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The scent of oranges in the rain. The floors of a school bus on a wet day. The grime clinging to a bathtub. The smell and squish of rotting vegetables. The muggy heaviness of the New York subway. The dirt caked on the sole of a shoe. Bird droppings streaked across a car window. That is what you remind me of.

My whole life, I’ve been against love. I always saw it as one of the ficklest things, full of uncertainty, with no promise of forever. No...

I hate looking at my palm; it's a reflection of you.

My exterior is the sun, but my interior is the moon. My bronzed skin glows at the faintest touch of light, the blinding star igniting a golden hue. It shines so brightly, you might mistake it for the most prominent star in the sky. But inside, I am as dull as the moon, searching for the right phase a phase where I am finally aligned. There is a darkness I wouldn’t dare to share, a shadow of my own making, known only to me. It plagues my insides, an unrelenting presence I des

As a child, they joked about my small eyes. "Keep your glasses on," they’d shout. These small eyes, a gift from my ancestors, the same eyes that stare back at me in the mirror, the only eyes I’ve ever known. She is dark, like the seed of an ackee. She is small, like an almond. Now, she’s turning yellow. Maybe the whites have had enough. Maybe she’s tired of being the punching bag. Maybe she’s growing weaker. She stays still even when my lips curl into a smile. She shows only

Why do people love? Why is love so important to us? We spend our days submerged in routines, working in stern and demanding environments....

Growing up, I wrote all the time, whether it was movie scripts, poetry, or keeping a daily journal. I always had my composition notebook, jotting down whatever came to my mind. I loved writing. It was my world, an escape, and a way of making sense of the large emotions I had. But all of that changed when I was still a child. On two separate occasions, my cousins and my uncle read my journal. They caught glimpses of the thoughts I had poured out so privately, and I hated it. I

Everything is so much better when your eyes are shut.

Why is it that when it’s finally time to write, my mind goes completely blank? I always seem to have the best ideas when I’m nowhere near...