/you/ /ni/ /vers/ /e/

To eat your name for dinner means I wake up with the Ocean’s rage in the crevice of my guts. The movement inside crashes into my organs. My heart, reverberates an incomprehensible dissonance of beats and rhythm. My lungs, slowed down by Chaos and Confusion, dance like little girls with two left feet. one. two. three — a waltz gone too fast. 

To eat your name for dinner means I hold on to my sheets and cry out in pain as little stars escape my mouth. These stars do not fly out gracefully but fall on my sheets like defeated warriors. I shiver lightly from fatigue and nausea. I do not count theses celestial beauties instead I abandon them without a choice. 

Another wave of movement inside me forces me to curl up into a ball. Pieces of the moon in its sheer silvery sheen make its grand exit out in such haste that my tears were not able escape my eyes in time.  

A splitting pain and emptiness inside me gives birth to a strange light that stays with me and lingers… long enough to blind me.

I eat your name for dinner and awake throwing up the universe.


(c) image


Start Somewhere

I have learned that it is not and will never be easy to kill my inner writer. I have learned that the smoke inside me is a sign that she is still alive — that we are still existing. That the Ode to the Writer I have written for myself was merely a collection of my excuses and my cowardly attempt to look brave — to feel brave.

In the two days writing workshop I have attended, I have learned about the plot line and the different ways to end a story. I have learned that grammar is important and that inspiration is everywhere, even in moments of others’ grief.

But these are things we’ve known for quite some time. As aspiring writers, we all know that words are our weapons and that the tale is not as important as how it is told. We all know these things, and yet this workshop has been the most meaningful one I have attended.

Looking back, I guess the workshop was significant and timely because those two days opened my eyes to my cowardice — a byproduct from the fact that I know I am lacking and inefficient as a writer. But instead of stopping at the negative labels, the workshop has offered a hand to rescue my inner writer. It has extended help with truths that are resounding and reassuring.

“The world is a dark and unforgiving place. Be brave. Put yourself out there; get rejections and wear them proudly. Write. Read. Tell your story. Start somewhere.”


when i used to write like this


I                                               You


hate                                         love

like a

multi-hued                                          monochromatic

flower                                      photograph

then tears would

abate                                                  flow


I                                               You

would blend

gracefully                                            roughly

with the world and its

splendors                                           spites

and if

I                                               You

may learn to love

Somebody                                         Nobody

and be like the

starry sky                                            barren ground


essential                                             insignificant

to everyone

my                                           your

life would be like

a child’s                                              an adult’s


innocently                                           maliciously

echoing with

truthfulness                                         pretenses