A reminder that you don’t need permission to feel, to want, to write — you already have the right.

Introduction

A reminder that you don’t need permission to feel, to want, to write—you already have the right.

Text

after Li-Young Lee

my love, orange hues across swayed waves are your birthright. you have the right to spend forty dollars on brown sugar boba with oat milk during finals. you have the right to any pier that encompasses high chairs to bask in, with tables to lean over, with air to savor. you have the right to meet frank at this ocean. you have the right to be swayed by blonde follicles of nights and ivy, of pink and white, of novocaine and Nikes because this is a sweet life. you have the right to bloom butterflies and gawk at their beauty, their grace, their tenacity. you have the right to ink your whole body with butterflies if you want to. if you want to, you have the right to cry, over anything, even when the bus is two minutes late. even when you are alone, especially in red LED hues that consume your pain. you have the right to sink sun into skin and bloom flowers to levy your garden. you have the right to bloom where you want to be planted. you have the right to bask in this cherry bomb of sinister spectrum and find yourself sipping a chilled iced chai with gingerbread syrup. you have the right to journal while doing this, about every moment you have been made a house and not a home. you have the right to know that these are two different things. you, my love, have the right to write for your very life. to propose prose and puppet poetry to perfection. you have the right to solder every moment to become an example of sneezed poetry. you have the right to make it your sole hobby. you have the right to make this your personality trait. you have the right to dwell on the backs of line breaks, on the feet of stanzas, on the lips of metaphors, on the fingertips of rhymes. you, my love, have the right. 

to you, Nyilah.

Process

This piece was inspired by Li-Young Lee’s meditative style, especially his ability to hold tenderness and truth in the same breath. I wanted to write something that felt like a reclamation—not just of softness but of everyday joy, indulgence, and emotional honesty. It was important for me to affirm that even the smallest desires—like crying over a late bus or sipping a chai with gingerbread syrup—are sacred and deserving of space, especially for those who have been taught otherwise.

Throughout the writing process, I leaned into lyrical imagery and intentional pacing to echo the kind of breathability I admire in Lee’s work. This wasn’t written in a formal workshop, but it grew from a personal practice of affirming myself through poetry. I learned that sometimes, writing doesn’t have to strive for cleverness — it just has to be honest. This piece is a love letter, a mirror, and a soft rebellion.