I’m Samil.

I come from a place where the wind carries memory. Haiti—loud, beautiful, broken, sacred. Where the drums never stopped talking and the people never stopped fighting. That rhythm—it’s in my chest. That resistance—it’s in my bones.

I write because I have to. Because the words don’t leave me alone. Because the silence is too full sometimes and writing gives it shape. Not always clean. Not always clear. But real. Honest. Messy, even.

My stories… they aren’t just stories. They’re pieces of people. My people. My past. My questions. My grief. My stubborn hope. I don’t write to sound wise. I write to remember. To breathe. To keep something alive that shouldn’t have made it this far but did.

And poetry? That’s just the part of me that doesn't know how to talk in straight lines. That part that bends, breaks, spills out in rhythm and pause. It’s how I speak when I can’t say it plain.

I think a lot about legacy. Not the kind you write in your résumé. The kind that lingers when your name fades. The kind our ancestors carried on their backs and passed down in stories, songs, survival. That’s what I want my words to be—something that holds weight. Something that remembers. Something that matters.

When I’m not writing, I’m reading. Or walking. Or staring off into space, trying to make sense of it all. I believe stories can heal. That words—if we let them—can be doors. Mirrors. Maps.

I’m not here to impress you. I’m here to tell the truth the best way I know how.

That’s me.

That’s Samil.