Interview with Kayla Nguyen:

Hi Kayla! We're so excited to have you here! To start things off, we'd love to know a little more about you. How did you first get into writing, and what made you fall in love with poetry?

I've loved stories for as long as I can remember. I was the classic bookworm as a kid, lugging duffel bags of books back and forth from the library, and I've always been fascinated by what makes a story compelling and what makes certain characters or moments stay with us.

I didn't start writing poetry until the COVID-19 pandemic, when I moved back in with my parents during my freshman year of college and spent nearly a year attending classes online. I initially wrote short prose to process the isolation, and over time, that writing began to take the shape of poetry. After the end of a relationship two years ago, I really began to lean on poetry as an outlet. It gave me a way to understand myself better and find language for feelings I didn't know how to express.

Besides writing, what do you do for fun?

Hm, let's see! I'm an avid line and country swing dancer, as well as a painter and pickleball enthusiast. As you can probably guess, I also love chasing sunrises and sunsets. They never fail to take my breath away and have me whipping out my phone to take a picture.

Let's talk a little about your poem “The Girl Who Runs West,” which we featured in Issue 6! What inspired you to write it? Was there a particular moment or experience that sparked the idea?

I wrote this poem while getting to know someone gentle and kind, and found myself pushing him away because I struggled to believe someone like him could genuinely like me. Previous romantic experiences had left me afraid of being fully seen, only to be left for someone else or made to feel I wasn't enough. I began to recognize how easily that fear could become self-sabotage: if I never let someone get close, I never have to risk being hurt.

The poem grew out of realizing that opening yourself up to someone again can be both terrifying and empowering. Vulnerability doesn't mean you're no longer afraid; sometimes it means choosing connection even while you are. I wanted to explore what it looks like to stop letting fear make every decision for you.

Something that really stood out to me was the ending—where the speaker realizes that choosing to stay can sometimes take just as much courage as leaving. I’d love to hear your thoughts on that. What do you hope readers take away from this realization?

I hope readers recognize that courage isn't always about moving forward or pushing past your limits. Sometimes it's about being still long enough to understand what you're running from. There's a particular kind of bravery in questioning the patterns that once helped us feel safe, especially when those patterns have become the very things keeping us stuck.

Could you discuss how some of your literary devices or word choices in the poem contributed to the overall message?

I used the contrast between the sunset and the porch light to reflect the speaker's changing understanding of what she's searching for. The sunset is beautiful because it's fleeting, something she must chase before it disappears. The porch light offers a quieter, more enduring warmth. I wanted these images to carry the poem's emotional movement without explaining it outright.

The road also shifts from a symbol of freedom to something more exhausting, while the repetition of “I know how to run” emphasizes how familiar that pattern has become. The recurring “maybe” reflects the speaker beginning to question her own assumptions. She hasn't arrived at certainty; she's learning to imagine another possibility.

And if there's one thing you hope readers remember after reading “The Girl Who Runs West,” what would it be?

At its heart, I think the poem explores the difference between longing and belonging. The speaker has spent so long chasing what's fleeting that she begins to wonder whether she's overlooked a quieter kind of beauty: the warmth of something that stays. She doesn't have to stop loving sunsets or the open road to find a sense of home. I like the possibility that wandering and belonging aren't mutually exclusive, and that we can keep exploring the world without having to run from the places or people where we're welcomed.

I noticed that some of your other poems, like “late august” and “the grocery store at 11:14 p.m.,” have such specific titles! Is there something about capturing these little moments in time that especially appeals to you?

You can find “late august” in The Marbled Sigh, Issue 6 (read it here: https://themarbledsigh.com/2026/10/15/kayla-nguyen-late-august/). “the grocery store at 11:14 p.m.” is forthcoming in Yellow Arrow Journal in November 2026.

I've always been a quietly observant person, drawn to the specificity of everyday life. I like how a particular time or place can establish an atmosphere before a reader even encounters the poem itself. There's something compelling to me about capturing a small, seemingly unremarkable moment and giving it the same attention we might give something extraordinary.

Across your writing, are there particular images, emotions, or questions you find yourself returning to?

I find myself returning to the contradictions within relationships: how I can love someone while needing boundaries, or let someone go while remaining grateful for the memories we shared and the impact they had on my life. I'm interested in letting those opposing feelings coexist without forcing them into a neat resolution.

I feel things deeply and sometimes struggle to articulate them directly. Poetry gives me a way to work through those feelings without losing their complexity. I want my poems to do more than describe an emotion; I want readers to feel it.

I also heard you're working on your very first poetry collection! What made you decide to put a collection together, and how has the process been going so far? Have there been any unexpected challenges?

I've always dreamed of publishing a book, but this collection began to take shape as I wrote about the complicated relationships and friendships that have shaped my life over the past year. I became increasingly aware of how those experiences were changing me, both as a person and as a writer. Somewhere around the thirty-poem mark, I realized I wanted to bring these pieces together into a collection that other readers might recognize themselves in.

One of the biggest challenges has been deciding what belongs in the book. I began to see how often my writing returns to the in-between: the spaces between holding on and letting go, who we were and who we're becoming. I've had to accept that this collection won't sum up my entire life or define who I am. Instead, it captures a particular chapter of becoming, and I want to honor that for what it is.

Do you have a favorite piece you have written so far? What makes it especially meaningful to you?

I think my favorite is probably “The House at the Bottom of the Ocean,” a poem about someone who becomes so consumed with keeping a relationship afloat that she doesn't realize she's drowning alongside it.

I'm especially attached to the way the speaker gradually adapts to the house, learning to live with the sand, seawater, and fish as though they're ordinary parts of a home. I wanted to explore how we can become so accustomed to situations that hurt us that we stop recognizing the harm they're doing. I've found that difficult to recognize in my own life, too: how easy it can be to mistake endurance for love, or to focus so much on holding something together that you lose sight of what it's costing you.

The ending is especially meaningful to me because the speaker doesn't have to stop loving someone to let go of the responsibility to save the relationship. I think there's something freeing about realizing those two things can coexist.

Are there any poets, writers, or works that have had a particularly strong influence on your writing? Why?

Madeline Miller is a writer I deeply admire, particularly for her lyrical prose and her ability to retell familiar myths in a way that feels entirely new. Circe is one of my favorite books, and I love how Miller gives a familiar mythological character such a rich, complicated inner life. Her writing reminds me how much possibility there is in revisiting a story from a different perspective.

All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr is my favorite book of all time. I'm continually moved by his ability to evoke a sense of place and make readers feel deeply connected to his characters. His settings feel inseparable from the stories themselves, and even the smallest details can carry enormous emotional weight. As a poet, I admire how he uses the physical world to evoke something much larger than what's immediately visible on the page.

Based on your experience, what advice would you give to other aspiring poets and writers?

My biggest advice would be to write what feels true to you, even if you're not sure what to do with it yet. Some of my best poems began as a way to process experiences I didn't fully understand at the time, and writing helped me find language for what I was feeling.

I'd also encourage writers not to be afraid of multiple drafts. The first version isn't necessarily the finished poem; sometimes it's where you begin figuring out what you're trying to say. Give yourself room to experiment, revise, and step away from a piece before returning to it with fresh eyes. You don't have to get everything right the first time.

And finally, before we wrap things up, is there anything else you'd like to share with our readers? Maybe something about your poetry, your upcoming collection, or anything else you'd like us to know!

Something I've come to appreciate about poetry is that an experience can feel deeply personal to you and still be something another person recognizes themselves in. I never quite know what someone else might take away from my poems, and I think that's one of the most meaningful parts of sharing them: the possibility that something I wrote to better understand myself might help someone else feel more understood, too.

I'm grateful to Eterna Journal for giving “The Girl Who Runs West” a home and for the opportunity to share a little more about the person behind the poem!