Jul 01

thriller novels and other methods of swinging from chandeliers

july - tea lights - unfortunate events of spilling red wine - barnes and noble
wednesday evening licking stains from wood and climbing on bookcases and jumping in pools that aren't ours
throwing novels on skyscrapers of children's section questionable topics and people watching
sticky summers in white leather cars and coughing up thick sea salt
(stop eating bread and butter in heavy slices behind counters that show back to the future too many times in a row)

11 am - dried up face paint - screens thick with dead bugs and dust - tire swing
climbing on your shoulders and yelling in lakes shining watermelon
melted popsicles in dirty sheets on clotheslines on martha's vineyard
olivia rodrigo in campers trundling down dirt roads
(forgetting that we don't know how to drive)

burnt matches - you - me - dead fish
ready to say goodbye to glowing lanterns, dolphins that don't show up, dreaming on lawn mowers
Jul 01

ring fingers (fruit juice)

i've decided on mango.

windy peaks of frosted milkshakes
she writes her name in sunscreen on the walls.
sips frothy milk at gleaming countertops, then
flips people off with her ring finger in the sand-

it's simply too much
to like only 
one color
at a time
so lime
and pink greys and
chipped nail polish squeezing fruit juice over our heads.

she shudders when palm trees scrape her toes
and buys cokes at cold stores
and walks barefoot on fake grass
mini golf balls rolling over her,

invincible forgettable too-laughable-to-care
algebraic eqations in high chairs
and mushy peas and keys
in unturnable

cold at night and cramming fistfulls of 
mint in her mouth and 
lathering her hair in sea foam.
she walks too loud and yells too quietly
for anyone to hear.

Mar 15

for you, for me

avocados, pears, forget-me-nots.
she twirls out a list and smiles. 
dental floss. chapstick for me.
don't forget avocados
i already wrote that, see?

mangos, conditioner, a new coat.
she bites her lip.

lotion, rice cakes, candles.
a new notebook.
for me. 
muffins, for breakfast. 

pausing, she strokes my hair and giggles.

Mar 15

when the rain comes.

I wrote this for a contest and want to know if y'all think it's any good. <3

i. our feet have turned blue. windows thrown open for reminders, "our world is there." if it's right here, why can't i see it?
a stack of tea in some supermarket sits stale and unloved.
no one heals.

ii. we break. 
no one knows when it happened, may, october, january, months trailing after each other with no meaning. maybe we were already broken.
cracks. splinters in our skin too big to pull out. we struggle hard to breathe. 
I don't remember when we stopped.

iii. we know we can't forget.
february is made for cotton, winds that stuff up our ears, heavy sheets, thin towels. the sky is blank. so are our hidden faces.
we desperately try to stay. stay hopeful, when hope has run out. still, trembling, we stand. 

iv. the wind. it comes first. gusting around homes, shaking our roofs, our roots. 

Feb 27

then we blossom

we are lavender.
boughs hung over arches of cinnamon purple,
we are lavender, our skin painted sky blushes, powdered sugar
we are lavender sounds of crystal water trickling
in our hair

lavender chalk in 5 o'clock
we are dusky dusty half-framed ideas written in
we are tubs filled too deep
spilling with purply wealth, then
spinning, we click our heels and
silver burns silver, so
over and over we
our lavender blossoms filling our leaks and
freckling our toes, rubbing
cheek to

we are lavender who laugh too hard at night and scream
when they try to wash us away.

Feb 16

Thither comes a dashing gentleman

When wind whips my hair and blows it across my face dramatically, 
I pretend to be in a Jane Austen novel.
For, what! I cry to the sky through my hoarse throat,
thither comes a dashing gentleman!

(the sky is grey like murky tea.)
Dear, dear me, I am faint! I sweep my hand to my forehead and stumble across the ground.
Are you alright? (I switch to being a handsome young man in a grey waistcoat and a concerned expression.)
Just a little… c-cold, I stammer helplessly.

He regards me and invites me on his horse,
(I am quite faint at this point, and my skin is turning blue.)
and rides home with me draped in his wool coat and clutching tight to his horse (and most certainly not him.)
I am propped in bed with warm tea, the colour of the sky, and he waits anxiously in the parlor, as when he carried me in I looked quite cold and he is wondering how I am doing. 
Jan 30

july, then august again

i. in august

the dress was too heavy for august.
she made sugar cookies at the big house and we danced. 
my dance was folk and hers was indie rock,
and we threw stones in the water to make music. our music was circus spun sugar. it was hot dust. 

ii. in october

she made me a god's eye out of yarn and popsicle sticks. it was tightly wound and smelled like sunset. 
we laid our puffy coats down on the leaves and tried to catch falling yellows and browns. i snuggled into this.
i watched the banjo player at the county fair. she threw him a coin. i wanted one.

iii. in february

it was too cold to go swimming, she told me. 
finally cold enough for the dress.
my overalls were wet and stained with mud and ice. she gave me a spongebob bandaid.

iv. in april

i made her a dream catcher so she wouldn't have nightmares. 
Jan 30

apple burned.

i guess i wanted to swim in the lanterns,
i guess they weren't cold enough to breathe.
swimming was easier anyway but the lanterns couldn't have held me
they were round and red and rippling. apples with attitude.
so far, they had won. they had won the night from me. even though my skirt was red,
i don't think it was red enough.

if i swam in the red light of the lanterns my skirt would catch on fire.
i suppose it wouldn't matter anyway, because life would be red.
it depends on how you think of it.

i brought apple slices in my purse and drank a mango.
the apple was supposed to be for eating, 
but i sacrificed it to the lantern gods instead.
as for the mango, well i drank it.

when the apple flamed up inside the lantern i cackled,
pure joy for fruit juice and fire,
for what else is there in this world?
i think maybe the people riding the subway were confused.
one of them smiled
Jan 22


The beckoning whale call.

The canoe, my tongue.

I, the sailor who cannot sail,
simply sits at the mouth and waits,
for the whale
to open its wide galaxy and

My lukewarm brain.

The sailor panicks, and,
lured by the scent
of the breath
and the gelt, the dark chocolate guilt,
tumbles overboard and convulses,
trying to drown, drown in
salt and

If you've ever drowned I think you know what it feels like.

My uncontrollable urge.

I wish I hadn't opened my eyes, because gosh
the saltwater stung
like sun baked fish 
in the freezing sun
and I
the only one
with melting guts and squirming lungs.

The sea rollicked, that poor old sailor, nets only tangled him deeper in the yawn

For if the whale smiled it was lost to darkness,

Jan 10

Photos (random and not connected)

Jan 04

Cold - A Tiny Writes Collaborative Poem

These awesome YWP writers describe what being cold is like: Roses, Mysticat, dogpoet, Treblemaker, LadyMidnight, laurenm, Moonsand, Yellow Sweater, Ice Blink, infinitelyinfinite3, amaryllis, Crescent_Moon, Whitney, cedar.

Dec 28

salty royalty

because I like the idea of being a queen,
grapevines twisting around my heart,
southern noons painted in pointalism,
beauteous con artists bringing me briny gold
and sand that I trailed over my checkered marble.

and if I ask take me out to the middle of the sea
so my petticoats float around me, as a jellyfish would sting, I scream into the salt. 

because when the rain falls it's a queen's bath,
drops evolving into wet petals when they hit the heat soaked gravel
queens don't ask to wear shoes.

evenings covered up in veils that cloud me in confection.
4:30 am dances on balconies, twirling and teetering and tipping towards the weeds.
mid-day heat steaming through the floor of my white leather car.
open the windows and breathe until there's too much bay air in my lungs,
like sails billowing with whomping breezes. 
the harbor is my home.

queens don't ask to walk on water.
Dec 26


soap scrubbed away any dreams i had of becoming a roller skater.
passive-aggressively twisting away my thoughts of greatness.
it told me i haven't breathed in a year.
it told me drinking hot water would cure me.
it told me my words were waterlogged
bleeding paper pulp all over my heart.

soap is mine.
i scoop it up in my hands like silver edged in trickery, it rubbs it's purring head against my skin
and we embrace, two old friends
made for breaking each other down.

soap follows me into nightmarish perfection.
i would follow it if i could.
instead i scrape my teeth until they squeak
and blow air in perfect spheres through my throat and up into the world
they're alive simply for the pleasure of dying.

soap drips away while my hair squeezes every last drop of it off my body
but i never forget
until i do.
Dec 26

letter to that which cannot be seen

dear summer,
i'm just writing to see how you've been and if the weather's nice, though it's not very nice here,
but i know you're probably doing a bit better
seeing as here it's cold but you probably don't know much about that.
anyway, wanted you to know that i miss you and it's probably early where you are but it's dark as a department store here so 
yeah bye

(Storms were wind wrapped over and over and over like blankets turned into burritos. And I was the lettuce.)

dear summer,
good thing it's four o'clock now and i don't have to worry about spending time
because now i'm running out of it.
i'm tired of racing it though.
if time tastes minty, do my eyes lick it every day
off the clock?
peppermint is good and better than kale. 
sorry kale.

(So be it that I am just a witness. Posters tell me this is a crime.)

dear summer,

Dec 25

taylor swift

The art room looked sticky: old paint, sad collages. 

My room echoed with the strains of my old songs,
It's a music chamber that I kept preserved in the shrine of my eleven years of absence.

Eleven shone like a balloon.
Rubbing the helium in my face.

It was a fever that I could barely remember,
The time I wandered around, mumbling,
Spiders, sisters, Harvard, hot trembling
My angst, my head, my fury bubbling,

And maybe the ipod broke from the times I hit play,
22, because I wish Taylor Swift was real
But no, just a dream,
Sorry the ipod was a little too cracked.

Is the feeling in my stomach or tummy?
It doesn't matter, I kick it to death anyway,
Knowing that gingerbread can't solve all my problems.