Category: posts

i let the wrong parts of the year save me.  what i mean is i can’t remember the last time anything arrived on time, or stayed in the shape it promised. spring sunlight touches my cheek for half a breath and i’m ready to build a cathedral around the feeling. summer burns me alive all…

my nail polish is fading and you’re giving up on me. my hair is a mess and so is my mind. i stopped reading and started sleeping once the sun started to show. i pray for release with a stuffed dog on my bed. mom can you come get me things are getting bad again.…

it is 1:56am and i was going to write something profound here but instead i burst into tears looking at a picture of laura palmer. i hold on to something until i do not know what that something is. and i’m scared again. i pray so much that my knees hurt. i used to talk…

old habits don’t die hard, they sink in their teeth and never let go. old habits will find you on a slow tuesday night and they leave the porch light on so you remember which door to knock on. when you get there, old habits seem unrecognizable, but you decide to stay anyway. you’re not…

i read today in the horoscopes that winter has been rough for you. it was something about change and loss,  and letting go / letting it go / letting me go. have you let me go? i ask because i forgot to take your city off my weather app and almost called you when the…

my mother used to bake her dreams into my dinner to make up for the ones she lost in the delivery room and lately i’ve been crumbling beneath the weight of ways i could become her: who she is, who she was—who she would have been, if only i’d let her. and though she always…

i missed your call the other day. i eat my apples sliced. i am nineteen. i am healing from things i did not tell my mom. i am healing from things i did tell my mom. i am nineteen. i like to think i know a lot but there are limes left to mold in…

i remember this time when / i was eight years old and / i thought i could save everyone so / i hid your bottles in my bedroom / buried them beneath stuffed animals and naivety but / then you found them just like always and / i think that’s when i realized that /…

after Michelle Awad’s “I used to be a poet” i used to be a writer / because someone once told me i talked too much / but that was only after someone else said i didn’t talk enough / i talk more now / mostly on paper / enough that people know i have things…

whats your favorite color? have you ever been in love? dogs or cats? did you have someone who already knew the answers to these questions? are you trying to unlearn their address too? do you sometimes feel their shape indented in the mattress? and tell me, does it pain you like a phantom limb? do…