Nov 19

The Soundtrack of Memories

My life has a soundtrack, bluesy rock that sounds like cooking with my grandfather on Sunday afternoons, mild indie rock that feels like cool fall air, and walking on pine needles, early 2000’s alternative that smells like cinnamon and my mothers perfume like leaf piles and peppermint tea. Noah Kahan and The Avett brothers memories that are smoky and vaguely sweet like fresh lemonade screaming with my best friends oblivious to reality. Flushed faces from laughing, crowded rooms filled with familiar faces, the remnants of an abandoned game of pictionary on my grandparents table alongside empty wine glasses. 
Nov 04


Arguments with the demon 

Traced on the landscape of a night in May 

Melancholic shadows, the gray of memory  

The enigma of truth, tangled with spectral whispers.

Lume of my mind,

E t e r n a l controversies, abandoned window shows the gray of living 

Melancholic memories- 

Incomprehension of truth like fiction 


The years of infancy swept away  

What will I love if not the design of my mind? 

Nov 02

Waking up; A memoir

Hazy hot days when the early morning dew disappeared long before sleepy eyes opened, the sun peaking through the window far too early. For me though, it is the perfect alarm clock.The baby pink of my walls look orange with the yellow of morning sunlight. My legs are too short to reach the floor, dangling carelessly from my bed, toes painted iridescent blue. Eight years old, not yet tall enough to reach my own tooth brush from the shelf, only able to watch my eyes alert and curious in the mirror. So instead as most my age would do, I run, feet against the cold wooden floor swinging dramatically around the door frame and onto my mothers bed. Her bed feels safe, perfect from bedtime stories, and midnight songs after nightmares but now it is a trampoline the most effective way to wake her up. I instead discover she is not alone, the five year old body of my brother is curled up beside her peacefully asleep until moments ago.
Mar 24

The Hunt

TW: Sexual harassment
It was 70 degrees

Warm enough for bare arms, exposed shoulders. 

I wear heavy snow pants, and a tank top to defend against the heat. 

Goggles and helmet.


Yet still I feel your longing stare against my back, burning holes into my skull. 

And as I turned to look at the perpetrator, 

Why I am not surprised to see, gray hair, smug smile, a MAN who thinks he’s all that staring back at me. 

He returned my glance with a wink, and a smile that showed that he was well aware I had no where to run. 

I was taught by my mother, by my aunts , and cousins, by my fellow women. 

Stay QUIET, head DOWN. 

They can smell fear, they feed on it like the predators they are

the kind of fear that quickens your breathe, and tells you to run. 
Mar 24


Mar 22


In the midst of late winter, the sky seems endlessly gray, and the trees bend towards the ground as if to express that they too are tired of the cold. March continues to tease us with the promise of warm days, and blue skies leaving us with the disappointment that arises each day as the thermometer stays stubbornly stuck below thirty-two. The icicles that hang outside my window like stalactites, drip leisurely, a hopeful sign. Yet the snow that suffocates the land beneath, remains unchanged, unwilling to listen to the promises of spring made by the calendar. Outside, the world seems to be holding its breath, the silence so delicate like glass one feels compelled to whisper, and tiptoe as to preserve it. 
Oct 29

A land of broken illusions

I could stoke the flames of hatred,
and dance among the fire.
Let the smoke cloud my vision, 
Let the great billowing clouds conceal me. 

I could dip my toes in the waters of jealousy,
and swim among the lilypads, 
Letting the envy turn me green,
And gaze upon myself, within the mirror for a while. 

I could dance in the forest.
And get high off the mountain air.
Letting myself forget, the shackles that I bear.

I'll sleep with the moss as my pillow,
The ground as my bed.
And fly far away,
on wings made of lies. 
Mar 03

Not ready to say goodbye

The day I found out I might lose you,
I felt my heart stop, and my skin go cold like ice,
The invisible monster that lived inside of you laughed at me,
Enjoying, as it watched my heartbreak 
The days we spent together by the stove,
Chocolate smeared faces, and sticky hands,
Are now long gone.

Happy memories intertwined pangs of sadness,
That hurt more each time I see you fall, or the way you limp with your cane 
Exhaustion evident in your face, as you make your effort to be the person you used to be.

The nights I spent waiting by the phone, waiting to hear if everything was alright
The long minutes I spent waiting at my mother's door, listening to the muffled sobs,
Unsure if your time was running short.

Nights I spent awake and restless,
Knowing that I wasn't ready to say goodbye.


Feb 25

lavender haze

Lavender haze within idyllic daydreams,
The gentle hypnosis of whale song weaves between Neptune's lonely moons,
 As they spin pearlescent orbs in the black hole of space,
Oblivious to the addicting sickly sweet smell
Of the lilys that grow in the dusty titian sand,
That flows like a river over the dreamy landscape that illustrates my imagination. 
Jan 02
poem challenge: CJP-Society

A broken system

The clock, the enemy of the mind,
Time stretches into long ribbons,
Each responsible for the waiting game. 

Eyes glaze over, fragile ice on a sleeping pond,
Foot shakes from restlessness,
Fighting back the instinct to be a child.

Compressed and conformed,
The final product of a misled system,
Learning only what is of importance now.

Tell me, why is learning about relationships between animals
Valued over learning how to do our taxes?
Why aren't we taught what needs to be known to survive
In the world outside of the four walls,
Where money is what matters, 
Where there are those situations you role-played in school,
Where no meant no,
And please was manners, not a beg for mercy.

The system we live in is
Broken, tailored to privilege,
Where you need a college to have a fighting chance at success,