Category: posts

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…

i think i forgot how to drive so i’ve been doing laps around your old neighborhood. partly because i know everything’s changed and partly because i know nothing’s changed and all i’ve ever known is how to go in circles. tell me, has time really stood still or have i just been gone too long…

i’ve decided that i let you off the hook too easily. never wrote your name in a poem or demanded an apology. i could’ve been red with my anger. spit it onto your doorstep like baby teeth ripped from their roots. only a child and i didn’t know love had to be earned. i didn’t…

originally written june 2025 at nineteen my reflection is laffy taffy pink, stretched to its limit and spun around a knife. at nineteen my best friends live in a screen, and i press my face against the glass, calling my body a window-in-training. at nineteen memorized songs decorate the floor of my mind like skyscrapers.…

it’s november, after all, the air feels heavier while the sky churns itself into the deepest shade of blue it owns. you hold the carton of milk like a memory, expired before you even had the chance to pour it. the bread crumbles in your palms, like a love that went stale with things left…

originally written october 2023 as a kid, i used to write my mother poems / they had rhyme schemes and thanked her for things like / driving me to school so i didnt have to walk the half mile / making my favorite thing for dinner because a boy called me ugly / kissing my…

if i twist my heart into a shape that will no longer be called a heart, it’ll still hold love for you, you know? but i wish it won’t the next time i hear a song with a noticeable drum fill. would an orange still be called one if i paint it blue? perhaps, i’ll paint my organs…

i stopped doing my dishes for eight days straight. i look for it in everything and find it waiting for me every time. i am stardust, i am wounded animal. i am repeating myself and wonder if the cycle is to be broken still. is the snake biting its own tail well fed? is there a contentment that…