Jul 10


Look at your hands. They are twin moons orbiting around you, objects gravitating towards them and flying away.

Note the geography of them, the mountain range of knuckles that rises from clenched fists, the valleys between the tall, branchless fingers, the creased riverbeds etched through your palms. 

Look closer. Observe the whorls on your fingertips, the subtle beat of your blood as it courses through your wrists, the white edges of bone stretching the limits of your skin. There's a whole rainbow bleeding out from your hands; soft blue-green veins, reddened fingernails, violet scars. 

Look again. See the cuticles you've ripped ragged with time, the slits of your fingernail tips, the collection of rashes and bruises and calluses you've collected without noticing. 

Without noticing.
Feb 11

Chaos in the Bedroom

In my head, the messiness of my room can be divided into three categories:


Clothes. I find closets oppressive, restrictive. I hang up all my clothes when I don’t need them and then I tear them down when I do. I tuck rectangles of pressed fabric into drawers and then scoop up so they pour over the edges and drip onto the floor. There is a pile of clothes in between the wardrobe and the mirror in the corner, and each morning I wake up to wade through it.  
Dec 14

Unfinished Piece

A highly underrated mystery is sleep. As soon as the sky is wrung of sunlight, we race for our covers and wait until we lose all motor control, hallucinate up insane realities, and forget everything moments later.

A third of the day unconscious. And even more for we children who need our sleep because we’re still growing and don’t want to grow up to with our eyes permanently underlined in blue, or whichever reason we swallow straight out of our parents’ mouths.
Dec 10

Writing Tip

Normally, I'd say "just write" is the best writing advice. It generates ideas and gets you from perfectionist mode into writing mode-- that magical state where everything is inspiring and your thoughts are all sentences that you can actually write down and leave as is. Also, the more you write, the more experience you'll have, which means you can learn a lot of unwritten rules on your own. However, for the sake of response diversity, I'm going to say "write what you mean."
I love exploring different ways of writing and finding "rules" to break to see what actually matters in writing. I also love sounding impressive. A lot of times, when I wrote paragraphs for social studies, they'd end up being pages long. Not because I had a lot to say, but because I loved making my sentences sound more complex (read: confusing) and beautiful (by using a ton adjectives and metaphors and big words that I didn't really understand). 
Dec 09

My Attempt at Nanowrimo

Okay, so I tried to do National Novel Writing Month.

Spoiler alert: I wrote my 50,000 (and one extra!) words. But it was most definitely not a novel.

I’m assuming that there is a fairly large percentage of you who aren’t sure what I’m talking about. That was me for a really (way too long) time. When I saw the word Nanowrimo, I’d translated it as “Nah, no write more”. By that point, I was too weirded out to do any further research. Eventually I pieced together that it was a sort of niche club for the most elite writers, and that the goal was to write a novel in a month. Which sounded hard. I quickly abandoned the thought of actually participating, seeing as I was a) young/really inexperienced and b) not very self-motivated.
Nov 15

Me, A White Kid, Talking About Race

I am white. So are my parents, my brother, my sister, my grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. My whole neighborhood is white, except for an Asian-American family in the corner.

My school isn’t completely white, but white kids are still the majority. We hear a lot about how diverse we are, how special. But when we have a chance to choose who we sit with, it turns out that our closest friends match us in melanin. Inside jokes build up over the years of sticking together and pile into walls. Walls that are pretty much invisible, and still breakable, but there all the same.
May 06


When you are a writer, you have to drive yourself. Sure, there will be deadlines and expectations in the future, but right now, as kids and teenagers, we don’t have that (luxury? hindrance?). If we want to spend time on writing, it’s up to us to follow through. And of course, when at any moment we could simply give up, it’s easy to find excuses to do so.

When I first joined YWP, I relished it because of its absolute freedom. I would write for hours after school (I also didn’t really have a whole lot of after-school activities) about whatever I wanted— it didn’t matter if that was just random jumbles of words. And this was all rooted in the concept that it was anonymous. What I wrote didn’t matter. No one cared.
Feb 25

Unlocking the Ribcage

Cobwebs tangle from my skull in;
A brume that smothers, screams that thin
Why all the filters? Why the compares?
Why can’t I flee without tripping the snares?

It’s raining ideas, quicksilver and glass
They pool in my fingers, bleed to the grass
My memories crumble, hope decomposed
Reality is rimy, continuously exposed

Giants stand, their spines like rungs
Instead we pump helium into our lungs
If we touch sky, it’s already been touched
If we sculpt life, it’s their hands we clutched

In ninths of seconds, I split the world
Snatching the plain, leaving the swirled
If only I knew I was painting myself,
Setting fire to a brimming bookshelf
Jan 16


Writing has always seemed naked to me.

With other works of art, you must wander through layers and layers of sensual ideas, letting your body guide you through an emotional and thoughtful journey. Other thoughts are communing through the pathways that survival methods usually come through. The birds have stopped singing. My teacher is staring at me. This sandwich is edible. With other bits of ideas, if you want to translate it to thoughts, not emotions, there is nothing but questions as you search for understanding.
Dec 12


He starts a clump of cells.
They scrape this off a screen
when books slipped past their questions
mistaking the pixelated diagrams
for his future.

He falls into waxy gloves.
Born onto plastic fingers
from plastic squares
stabbed in intricate patterns
that brought cardboard to doors.

He toddles across the floor
while they reach for the phone
wanting the flat woman’s smile
but knowing only the number pasted across the screen.
He enjoyed the walker.

He gulps down sugar infused flakes
bolting to the box in hopes of
feeling more intelligent
than the vibrantly drawn characters
that beep and bang back and forth.

He sits in the back of the classroom
while the teacher propels light onto the whiteboard.
Animated numbers stack and fall away.
Already he’s grown tired of such simple tricks.
He waits to go home to his own shows.