessly—there are remnants of automobiles sloppily sand-covered, my feet sawed into blood—there are algorithms I entangle my arms into and struggle with single—there are hours of crucifixion, every gasp a back-distorting, gut-knifing labor—there are infinities of unlearned and unfelt things—there are ways to medicate and blinder my perception of them but if I’m not writhing I always feel like I’m missing something. Continue reading

To the Boy On Whom I’ve Had a Crush Since Sophomore Year

The way I feel about you is the way I feel about most things (definitely). Nothing special, because multiplicity breeds normalcy. To crave a fulfillment is to give in, & what I mean by that is I constantly catfight with biology. / At the same time, I can’t fake apathy. I can’t fake the thrill of new and alive things the same way you can. I haven’t spent enough time doing this—catharsis as a mood rather than an action, when the blood brings back the bad no matter how hard I try to be creative, lovely, or master. / Focus, you say. Help me, as if there’s anything I could have touched thoroughly. I never envied myself until I stopped believing your realities. / Anger & its comrades, they’re meaningless here as I hunt for paths around cliché. Your eyes are like jumping bugs; I bet you’ve never heard that one. And I’m sick of writing to & about you because it won’t change anyone or anything but me.

==> In other words, I like you hormonally and I wish I didn’t because I can’t.


Continue reading

Joie de Vivre

[I dug this up tonight while looking through old writing. It’s a hoot. Written July of 2015.]



“Hey Daddy?”

My daddy looks up from the couch across from me, graying stubble and a questioning glance. My dad sits next to him reading the newspaper.


“When you were little, did you still have Mother’s Day?”

He motions me over to his lap. I snuggle against his chest—he smells like lavender.

He’s silent for a moment, then speaks. “Honey, where did you hear about that?”

“Um, my American History teacher mentioned it. But then he shut his lips really tight and wouldn’t say anything about it. He said we should never talk about it because some people find it offensive.” Continue reading

Excerpt from “Origin Story”

It sinks into her rib marrow; the red spot shudders and rips open her dead chest. Expanding bullets, the first death of the night—Wukesong intersection Wukesong intersection… did you hear? the countdown starts here—10pm, the first death hour—10:30pm, they blockade the Muxidi bridges with up-turned trucks and burn it all a rancid purple… military tanks, military rams piercing the broad metals like pencils through palms… so they face the wide row of leveled points, arm on stranger’s neck, chests to the sky!—11pm, they’re in Tiananmen Square, survivors saturated and staggering with blood, retching Wukesong! Muxidi! and they throng and conglomerate (do we hate? do we kill?) in a reddening mind-haze—12am: Red, the quiet girl from the front-row of Economics, has been killed.—12:30am, they raw and boil, they glaze and squint: the damp smell of salty copper is thickening their skulls, they wait, roaring, scraping their necks—they deserve this much—or the force of the spin tears their sense and they scrape the green men’s necks—their sticks, rocks, and glass are taken by each other—1:30am, the Square is sealed with military: booms whiz over their heads, or into their knees—2am:
“We entreat you in peace, for democracy and freedom of the motherland, please refrain from using force against peaceful student demonstrators”
and boom! sophomores convulse and bleed out—3:30am, too many have died, should they give it up—4am, traitor, coward, what leader you are: “Clearance of the Square begins Now”—they remain anyway, the bites of the clubs in their cheekbones and shattered thighs:
“This is the final struggle / Let us group together and tomorrow”
 they are engorged and stomach-tight on conviction! they stare into the night-green tank guns!
“The Internationale / Will be the human race”
and they’ve died a little too many…
—5:10am, it’s over, it’s over: they rise, they link arms and march over the icy cheeks of their friends.

Smoke rises over the city.

YoungArts Complete! + “Dreamerboy”

Tonight I finished one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Writing two stories, twenty-pages shouldn’t have been so stressful, had I started it over the summer like I should have… had I not waited until the last two weeks.

To be fair, I took the SAT on October 1 and spent September preparing for it (and my scores were cancelled, long story: so it wasn’t even worth it). But I’ve learned (yet again!) the value of starting things months in advance. Time to start on my TASS application (due in January)!

Things I learned about writing and my writing process:

  • I don’t like to delete things. It can take me twenty minutes to come up with one good sentence, and with every hit of the ‘delete’ button, I feel like I’m erasing valuable time.
  • It did take me three hours on the night of Sunday, October 2 to write about 3/4 of a page. Did I feel frustrated? Yes. I also didn’t want to delete most of it later, although it really was a bad 3/4 of a page.

Continue reading


[excerpt from a piece written for the ACC Missions Handbook 2016-2017]

Carmen means ‘song’ in Latin. Carmen is dark-lit and wide-stretched. Her widely tapered eyes are luxuriant—her smile crinkles her whole face into something radiant, something nobler than happiness. Joy, maybe, at its most primal.

It leaks from her drawling hands, hands caressing the heads of the wonder-eyed chicos, who giggle then and run outside the church room, up and down the alley twice, and come back panting like furry little perros; from her hands on the chicos’ shoulders then, calming them to listen to Pastor Fernando instruct. Continue reading