i feel like people outgrow me
faster than they realize they need
me to begin with; a condolence,
a temporary remedy to the loneliness
they're drowning in until they learn
to swim and i become an inconvenient
extension to their tangled existence -
as if their minds are too impatient to
understand that, hidden deep inside
the buried soul of the one next to them
is a heart just waiting for someone to
hang on; to hang around; to stay.

there are a pair of jeans in my drawer,
buried beneath layers of black cotton shirts
and satchels of wildflowers
with holes in the thighs and missing belt loops
that i can't seem to get rid of -
for they remind me of you; of
sunflower days and raindrops on lips,
strawberry fingers and windswept kisses
and grass-stains on our elbows and
laughter in the air, fresh and clean and
innocent like the earth after rain.

there are stories that we have molded to
fit our wounds, bandages we imagine are
covering the shrapnel
left by ones who never learned that "loving"
is not irrefutably tied to "leaving";
we wrap ourselves in flowers and harness
the clouds to disguise the fact that we're
made for a soul just as broken as we are.

we lose ourselves in our brokenness,
lamenting the ones we've lost until
we realize that people outgrow people -
but what they don't understand,
is that maybe we never fit them to begin with.

january 24th, 2018 //


galaxies & ashes // poetry

i used to think i knew you like
your hands knew the curves of my face,
skin and emotion like clay 
beneath your fingertips,
gentle touch and feather-light
lips on my cheek 
and the warmth of your arms in
the firelight, dew settling on our shoulders
like memories in the shadows, 
 only to evaporate 
in the heat from the flames.

i remember the forest green
of your eyes, the brooding twist of
your lips when you were lost in 
thought, the laughter in your
smile whenever your gaze landed
on me, and i can't help but think that
maybe, somehow, we lost ourselves
in those flames, lit one too many matches
and burned our very souls to ash. 

i saw you through the eyes of the 
night sky, as the moon sees the stars,
but you only saw me as a salesman
recognizes an expensive piece of
furniture; just another lampshade
or end table or love seat to polish
up and boast about and sell off 
to the highest bidder.

i still feel you as i did on those heavy, 
summer nights when the earth wrapped its arms 
around our shoulders and the darkness
enveloped the earth in purple shadows
and the moon played hide-and-seek
with the milky way and we were the
sun and the moon and the stars 
to each other. 

but perhaps we were too much like 
the galaxies above us and
there was too much distance between
our beings to survive the fall to earth;
so we continue hiding our bruises 
and walking the fine line of acceptance
until, one day, maybe we'll understand that
while the moon and the stars play at romance
and exist in the same firmament, they
were never meant for each other - 
and no matter how brightly they might
burn, eventually, all fires die out 
and all that remains are the ashes of
what once was. 

[ april 8th, 2018 // 8:42 p.m. ]


2017 in review (yes, it's late)

2017 was a wild year; 12 months full of growth and change and tears and laughter and loss and anxiety and so, so many "firsts". i started the year off by starting a new position in my job of 3 months & worked full time much longer than i'd originally planned. i saw the first of my childhood friends get married, got 3 new piercings, my first (& second!) tattoo, bought my first car (affectionately named "Beatrice Bullet" due to her excessive acceleration while coasting), traveled back to Ohio for a month, all while entertaining the idea of moving across the country - 1,800 miles from home. i struggle(d) with anxiety (which is something i've never really shared before, so here's to being open and vulnerable in 2018. ha), talked and prayed and schemed with my cousin about finally living in Ohio and renting a place together, and finally took the leap. 

in September, i quit my job - leaving behind so many wonderful people 😭  - and started packing, in the midst of which i turned 21. in early October, i drove across the country for the first time (even after making the drive with my mum & dad 20+ times, i'd never driven once!), left behind home and family and everything i'd known for the past 18 years of my life and started a new adventure in Ohio. leaving my family is one of the hardest things i've ever experienced, and let me just tell you: nothing prepares you for that goodbye. 

upon my arrival, i dealt with car troubles, made phone calls (eeee), got (somewhat) used to living independently, cultivated a passionate love for Aldi, flew by myself for the first time (including a 40 minute layover in Detroit to catch my next flight - which i almost missed) and realized that "visiting home" is about the most melancholy, bittersweet feeling a person can experience. 

it's been a year of realizations; of doubt, of growth, of change, but through it all, i've grown stronger and God had proven His faithfulness over and over again. i feel like i waited for 2017 - the year - for a long while, and it changed my expectations and reality more than i thought was possible. i cling to sameness; to constancy and comfort and security with a ferocity born of anxiety and fear, but this year has proven, despite my uncertainty, that change is more than a part of life - it is life - and, if given the chance, it can be a good thing.

it's all a crazy ride, friends, but sometimes you just gotta go for the wild adventure; take the leap; make the move. buy the plane ticket. pack a bag and just go. here's to (the remainder of) 2018 - the crazy, the hard, the lonely, the wild, the joyful, the new - and all that entails. 🎉  

p.s. here, have a conglomeration of miscellaneous photos from 2017 thrown together in an unorganized heap. cheerio. xo


breaking glass // poetry

you first saw me through a glass window
on that cold, November day --
and you fell in love at the first sight, 
or so you would later say. 

the trees were bare and desolate,
their arms against the sky,
and our reflections chased after us
as we went walking by. 

we talked about the future - 
our dreams as open books, 
laid out for all the world to see
if they would only dare to look. 

an image of us was frozen
on a screen that frosty day, 
a snapshot the only fragment 
of the "us" that was to stay. 

we traced our steps back to where we met
and stood at the exact spot 
just as lightning struck the sidewalk
with the echo of a gunshot. 

we walked a hundred miles, 
moments sweet like old champagne - 
and your lips briefly brushed mine
before we parted in the rain.  

you swore that you would write to me
before a single day could pass,
but your promises faded, as did you, 
with the sound of breaking glass. 

[breaking glass, november 5th, 2016] 


haven't been writing too much poetry lately - moving 1,800 miles across the country, job hunting, adulting and writing a novel will have that effect - but here's one i wrote over a year ago, forgot about and just rediscovered. xo