poetic lament — “We all come from broken pasts, murmured the voice from underneath the hood. The Dark attracts the grieving. The sounds of lament are a pleasure to its senses. All who embrace the Dark know loss before they are granted its blessing.” — Rin Chupeco, The Shadowglass We are birthed from…

a poem in an attempt to articulate what finishing another Nic Stone book feels like — Is full and overflowing with blossoms, Spring has not yet begun, But this is what your writing does to me, No matter the season. You are like the sun’s rays equally warming the seeds under the cool soil of my exterior feeding them energy, giving them life, inspiring them to grow and break the surface. You are the air that greets and nurtures them

a poem — in the mirror finished putting my tresses in a topknot i spy rogue strands it’s frustration season then like a light switch a new perspective glows showing me how perfectionism is still playing me as pawn in the game of getting in my own way recovering i throw a bandeau over my hair and reconcile that this imperfect ‘do is good enough realizing in past perfectionism almanacs it was predicted

Humpty Dumpty and No More Monkeys Jumping on the Bed Mash-up — Mumpty Bumpty laid in bed, Mumpty Bumpty twisted their head (and everything with a joint); Mumpty Bumpty went to the chiropractor and Mumpty’s bones said: Pop! Crack! We are out of whack! The Bumpty was worked out of Mumpty which left them feeling jumpty and gettin’ up to startin’ sumpting and no more Bumptys came out of Mumpty until Mumpty no Bumpty laid in bed…

prose on standing firm — for Chassidy What is the firmest thing? Is it concrete? Concrete is porous allowing liquids and gases entry into its solid form. Is it brick? Brick is porous as well as durable. Is it steel? Steel corrodes when exposed to Earth’s atmosphere degrading, rusting, and eroding over time. Is it earth? Soil, rock, and sand break down into tiny granules. Together they are firm but air and water erode them.

a poem The stoic, the stone cold, the artifice are officious, superfluous attempts at being impervious. Like these words on the page. I am human. Not concrete not brick but similar to a plant not quite a sponge. I have a soul and feelings. Semi-permeable. You see me looking cold? You perceive me as hard? You believe I am a bitch? What you see, what you perceive, what you believe are my non-porous,

prose My emotions have sublimated my cognition leaving me to navigate a sea of chaos and I find myself lost in a typhoon of I am so fucking over this transphobic, racist, misogynist international way of thinking. Puking up toxins of hate -that our nation’s leaders have foisted upon us- while trying to figure out new ways of existing that show us we know how to love in as much as we have a penchant for torture.

prose about loss — “Grief is the sea.” -ABC’s Not Dead Yet It was July 2022. After 16 years, I was reunited with the ocean. But she was not the same and neither was I. I was going on three months of unemployment — the loss of job, the loss of friendships at work…

You called yourself a mistake and I felt the crushing waves of disappointment in myself pull me into the undertow gagging on / stifled by / choking the engine of my brain’s sputtering to form words that conveyed what a gift you are and how the world is a lie when it comes down the line on how we talk about life at the cellular level not yet being nor creature and certainly not human but a scientific action