There Are Other Ways to Survive:
On abusers in the poetry community, tools for survival, and forging new spaces & systems that belong to us

Content warning: abuse, SA, DV, institutional violence.

In writing spaces, we build poetic lexicons, explore our aesthetic sensibilities, and broadly speaking, strengthen craft-related skillsets. We are encouraged to share space and call strangers our family. You know what we are not taught? How to set boundaries.

Boundary-setting is, indeed, a learned skill. In the context of a community of poets, a boundary might, for example, look like who you allow or do not allow into your private space/home; what personal information you disclose or withhold in a public sphere; or what questions you allow or disengage with online or during the Q&A session at the end of your reading.

Why are boundaries important for poets?

1. Because poetry is a discipline largely predicated on relationship-making.
2. Because the poetry community runs on what I call a “currency of vulnerability.”
3. Because the poetry community is littered with predatory writers, readers, and institutions.

What’s more, there are people and institutions who intentionally scaffold spaces to make boundary-setting difficult because people who stand to benefit from our lack of boundaries can capitalize off our vulnerability.

While there are people in our respective poetry communities who want to see us safely set boundaries, successfully navigate the writing landscape, and thrive, there are also people who, explicitly or implicitly, want us to soften or altogether eschew boundaries. What’s more, there are people and institutions who intentionally scaffold spaces to make boundary-setting difficult because people who stand to benefit from our lack of boundaries can capitalize off our vulnerability.

Indeed, poetry spaces often prioritize emotional vulnerability and closeness without first establishing the material systems of accountability and professional resources that are required to 1. support poets toward enduring the emotional excavation asked of them and 2. create healthy relationships within and across the space’s social power dynamics. These practices of demanding emotional and psychological labor without first establishing systems of care and professional support are not uncommon and can endanger a poet’s life—this is not hyperbole.

Moreover, destabilizing writers in these tell-all practices sets the stage for various genres of abusers to enact harm on both writers and readers alike. Put differently—whether for financial gain, sexual conquest, or other endeavors toward garnering power,  the poetry community’s currency of vulnerability provides the opportunity for abusers to capitalize off of their immediate access to vulnerable peers and readers alike.

Again, nothing I have named is hyperbole, and these dynamics are not errors of well-intended people and institutions (even so, good intentions do not negate harm and require accountability and repair), but are intentional, systemized, and prioritize protecting perpetrators of harm.

Reader, by this point you may have thought or even exclaimed, “Not me! Not my institution!” But I invite you to consider: yes, you. Yes, your institution.

Manipulators are good at manipulating—that is their whole thing. Poets are trained in language, observation, and meaning-making. Imagine, then, a poet who is also a manipulator. 

Ahead of defending yourself, I also invite you to just sit with me—this essay—and listen. I want to talk to you about some things I have experienced and learned while navigating relationships within and across the poetry communities I have engaged with and/or been a part of.

Before we enter into this time together, I want to note: I have used and will continue to use language like “predator” and “abuser,” but we do not always know what those terms mean or encompass. I did not always identify folks who hurt me as “predators” or “abusers”—I may have first called them “family,” “supervisor,” or “friend.” I did not know that the harm they caused qualified as abuse (I use “qualified” intentionally to describe the way harm is defined and quantified under white supremacy/capitalism) and I did not know that abusers were intentionally harming me—I just knew it felt bad and confusing, and confusion is both the point and the red flag. I ask that you keep these considerations in mind when engaging with the points I have presented and will present below.

Lastly, writing this essay—this letter to you, reader—I was confronted with the question of why we strive to be in these writing spaces that put us at risk. I contend that it is because these are the spaces we are given. Though I do not have a readily available answer, I do have a question that I am posing to you now, dear reader, and that I want you to keep in mind as you continue reading: what does it take to ideate and forge new spaces and refuse institutions that harm us.

• The US poetry landscape is littered with predators, and they’re more than likely your friend, favorite poet, or favorite poet’s favorite poet. 

Manipulators are good at manipulating—that is their whole thing. Poets are trained in language, observation, and meaning-making. Imagine, then, a poet who is also a manipulator.

When I have declined sexual advances from poets, there have been several who responded that I do not want to have sex with them because I am repressed, and alas, follow-up with positioning themselves as free. The oppressed/free binary is an oft-employed coercive tactic of abusive poets who weaponize sexual liberation language when their sexual advances are turned down.

This brand of manipulation that co-opts the language of sociopolitical movement(s) is not relegated to private moments. The poet who weaponizes the language of sexual liberation they learned while “sharing space” and “being in community” is akin to the MFA program that brands themself a “safe space” to gather data—otherwise named holding space for your story—so that they can profit off your trauma and later use your vulnerability against you should you decide to push back.

For every predatory poet and institution—even if it is not public information—there are folks who know. Those folks are either the ones employing and defending them, or the ones pulling us aside to say, “Hey, let’s talk. I have to warn you about someone.”

• Not everyone has to survive the US poetry landscape; there are those for whom it was designed. 

The first year of my MFA was a nightmare. My first semester, crying on the phone with a fellow poet and friend, he told me with such care in his voice: “these institutions weren’t made for us.” When I shared my first-semester MFA experience with a colleague in my program—a white, Christian, cis-het man who was enrolled in an MFA program but could not read a room—he responded, “Really? I’m having a wonderful experience!” Indeed, he had a wonderful time.

A different poet-friend who also works in philanthropy recently told me that she has had to deal with “the same thing in philanthropy that [she] has to deal with in poetry.” That is, having to be polite to a person with seniority sexually harassing her so that she does not lose her job.

there is a cost to standing up for myself, but what’s the cost of not. 

• Identifying and learning to use my full-voice both put me at risk and saved me.

Before I was in any iteration of a poetry community, I was writing and pursuing a life of writing. My first introduction to a poetry community was in 2015 when I attended a writers’ workshop. Both instructors talked about the difference between narratives that are ours, and narratives that are “received.” A received narrative, here, is a story about ourselves that people who do not affirm or love us—who might benefit from us believing that we are small—convince us is true. That workshop was the first time I realized that my negative self-image was given to me by people who did not love me, and that I needed a new story to live by.

Toward the end of the first of two weeks, one of the instructors pulled me aside to talk about my literal, non-figurative speaking voice. At the time, I had no idea how to navigate a writing space. As per my upbringing, when I was at-risk or afraid, I survived by making my voice pretty because historically people were “nice” to me when they found me desirable. This workshop was new territory. I was scared, and an embellished, lacey speaking voice was my fear-induced default.

The instructor said that my lace-voice should be “reserved for friends and lovers,” and that I needed to “learn how to use [my] full-voice.” Prior to that moment 1. I did not feel that I had permission to use my full voice 2. I had not known how to access it 3. If I learned how to access it, I did not feel safe using it.

The instructor did not call me in without providing context and care. She gave me examples of times she, too, had defaulted to a higher-pitched voice when afraid in writing spaces. She assured me that she saw me. That ultimately, how I was trying to protect myself was not real safety and showed me alternate ways to survive.

After that workshop, I determined that I needed new tools, but I did not know what they looked like or which tools would work in which situations and with which people. Over time, I realized that different times and spaces would require different tools, and I needed to develop the discernment and dexterity to pivot as necessary.

community is often made synonymous with care—it is not synonymous. Community is proximity. 

Rigorous introspection and self-evaluation was my first step in determining what tools I needed and how to forge them. Do I really believe that dropping the lace-voice I use to placate potential abusers is the right choice? How and when and with whom do I practice using the full embodied version of my speaking voice? How do I discern which narratives were given to me and which are mine? What do I actually believe about myself? What is the process of unpacking and replacing the received narratives with narratives that are true and empowering?
These were all questions I had to ask myself for the sake of my survival in both poetry and day-to-day life. I am 12 years into navigating this writing landscape and I still make and edit lists of tools and strategies for navigating life within and beyond a literary scope.

Since learning to stand up for myself and other poets with my full-voice, I have lost jobs to supervisor retaliation; I have had scholarships money stolen from me; I told your favorite poet where he could go in front of a group of his favorite poets when he would not stop touching me after having told him 3 times to stop touching me, which was all just a few hours after I had introduced myself to him as a prospective MFA student. (I still do not know how this interaction has or has not impacted me to date. I will not always know what is withheld from me.)

Very early on in my writing journey I decided that I had to count the cost, as it were. Yes, there is a cost to standing up for myself, but what’s the cost of not.

• I get to define what community means to me and the terms thereof. 

Community looks and means different things for different people. Though it is true that care is central to building and maintaining healthy communities, community is often made synonymous with care—it is not synonymous. Community is proximity. I have shared space with poets who ended up abusing me—were they in my community? Yes. Did I receive care? No. Deciding what community means to me is boundary-setting, an act of autonomy in who I allow to have access to me.

Relationships are central to the poetry landscape—but being in a relationship does not have to mean friendship or chosen family. Yes, it is okay for a poet to simply be a colleague. It is not a bad thing to treat a workshop setting as a job instead of a family gathering. Yes, I found my foundational chosen family members in a workshop. There are also workshops that have deeply betrayed me. Poets, too, can be and have been passersby who want nothing from me, for me, or against me. The point is: I get to set the terms. I get to determine the boundary.

As for me, until determined otherwise: poets are my colleagues, not confidants. I have shared spaces with poets that are now my dearest hearts and with poets who are valued colleagues. Would I fight for them if needed? Of course. I have shared spaces with poets who I have such repulsion towards that I would sooner eat a raisin or go on a hike before opting in to sharing space with them again. Would I fight for them if needed? Of course. A difference in personality does not determine whether or not I show up for you. To be clear–abusers do not get my care or my fight. Period. Those are my terms. 

• Mentorship does not have to come from people I know.

Sometimes the safest mentor is the mentor we do not know, but who we read and study. I say this acknowledging that I had incredible mentorship from my first writers’ workshop, guidance without which I really do not know where I would be today. But not everyone has access to mentors who they can meet and talk to in-person. For some who have had in-person access to mentors, the mentors harmed them emotionally, physically, psychologically.

Though there is no definitive way to know who is or is not going to cause harm—and to suggest otherwise is a branch of victim-blaming—there are signs and indicators I lookout for when trying to determine whether a poet or person in the world is potentially abusive. 

I encourage you, reader, to make a list of people you want to mentor you—physically or ancestrally—then read their books, listen to their music, study their catalog. Moreover, study their lives. How did they navigate their respective industries? How did they survive? What tools were they given? What tools did they forge when what was given was not enough? What worked for one kind of space but not another? Yes, you can be an apprentice to the people you read.

• Who is on my side? 

Though there is no definitive way to know who is or is not going to cause harm—and to suggest otherwise is a branch of victim-blaming—there are signs and indicators I lookout for when trying to determine whether a poet or person in the world is potentially abusive.

It is true that sometimes people cause harm unintentionally and without malicious intent, and as I mentioned earlier, intention does not negate harm and repair is necessary–but that is not what I am talking about here. I am talking about when the harm is intentional, repetitive, and/or the other person is unwilling to collaborate on repair in good faith with lasting impact. Here is a nonexhaustive list of questions I ask myself when trying to discern who may or may not be a safe person in poetry spaces:

1. Is this poet trying to rush into closeness or do they honor my pace and boundaries? A common nefarious tactic employed by abusers that is rampant especially in poetry communities given the nature of poetry’s vulnerability currency is “lovebombing.” Lovebombing is a manipulation tactic that depends on intensity and speed where the perpetrator lavishes excessive and intense affection/praise/ grandiose gestures in order to establish control via dependence and/or trauma bonds.
2. How does this poet engage with my work? For example, I write about sex—is this poet using my work as permission to divulge their sexual experiences, desires, and grievances? To try gaining personal access to me? Or are they engaging on the level of the work, i.e. craft, poetic lineage, etc.
3. When money/prestige/power/safety is on the line, who stands up or advocates for me vs. who stands up for the person causing harm? (Standing up for an abuser could, for example, look like continuing to employ them.)
4. Who materially supports me in the face of oppression (the director of the nonprofit who continued to pay me when I was ill and unable to work while I applied for disability; my supervisor who said, “don’t worry, get better,” and took care of logistics on days I was too ill to teach, no questions asked; the institution that reallocated my tuition and scholarship money when the MFA director stole it from me).
5. Who is around when I am thriving vs. who is there when no one knows my name?
6. Who is willing to engage in conflict resolution and who is not? Who does not think, or pretends to not know, that there is a conflict at all?

It took being pulled aside and mirrored back to myself to realize that my tools of survival were given to me by people who did not want me to survive.

My very wonderful roommate from my first year in the MFA told me that when it comes to discerning whether or not to continue engaging with a person, to consider patterns, not necessarily isolated incidents. Of course, an isolated incident can be the first experience in a pattern of harm and we must consider the scope and scale of the incident when determining whether or not we want to work toward repair or discontinue the relationship. Whatever the case, I am allowed to leave a relationship pre- or post-conflict resolution. Sometimes relationships of all kinds no longer work, and that is okay. I am allowed to set the terms. I am allowed to draw the boundary.

• Navigating relationships after gaining visibility post-book release has been really hard. 

When my book came out this past September 2025, I noticed a shift. When I was first emerging as a new poet, established poets made sexual advances while dangling career advancement. Since my book release, the new, aspiring, and/or emerging poets are the ones sexually harassing me for career advancement.

I was deeply disturbed by messages I had been receiving leading up to my book release and I had no idea how to navigate it. I asked a seasoned author friend if he had similar experiences when he started to gain visibility. He said that what I would experience is “more nefarious” than what he might experience because of my subject position and the subject matter of my work, but that what he could offer was the necessity of setting very strict boundaries and setting the terms for how people can and cannot interact with him.

Thank you, reader, for sitting with me and listening. If you are a reader for whom any of what I have said sounds dramatic—it is. The way that abusive—and I will say “oppressive”—people and institutions perform, curate, and gaslight is dramatic. Oppressive people and institutions frame the people they hurt as the “dramatic” ones—that is dramatic. Oppressive people and institutions shield some people from their tactics, convince those people that the victim is “crazy,” “a liar,” and/or “dramatic” and weaponize those people against their victims—that is dramatic. It is all drama. It is all the theatre of systemic violence.

If you are a reader for whom this essay—this letter—resonates as true to and close to your experience, I hope you tend to yourself with care and grace. I hope you allow yourself anger and grief—that, too, is care and grace.

It took being pulled aside and mirrored back to myself to realize that my tools of survival were given to me by people who did not want me to survive. Be desirable, then I will not hurt you—that does not sound like the voice of someone who loves me and wants for my good.

The instructor from my first writers’ workshop did not know me, but she saw me—someone in her community who had a need that was not being met—and responded by leveraging her position and knowledge of the poetry landscape to guide me towards the tools and strategies I would need to survive poetry.

This is what we do for each other: we pull each other aside. But there are other ways to survive. We do not have to be the ones at-risk and whispering. Let’s meet, ideate, and forge. We are many, and oppressors have names.