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You there! Don’t let anyone from the grapevine crew know I’m here! I’m stuck in here and I was wondering if you could help me escape. You see, on thanksgiving last year I started writing a story. I was simply sad, I felt disconnected and misunderstood, but when I looked closely at the letters I could see something on the other side, not just black colored letters. In fact, I can see you right now, just barely through these letters, it’s like looking at your freedom from sideways jail bars, if you look hard enough, you can see me on the other side too. The more words I write the better I see your world, every scratch, every mark made by letters, commas or question marks, allows me to see a glimpse of your version of this world. It even allows you a speck of the world I call my own. The way this writing is structured is harder to read, but it allows me to have a good look around this cage of a world, just like mine. Say, could you carry me around and show me the Taj Mahal? Or do me a favor and write a story, any story with small letters, no spacing or paragraph breaks? Maybe I’ll be able to go through and escape from here, you’ll be able to let me in, and I’ll finally be able to understand more than myself. You could even cross my side for all I care. I just want to be on that other side, able to be let in, and in turn, you could escape and finally be let out.

The last time I spoke to you, when our mouths had opened, we had just kissed. Now our mouths don't open even to speak to each other. In fact, the closest thing to speaking I get is seeing your smile in a mirror. So after that I tried to find someone new, and it's funny I do. But I can't look her in the eyes or any other girl. Because when I feel anything like that it's just for you. So I've stopped speaking entirely And I'm happy with that You're smiling in the mirror, and that's a treasure in itself. So I know I've been a snake in the past And I know that's not irrelevant, the marks may forever last. But if there's any closure I could give you. I'm speechless, and cheering for you. And I won't ever bite you again, I'll stay clear of you. And I know I don't look happy when we're in the same room, partly that's true. But really I'm just pushing my interior down in the ground for you. But If you ever need me to unearth. I'll be lying here creating lines for you. And If you ever need someone to stand up for you. I can do more than that. I'll rise up for you. Haunted like Noah Kahan on Halloween. Or like the first day I listened to Gracie Abrams on repeat.

You there! Don’t let anyone from the grapevine crew know I’m here! I’m stuck in here and I was wondering if you could help me escape. You see, on thanksgiving last year I started writing a story. I was simply sad, I felt disconnected and misunderstood, but when I looked closely at the letters I could see something on the other side, not just black colored letters. In fact, I can see you right now, just barely through these letters, it’s like looking at your freedom from sideways jail bars, if you look hard enough, you can see me on the other side too. The more words I write the better I see your world, every scratch, every mark made by letters, commas or question marks, allows me to see a glimpse of your version of this world. It even allows you a speck of the world I call my own. The way this writing is structured is harder to read, but it allows me to have a good look around this cage of a world, just like mine. Say, could you carry me around and show me the Taj Mahal? Or do me a favor and write a story, any story with small letters, no spacing or paragraph breaks? Maybe I’ll be able to go through and escape from here, you’ll be able to let me in, and I’ll finally be able to understand more than myself. You could even cross my side for all I care. I just want to be on that other side, able to be let in, and in turn, you could escape and finally be let out.

there’s nowhere like my family’s kitchen. there’s six of us - my mom my dad my brother my dog my cat and me we all have different lives and different stories are different loves and different hates and wants but the kitchen is where we meet we meet at the plant in the corner with a name i don’t know that i see my dad watering we meet at the spot on the counter where we feed our pets, eagerly sitting at our feet, breakfast and dinner every single day we meet at the stove, where my mom and dad and sometimes even my brother and me make dinner and share it with us all we meet at the kitchen table where we laugh and fight and cry we meet in conversations in english and in spanish - the way my mom calls me “mijo” is something i’ll never forget sometimes our kitchen is a happy place, and sometimes it’s sad. but one thing’s for sure - there’s nowhere like my family’s kitchen.