a glimpse into my writing: poetry + prose
Welcome to my website and this lil’ corner of the internet!
Here, you’ll find the hub for all my writing pursuits—poetry, prose, essays, articles, and commentaries exploring the human experience, largely my story as a somewhat deconstructed church kid who still loves Jesus. and how my growing perspective shapes my worldview, the way I connect, what I dream of, how I love, and all the raw messiness in between. Topics can range from hot-button issues, mental health, social commentary, cultural phenomena, trauma and healing, and really anything my mind decides to linger on. I would describe my writing style as lyrical, evocative, sometimes theatrical, sometimes gothic, to capture the beauty of vulnerability.
I have been processing several seasons of my life recently—lessons I've learned, relationships I've lost, relationships I've gained, faith I love and then I hate. This is but a little intro into what I think about, and thus, what ends up on the page.
I’m so excited you’re here, and I’m eager to continue sharing my writing, poetry, prose, and all the fun things, like my process, readings, and prompts!
Take a look at three of my most recent poems for a taste of what I’m writing about:
01. therapy
I was comfortable on this couch until it came my time to respond.
When was it that I first felt this way?
Was it the day I was the last one picked for a kickball team?
Or maybe it was the day I got third in the spelling bee…when my brother was first in his year.
Was it the earliest day I can remember leaving my mother’s house to spend the weekend at his?
Or the day when the neighbor girl went in for a kiss…when I learned what butterflies meant.
Was it the night when blood first soaked through my underwear?
Or was it how I realized my mom wasn’t there…and I was scared something bad had happened.
Was it the night the preacher’s son found his way into my DM’s?
Or when it became clear I could never trust men…when the rumors were not rumors at all.
Was it the night he slithered his way beneath everything I said I wouldn’t give?
Or was it when I couldn’t decide if I still wanted to live…and I…I wrote it all down in a letter.
All that self-discovery and I’m still an addict to my own misery.
And I’ve realized I’ve been pondering these questions for a minute now and the pen clicks are getting louder and the tick tick ticking of the clock is making my eye twitch and there’s no skin left around my nails for me to pick at and I should probably say something now so I do:
“Always.”
02. the moon, the stars, and the unseen parts of me
what places us settled into a moment
when the edges of my unfiltered speech
run bittersweet like a pear, prickly and fragrant.
and you tell me, look at the stars, how they shine for you
as the rolling thunders quiet in the night
and the heavy evening air finds its way back to the mists.
these times you spend echoing sweet vows
to my ears while holding my heart under the moon
keep me honest in believing
maybe you are telling the truth.
though, i cannot say i’ve known this kind of love before
when my life is a story
i never wanted to write.
wary of reconciling why these thoughts feel so wrong
instead, i paint your lips with my tongue
as you tell me everything is alright
know that if I survive tomorrow,
it’s because you were with me.
your heartbeat is the subtle rhythm I dance to.
03. i am a seed.
And so, I am a seed. Something invisible to the players of life, so small and insignificant (and potentially, ignorant). No one really cares or thinks about seeds.
How long do they wait to be planted in their tiny, paper packets? How often do wild seeds cope along the surface? How desperate do buried seeds become as they exist in the darkness?
At each stage of the process, I imagine, seeds waste away, only seeing what is without hope for what also is. They do not see the rain. They cannot taste any nutrients. They feel the pain of roots producing, but are unaware of what is building.
And so, I am a seed.
Tell me, can seeds have hope? To know their Creator placed them right there on purpose? In tiny paper packets for such a time as the moment they’re purchased? On soil surfaces in a field needing bloom. In the depths of a garden, to give the gardener food. They may not see the rain, but they can sense its results. “I am here, so I must be new.”
Will the purchaser or the field or the gardener ever thank the seed? Hard to say.
But as the seed breaks, it can maybe hope that in its walls breaking, the seed will know growth.
