Tag Archives: depression




and here you are living

despite it all 

  • rupi kaur 


a weak heart beating in spite of itself.

the sun rising in spite of itself.


suddenly there is gratefulness 

in the way you paint your mouth 

in the bathroom mirror.


suddenly music has grown 





a new necessity


loud, louder, drown everything.


the hours present like 

ocean waves in your chest


breathlessness to appreciation

of silver moon on silver water.


the irony lies in the excited chatter of 

birds outside your bedroom window,

their days fuller than yours.


your second son kicks you awake 

reminds you of the way your body moves


even when you can’t bear the thought of it.

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I have some exciting news to share!

Hi guys! Remember me?

I know it’s been quite a while…but for good reason, I promise.

I’ve been keeping most of my writing under wraps because I’ve been working on my very first chapbook, and I am excited to announce that it is finally finished, and available for purchase on Amazon in both print and Kindle e-book form. I decided, at least for now, that self publishing was the best path for my work. The cover art was done by my great friend and tattoo artist, and I am over the moon with how it turned out. I can only hope the poems inside live up to the beautiful cover.

If you’re interested in purchasing a copy of my debut chapbook, all these things that haunt you, just head on over to Amazon!

Or, click this link.

Thank you all for the support you’ve given me on my blog over the years. I really hope you enjoy this chapbook; it’s been an exciting ride putting it together, and every piece is near and dear to me. Some you may have seen before, but most are brand new.

And if you do choose to purchase one, don’t forget to leave me a review on Amazon!

Thank you again. I’m looking forward to taking a breather and delving back into WordPress for a while. See you all around!





Filed under Uncategorized, Writing


mother folds the rug back 
while father sweeps

mother stirs the pot 
while father fixates
on a crack in the ceiling

 anything but the way
my shoulders jackhammer
while i am begging him
in some devastated tongue

 to see me in some light, any light

they say a mother’s love knows no bounds
but what happens when your own mother
is so broken she cannot lift a hand
to see the way it looks so much like your own?

i am screaming with my mouth shut
and i’ve run out of bandages
to keep my bones from breaking
in one fragile swoop like some cheap trinket

i am grasping at straws made of sand
they turn to dust in my grasp
like this mirage that tries to
tell me i have a family

i kneel behind my son in damp grass
wrap both hands around his waist
point at whatever wonder the day is bringing

and i think: i’ve done this, haven’t i?
i’ve been on the other side of this
hands around my waist, so small
somewhere in the fog of another life.


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you ask how I’m managing

but you cut your ears off


years ago


fingers smooth as

tree bark touch my wrist


there are daisies where your

eyes should be


you’re all I write about –

did you know this?


don’t be flattered


it’s easier to

write about misery

than it is to

write about love


to write about love

is to try slowing the

beating of your heart

to match the pace of your fingers


like holding a moth

in cupped hands

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Irrational Being

she wakes to lavender
pooling in all her fleshy,
sorry nooks.

she had the dream
of all dreams last night:

staring through a dirty wine glass
like a drunken fortune teller
she saw life as it could be
by the softening glow of
holiday lights in city summer.

somewhere far from here
for the first time
she was good enough.

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My neck’s grown tired of always
holding up all the darkness in my head
but I am accustomed to backstroking
against this current; the absentminded
muscles I’ve developed tell me so.

Once I was a baby,
once I didn’t know the ache of unhappiness
but only the forgettable way my small mouth
formed words no one understood.

When I turned into a woman
my heart went all soot and damp earth.
People made it so. The ones I chose to love in fact.
Each unhinged my ribcage and stuffed it with warm deceit.

I’m a modern day Medusa
stuck staring at unwell-adjusted me,
busy chiseling the corners of my mouth
into the slightest of smiles.


Filed under Writing

When We Are Here


Somewhere, ages ago now
I was setting sail on bones and ash,
catching the wind with an old t-shirt,
watching you and everything I knew
turn doll-size in the distance.

Miles had spread at a viral rate
by the time I went overboard and you


were already there to buoy me back to shore,
to refill my chest with all the reasons there were to stay
and when I opened my eyes all I noticed was the
brilliant orange of the sun as it left us.

So I’ve been using all your edges to keep me upright
but you’ve never seemed to mind (you’re too busy
seeing me in some post-apocalyptic calm, something
I cannot), you who chooses over and over to
stand out in the rain with me.

It’s all so surreal now, way back behind us,
and it feels like someone else’s temporary sorrow
when we are here, cradling the shiny newness of a
living, breathing thing that has your mouth, my chin, your nose.

It is almost impossible to think how simple
a decision it was, to look into your eyes, nod, press my mouth,
my body to yours and suddenly we were changed.

I think I’ll spend forever thanking you.


Filed under Writing

interior decorating



matters of the heart

are barely

smoked up rooms

where you lay down your bones

when you’re feeling




I sport wallpaper skin

you nail photographs

to my chest



around our shortcomings


I’ve never been one for interpretive dance –


all elbows, you are

whole body, I am


so now


I steer my grief

so much like a ship’s sails

around your ambiguity

that is haunting me


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buying time






only looks


from a




come down

and see

she is



between all

of the



she is aging



they are

taking some-


you cannot


behind her





gave up

her two


teeth are

in her

coin purse






there is

a way




with your





Filed under Writing

tell me what is

I used to make these


scrawled onto scrap

paper written desperately

with ink in a

child’s old journal sometimes

even on my hands, my arms,

those problematic thighs

beneath the school desk

of nothing inspirational

no to-dos or groceries,

just this:

teeth not white enough

laughter not bright enough

too thick, too sensitive

too irrational

too much of nothing.


eventually I burned all the

stationery I stopped

reminding myself of

silly human imperfections

even stopped looking in

the mirror for a while

because if I couldn’t

love me at least I

could forget what it

was I longed to

change, and I have

since glimpsed my

reflection in those

who’ve tried to

tell me what is

good and every time

I stay a little longer,

look a little deeper,

maybe even understand.


Filed under Writing