bike poetry

a little red house

next to a willow tree

with no one home

who will greet me


But still I walk the path

to the door

a walk I’ve done

a million times before


among the dandelions

and the reeds of grass

and the longing vines

lies broken glass


farewell to a future

you said you could see

and goodbye to the little red house

next to the willow tree

brooklyn, 2016




over before it begun

I know so many amazing people and yet you, the one I barely know, you are the one I wish I could spend time with.
I don’t know you.
But I feel like I could fall in love with you.
I don’t know you, but I wish I had the time to know you.
I think I would fall in love with you.

Love at first sight isn’t real, but maybe this is what that feeling is; a blind belief in a love that could exist but has no real foundation.
Just a gut feeling.

Or this is all just me romanticizing.
And it was just another whirlwind that didn’t have time or space on its side.
And maybe it only was allowed to exist because the future was already set.
But what did I learn from this one?

It gets harder and harder to take the good when you keep having to let people go.

white rock, 2016

the light of the woman

I sat next to a beautiful old woman on plane from Shanghai to Vancouver.
Her name
was Nurun Nessa.
She was flying from Bangladesh to visit her son and daughter-in-law, whom she hadn’t seen in four years.We talked for hours.

She told me she would do anything for her daughter-in-law because her own mother-in-law had been nothing short of abusive.
I told her about my travels.
She told me she wished for grandchildren with all her heart.
I told her about my life in New York.
She told me she was proud of what her son and his wife had accomplished as immigrants in my country.
I told her about my dreams.
She told me my career was important and that I needed to continue to put myself first.
I told her about my fears.
She told me I was doing the right thing.
She told me she admired strong, independent young women because growing up in her country she was never allowed to seize such opportunities.

She put her hand on my hand and looked at me with kind, honest eyes and said that when the time comes, I will be an amazing mother.
She said she could see it in my eyes and hear it in my voice.
No one has ever told me that before.
My own mother has said I would be a horrible mother; that I was too selfish for kids.

Maybe I could raise some kids.
I don’t think I’m selfish, I just think I’m free.

Her name was Nurun Nessa.
She wore a gold and yellow sari.
Nurun Nessa means Light of the Woman.



star notes

I’m walking down a street in Reykjavik, Iceland with my oldest best friend and I look up and see the stars.

I’m on a night train in Australia, traveling between Sydney and Melbourne and I look out of the window and I see the southern cross and the little dipper for the first time.

I’m skinny dipping in the middle of the night in a small surf town in Queensland, Australia with a best friend, lying naked in warm ocean water staring at the infinite sea of constellations above me.

I’m tripping on acid in a secluded bay called Tonsai in Thailand, with someone I only met a day ago, playing with the phosphorescence in the night ocean and staring at the stars.

I’m sitting on a wicker chair outside a hostel in Ubud, Bali, talking about god with a boy, looking up and naming stars.

I’ve just hiked up a mini mountain outside of Kuala Lumpur in the middle of the night with a most eclectic group of people and now, at the top, I’m watching the stars disappear and and sun start to rise.

I’m on a night boat safari in Borneo going down the Kabanatuan river and the stars seem more plentiful than the space between them and I have never seen them so close.

I’m all alone on an island in Malaysia, spending the night in complete solace, sleeping on a beach, with just the galaxies above keeping me company.

And now I sit on my roof in my hometown, smoking a cigarette, and I’m looking at the stars.


It’s hard to write about looking at the stars without it being totally cheesy, but the fact is, some of my strongest memories (the kind of memories where you can remember everything about the moment; what you were wearing, what the air smelt like, who you were with, how you felt) revolve around me staring up at the night sky. Looking at the stars has always brought me intense contrasting feelings: the feeling of existential dread, that we’re just tiny specs in this giant world that barely matter, along with a grand feeling of beauty and optimism and wonder.

When I look up and see lights from celestial bodies lightyears away, I feel insignificant and I know I’m merely a minuscule blip in this massive universe. But I also feel amazement and gratitude.

I feel the vastness and the beauty of this world and I feel lucky to be able to exist and experience it all.

We are a way for the universe to know itself. Some part of our being knows this is where we came from. We long to return. And we can, because the cosmos is also within us. We’re made of star stuff.” (Carl Sagan)

white rock, 2016


fear, part 2

I’ve been thinking about fear.

So many spend their lives avoiding fear.

But the things I feared the most are the things that have brought me the most growth, the most profound experiences, the most joy.

I see so many people who are scared.

Scared to move, scared to risk, scared of the unknown.

I am scared too. That is not where we are different.
I am different, or slowly becoming more and more different, because I have learned to value fear. To crave fear. To seek out things that scare me.

Everytime I do something that scares me, my fear gets less and less and my appetite for life grows more and more.

vancouver, 2016

a flame

the pain

of your words.

I can feel blood circling

and purple hairs rising.


when escape is easy,

the anger

reminds me

I am here.


just as those moments

of unbridled bliss

light fires in my heart,

this is kindling too;

a flame of remembering who I am.


as you dare

to disrespect me,

the rush of madness

pulls me out of a dull lull.


fuck you,

you hurt me.

fuck you.

I defend

trenches of my soul


and I’m alive.

vancouver, 2016