This past

season, I came

to dress. For once I found a character for my skin and eyes.

I don’t know how I didn’t think of it

before, but No Face I was a mask strapped to

the back of my head. My black hair, black

dress; people cried out, chuckled in nostalgic

delight. Spirited Away, they were, in midterm

season. Hollowed, were the hearts. Hollowed

leaning, the image of students. On the day of

Halloween, it felt hard to be anything but

hollowed, though I felt

the win

with each



Paper Bag


of them 

sat down 

next to me,


They are forgetful of where my

eyes are, I tried to

remind them but they forgot my 

eyes so couldn’t see my


At least stop dropping your pen. Themore you reach across the floor and brushed my

legs, the further you

get from my regards. I contemplated

kicking. Contemplated.

Today is different. I am still here

early, yes, and one of them

picked the seat next to mine out of the

rows of empty seats and forgot I

can see, AGAIN. I took out a paper bag

I stole from the cafe.

No, though I am disgusted I love my gut

enough to not throw up and scald my tongue with acid.

I tore the mouth of the bag, you stopped looking below my eyes, noticed that I noticed, left.

The only puke this bag will

hold is my word vomit.

Again and again and again and again.

My Sky

My room is painted blue because it’s the sky. It’s my sky, the window and its blue blinds a reality check. Or is it? When I lie on my bed the walls and the window blocking the sky outside blended together. I used post-it note reminders to make clouds, clumps of green, grey, pink or blue, urging myself to materialize imagination.

So my sky was never just a bright blue, besides the multi-colored clouds I pasted pictures, folded boats, hung medals or other shiny things, all in hopes of replicating a sunset years ago.

It was an explosion of colors, the Creator’s canvas. My eyes couldn’t pick out each shade and I was disappointed since I wanted to name them. But I never will, I never can, for it’s unfair to trap a thing so beautiful to a simple name.

Of Breakfasts and my Mother

My favorite meal of the day had always been the first one. When us humans wake from the daily hours dedicated to a coma most of us resurrect ourselves with a bite to eat.

For me, that bite of resurrection is not too different from the main motivation of the biblical resurrections of love unconditional.

Every morning I wake to the clamor and pots and knives against cutting boards, then my alarm follows. I would slap it off. My nose made guesses and carried by hungry steps my eyes affirmed my guesses: homemade breads baked last night, eggs, potatoes, yams or other dances of proteins and starches and a slip of sugar if I made any pastries. A swirl of colors, a rainbow of promises, each Asian fusion my mother’s experiments with local produces.

Most of the time I carry my plate and drink upstairs to make homework or studying more palatable. But, to tell the truth, it is not the tender omelets or the often under seasoned potatoes or the hand-grounded coffees that powered me through the rest of the day, but each bite that reminded me of my mother’s care and love, so sweet, endlessly empowering.


I wear so many shoes since I always stand in others’ shoes. Thinking in their places, trying to see from their angles; sometimes, just sometimes, I feel as though I am intruding on others’ room for thoughts. Am I making assumptions? Am I rushing to understand? But in this time and age, I think I will continue to wear many shoes.

This Election and that Dress

There is a few things this 2016 election has in common with a certain dress.

  1. They are both white and gold (or at least, it seems so to some people)…if you sit Clinton, Kaine, Trump and Pence in a row in that order and focus only on their hair.
  2. They are both controversial
  3. They both got a lot more attention than it truly deserved
  4. And…by the end of the controversies (if there is an end), we’ve all beaten each up until we are all blue and black.

*Hopefully you are not traumatized by my comic…if you are…sorry, I couldn’t resist.*

Drawn to Flame

I find admiration in a moth, whose stupidity in throwing itself into a flame is often mocked and criticized. But, I beg to differ, for I don’t see fire as a symbol for the fiery pits of hell. Besides, I know a moth, and I admire him.

He is always allowing his sparks of imagination to roar into a flame, and despite his fruitless flutters he will dance to the the light, allowing himself to be consumed and burnt though somehow, make a legacy out of the crisps of hardships.

So I thought, if I am drawn to a moth, am I not also drawn to the fiery fires of ambition and dreams by the transitive property?