now when my mind itches someone else's thoughts, i can stonewall, clearcut. what do you say to the silence in their place.

i know you will

he has left me silent and unable to confess to you

inevitable introspection; "i am petrified of actuality." \\ cw: discussion of avoidant restrictive food intake disorder [arfid].

there is no right way to have a body but I am always learning new wrong ways.

strawberry banana smoothies used to be my favourite. \\ cw: calories mention, food guilt.

and we went from drinking all night to tucking in our babies at bedtime

all that i was.

A collection? Concluded.

COMPLETE! My most intense and personal writing. Moving through pain to a place where life seems valuable again. Poems about loved ones, loss, mental illness, and eventually, at least a little bit of recovery. Warning for self-harm and food issues. Reviews returned.

She is golden. Don't let that light die out.

you're the longest word i can't say -pillowbook, act six:

i don't know if any of this actually constitutes as poetry, or if it's just a set of random thoughts and recollections. either way, it's a mess, but i enjoy it, so here you have it.

Identifying with Virginia Woolf. A prose poem made using a diary entry run back and forth through an automatic translator and found text from a guide to living with bipolar disorder. Reviews returned.

knew it was more than apple seeds and half truths.

There is the wind through his hair, through yours; there is pain and terror and too many liquor store stops where he presses bottles into your shaking hands, says, "Drink," like it will fix everything — fix your heart and your head and your broken bloody soul.

He was the sea, and seas were never made to listen.

veiled in pulpits and lace and rain.

In a matriarchal world where marriage does not exist, Castor battles with the ideas of belonging and love and Jubilee is uncovering the secrets of her dark past. While they navigate the troubled waters of politics and social niceties, more serious matters permeate the Ladies' conferences. The Men of the East are on the move. War is coming.

You spread your loyalty too easily, they say, and you laugh.

COMPLETE. i'm jumping on the bandwagon and making a collection. incomplete pieces, experiments, general bits and pieces that don't have anywhere else to go. varying quality. reviews returned.

the world ended years ago and no one told you. you go on caring. unrelated haiku. i store my poetry in a box and have no place to hide it from you.

a pillowbook, if you will, but really not as cool.

fire escapes and renegades / a love story told out of order

hey there, babyface, brown eyes, boy wonder. bring me the summers; here's a secret for you.

i am chomping on lemons

playing guitar on bridges at half ten on a wednesday

i am not constant.

i'm afraid of what i will discover inside. /pillowbook/

i drank a bit and told you, 'i love you.'

life's a song and i just mouth the words. pillowbook.

you are mine. Pillow book.

Pillow book

and yours and yours and yours.

poetry written during my first semester creative writing class.

when his fingers ran all over me like mammals migrating.

my lips are smaller than yours.

An attempt

He's got the whole fuck-with-your-heart routine down pat.

still searching. a pillowbook.

Active search for poetic expression. Concluded

an adaptation of david levithan's latest.

on activism and anxiety

was it something i said? pillowbook.

Friendships sometimes feel like one crises of human collision, of clashing, after another.

pillowbook.

this time, my heart's in it and the stars are exploding like fourth of july sparklers. pillowbook, maybe

Not as disjointed as you might think.

I want to climb into the lap of my rapist father. Novella. Complete.

the poets are throwing back whiskey, drunk on metaphor & looking for god in a few bars of rhyme. collection. genesis & nihilism edited.

drunk off chlorine and miller lite, this summer hangover will eat us alive. -a collection-

build it up and break it down, darling - a collection.

I carved your name into my eyelids. You pray for rain, I pray for blindness.

People always say that.

standing with you, in the dusk. my breath catches.

ten years from now...

playing in gasoline - FootstepsToNowhere - littlest clouds - writerlike - lights over sounds

a general collection

She wears a necklace of black and purple fingertips, a corset of angry red palms

everyone's trying to leave.

but really i'm ok

The life's story of someone who needs to get a life.

even if i can't.

one of the most emotionally draining things i have ever written. do not read if you have triggers. reviews returned.

somewhere weakness is our strength. pillowbook four.

oxygen is useless. -pillowbook VI

[ the time has come for this to bleed. ]

if only I was beautiful.

Not sure what perspective I'm writing from here. I worry that if it's my own, I'm gonna come across as the oh so trite and contrived "starving artist" genotype that majors of my kind fall in so very often. I hate rum and gin, though, so...

THIS IS complete.

polaroids and windowsills. something like a pillowboook, documenting discontent.

sarah godwin eats a quarter cup of discipline...

let's not fix what's already broken

she cries, as always. -pillowbook the third-

his address is the day after tomorrow

i could taste you.

darling, we are all adrenaline and paper cuts and raw electricity shudder-craving solar eclipses. stand here on the precipice of insanity and fall with me.

he pushed scars down my legs like cars push headlights across the highway floor.

you leap out from my words, no longer monosyllabic; and i have never been more glad to have been shown up in a show-down. poetry and prose.

for you, from me. because one sentence would not be enough.

anorexia

“I’ll sell my body, I don’t know.” He ate another cookie. “THIS IS SO GOOD. I want to have epic sex with your baking skills.” An instructional guide on how to snare males in the trap of awesome cooking.

I promised him I would

i'm passing 100, some of these will be left out when i publish.

you'd think she'd rust.

and i swallowed your lies down like redemption.

Pen is not earth mother. And the boy is not gentle. But he is lovely and broken and if she could stop being a chickenshit she could call him up and ask him to take her to Casablanca. This is how the world begins.

she would never write him love lettters.

it will never be forgotten.

are you happy' 'i'm just not sad'

.026 stop already, lurid girl of neon heights.

salvation was the sexiest word that d r a g g e d across your lips. you.are.so.fake. [collection]

this is just a big metaphor for my whole life.

i ache.

[ RESUBMITTED ] you're eighteen months too late.

ourownlittleworld is not so silent. [a series]

sex, drugs, and one more cliche. some girls are born cheshire.

anything it takes to be p.e.r.f.e.c.t

I am the patron saint of abandoned little girls.

It was raining when I graduated from high school.

they threw me to the dogs so i wouldn't tell