I do not write to please, to pressure, expose, preach, or lie. I do not write for a grade, a job, or because I was told to. I do not write for politicians, teachers, or critics. I do not write for those who intend to insult or accuse my style.

I write because I am a human being experiencing life for the first and last time. I write because I experience the tragic beauty that comes from being a woman. I write because I long to know how the flap of a butterfly’s wings resemble that of a heartbeat, how the soil can remember one’s footprints so it can say “Hello, again” later, how the sound of a baby breathing for the first time teaches me everything there is to know about love, and how the world can go silent to embrace the euphoria that comes with being chest to chest with a lover.

I write for the voiceless. I write for those who wish to know what colors decorate the trees and the sky. I write for soldiers, mothers, and the healed. I write for the holy and the sinners. I write because the mountains cannot speak for themselves. I write for my future lover as he and I wait to cross paths. I write because I can for those who cannot; poetry is as simple as that.