Mar 18

Lonely Perfectionism

Luminescent stones leap out to rest under my feet-
candles have no place telling me it's too dark to see.
Asteriks seem like lonely perfectionists, and
my thoughts don't fit me the way I want them to. 
Is there a reason why Sundays make me so sad?
The gritty hugs from relatives make me uneasy-
marshmallows armed with stickiness.
Rough magenta crayons barely being held together, 
wax is untrustworthy. 

(*written using cut-up poetry technique*)
Mar 18

Fifty Six

Blue-lined paper softened with years of being read
Kitty Kat was lonely as she wrote about faraway kingdoms and princesses with gold capes and ruby crowns
I felt as sad as a child with 2 scoops of ice cream topped with a shiny red cherry
Opening the foggy window, I fled away on top of the drops of dew that lined my grassy lawn
Iris was at Barnes and Noble and fell in love 56 times
I heard a violet shriek and then someone called my turquoise name
Even as I find love in Barnes and Noble, I still hear the violet scissors shrieking at the end of the world. 

(*written using cut-up poetry technique*)
Feb 26

Why I Did It

Because sometimes 
I get this feeling 
in my chest, 
as if my heart is 
in a locked drawer, 
and no one in 
the world has a key. 

Because I've wished 
on every eyelash and 
flickering flame 
that one day 
I might hear 
your voice say my name. 

Because I spend my nights
scribbling half-full poetry 
into faded notebooks
that are too quiet
for me to share any secrets with. 

Because 4 is my lucky number-
I was born on the 4th in '04, 
there are 4 other people in
my family, I write 4 poems
about you every day. 
I think about college every 
4 minutes, 
and there are 4 letters
in my name.

Because my clock is always
off a minute, 
can never get the answer right, 
has slight antisocial issues,
can sometimes be passive aggressive, 
and might
be my soul as an object. 

Because words
Feb 26


age 5, standing
before a cloudy mirror, 
can't decide between purple or 
dark red hair bows.
eleven minutes pass, 
finally time to leave. 
go on, let's 
hurry, hurry, 
jagged stickers are still my favorite
keepsakes, love is twirling around in a tutu. 
liquid dreams fill up my bones, 
marshmallow melodies play in my mind. 
nudges from reality sneak past
over meadows of thoughts. 
purple bows rule over my hair, 
queens of the umber waves. 
resting on my wrist are
seven bracelets, a pinkbluegreenyelloworange
titanic monstrosity, all the color in the world. 
uncloaked, my soul shows a thousand
vivid candles, all on fire and 
waiting to be wished upon. 
xylophone lullabies, blow out
your candles, darling girl, watch as your wish
zips into the cloudless sky. 
Jan 08

Playing With Fire

When I was younger, 
I liked to taunt
the candles on our
dining room table. 
I would blow
my breath
towards the flame, 
watch the light
shake and stumble, 
and just when 
it seemed like
the flame would
the light came back. 
I did this
over and over
as the clock
ate time
and darkness
ate the sky. 
Jan 08


After we buried
my grandma
in the soft, easy soil
and threw white flowers
over her
glossy coffin, 
I joined my brother
in his car. 
He drove and drove
and the road was
devoured by gasoline
and wheels. 
I thought of 
Newton's First Law. 
An object in motion
stays in motion
until an outside force
disrupts it. 
Maybe life is the object
and death is the 
outside force. 
My brother snapped the silence. 
"Dang, I'm hungry,"
he said. 
I briefly exited
a rabbit hole
of thoughts
deep down in my brain. 
I somehow managed 
to piece together
a sentence. 
"We have dino nuggets 
at home."
For the first time
in hours, our somber
expressions lifted
and flew away
like Peter Pan. 
My brother grinned
and said, "Heck yeah!
Let's get some dino nuggets."
The absurdity 
of the situation

Jan 08

To The Constellations and Back

Once upon a time,
an ambitious young girl
decided that her modest life
was not enough.
She believed that her kingdom
could not hold her soul
within its barriers.
She left her home,
bidding farewell to all she had ever known.
She gazed up at the stars,
watched as their brilliant glow
held hands to make constellations.
She wondered if one day
she might glow that brilliantly.

The young girl
ventured through her kingdom,
her hand in a perpetual wave
as she began to
let go of her childhood,
tie memories into knots,
and, finally,
leave her former self behind.

She came to a cave,
shaking in the freezing air.
She hesitantly called out,
and was met with a group of ogres.
They watched her, and whispered
of all the terrible ways
they could cook her up and feast upon her bones.
She heard their whispers,

Nov 26

Confessions of the Broken Hearted

I am a thief. 

I have stolen
time so that 
it stretches like
pizza dough; 
I have hid it in my pockets
like a stolen chocolate. 
I have melted and 
molded it to fit
the shape of 
my palm, 
I have stolen 
I stole it to 
make the 
seconds feel like minutes
and the minutes feel
like hours and
the hours feel like days and
the days
feel like

I have stolen 
time so that 
it bends and 
ripples to go by
my rules, so that
we'll never have to say
so that
I'll never have 
to kiss your 
cold cheek
one last time,
as tears
create oceans
on my face,
and tissues become
paper sailboats, 
lost in the
storm of my sadness, 
I. Steal. Time. 

So that it stops, 
and when 
I look at you, 
our smiles are 
Audio download:
Audio Recording 3.m4a
Nov 06

All Fall Down

If I ever went missing,
my parents could tell the police:
she leaves behind cups and mugs
stained with her lip-prints
(they're like fingerprints,
but instead of DNA you find
swirly moons
made of glossy
brown, matte pink, creamy red,
and they circle the rims
as if marking their territory as hers,
all hers.

If I ever went missing,
my parents could tell the police:
she leaves behind petals
from roses, daisies and
their dewy hearts forming
a trail of beauty,
and even though some people
see them as weeds,
she always knew that
they were worth so much more,
and from her love
came a trail of their
broken bodies.

If I ever went missing,
my parents could tell the police:
she collects words like stamps,
trying to find one of every
shape, size, color, place, feeling,
and will only be happy
once she has them all
Nov 03


I found my former self
in an abandoned alley
in the back of my brain.
She was sitting against the graffiti,
bandaged knees tucked to her beating heart,
trying to fade into herself.
I shouted her name
hoping for any sign of recognition
but all she did
was slowly look up.
With blinking honey-colored eyes,
thick lashes sticking together
like shadows to a person.
I saw the confusion
as it settled onto her face
and knew what my answer was
before she even asked.
"Who are you?" She said.
"I'm you," I responded.
"After you let go
of all the nasty weighted things
that you tend to hold
so close to your heart.

"I'm you," I said.
​​"After you let go."