1. I began to write at around the age of ten. The words flowed from me in the margins of textbooks and on scraps of paper lying on the kitchen table, next to the scribbled doodles of flowers and dogs. Throughout high school, I started and stopped four fiction novels, never quite finding an idea to which I could fully commit. I began to hone my craft at university, and that is when I discovered poetry as a medium.
2. Whatever I needed at the time, the words have been faithful friends in providing it. When I was young, they helped me craft elaborate worlds in which to lose myself. Now, they are helping me find myself by expressing my thoughts, my experiences. Writing has become my saving grace. It is the one place that I'm allowed to bleed, the one place I can face myself with brutal awareness.
3. It is my hope to publish a book of my poetry, so that my story might be heard, and others might find healing in the words, as I have.
I don’t want to be this person;
Jagged scales mar my once-smooth skin.
They slice the gentle hands
That try to embrace
As they did in times past.
The pain and confusion in their eyes haunt me
And I try to reach out to them,
To mend the wounds that I made,
But my scales only cut them more.
Darkness clouds my once clear vision,
Glinting onyx in the moonlight,
Cold and hard and unforgiving,
As I feel myself becoming now.
And so I must retreat,
Into the pit where none will follow
Where I am hollow,
But safe, and so are they.
You used to call me your Beatrice
you said you'd move Heaven and Earth
just to find me;
that I should be
the subject of every
painting in your museum.
But I should have known that
you were like Dante;
never wanting to know me
while I was alive,
and I should have known that
to put me on that pedestal,
first I would have to die.
We used to sing to each other
the most beautiful songs,'
but mine came straight from the heart
and yours was fake all along.
Now I'm a ghost of myself,
I'll never be what I was,
You killed every part of me you loved
so you could hang it on your wall,
you slowly poisoned my mind
so you could become my all,
you put me up in Heaven
so I didn't know that
I was in Hell.
And I think that I know now
why you had to kill me;
because you just don't know how to love
anything that's living.
And I think that I know now
that she was never me,
so you can keep your Beatrice,
but you will never have me.
On why ‘Type A’ people are exhausting for me
Writing down 5 things that I'm grateful for helps,
for a minute,
Getting a bullet journal to organize my day helps,
but when I tell you that I am exhausted,
that I am overwhelmed,
that every waking moment is a battle for me,
I don't need you to tell me how to fix it.
I know all the little tips and tricks,
all the self help strategies,
the affirmations, the breathing,
I've tried them.
I just needed you to listen,
to tell me that you hear me,
that you understand,
that you see me.
All I wanted was for you to see me.
The worst kinds of monsters
are the ones with human faces.
You reach out to shake their hand
and your body hesitates.
Something in the pit of your stomach,
in the hairs on your neck,
tells you that something is wrong.
but you can’t place what is is.
So you shake off the feeling,
Write it off as a draft or some bad tuna,
And take their hand.
But then you see their eyes.
You see their empty, emotionless eyes
That their smile doesn’t quite reach,
And the feeling gets more intense
Like a palpable aura clinging to them.
That feeling stays with you
Even as they walk away
And days, weeks, maybe years later
You find out why.
The worst kinds of monsters
are the ones with human faces,
Because you don’t know they’re monsters
Until it’s too late.
I’m tired of you turning me into a monster
Some putrid, hulking thing with horns,
Just so you can cast yourself as the martyr.
Maybe it’s easier to fight what you can see,
But the demons that live inside of your head
Have nothing to do with me.
I’m fighting just to keep my head above water
Day by day I fight my own battles.
So go ahead; be a martyr;
But I have no interest in being your monster.
The words echo within
The jagged chambers of my mind
Those well-meaning words
Of the feelings I should find;
Anger, outrage, heartbreak.
I watch them flow
From the crevice of my mouth
False in their echo.
I hear them,
Loud but distant and dim
As if through water.
When did I forget how to swim?
If my words were true,
I would say that I am numb,
That I should feel something,
But my senses are deaf and dumb.
How I wish I could call out
As I watch you walk away,
But you cannot hear
What I cannot say.
I understand why storms are named after people
I felt your approach before I saw you,
Just like a thunderstorm.
I could smell the rain, earthy and sharp;
Taste the lightning, metallic on my tongue.
My eyes opened wide and my lungs filled with your electric atmosphere.
Yes, even before I knew your name, I sensed the storm that you would bring,
But it made me feel so alive,
So alive that I didn’t even mind
The tears that fell onto my pillow
But every cloud can only give so many tears
Before she looks up and realizes
That all that she is has come crashing
Down to the ground.
With shears clasped in a steady hand
I fashioned my sapling into a shape
That suited my mind’s eye,
Until the bright, budding leaves
Were perfectly displayed.
I trimmed the roots to fit
In the finest terracotta
So all could admire
The whimsical branches
And the serene shape.
But, you see, the poor little sapling
Could not bear these brutal changes
So quick in succession,
And so the leaves turned brown,
and fell like tears onto the ground.