Two days ago, I woke up with a sob, lashes wet with tears. It was only a dream- a nightmare- but my bones are still holding onto the grief, the breath-stopping fear of seeing my sons body dragged from the water. Even now, I don’t want to put the image on paper. Don’t want to shine light on my worst fear, that thing that would undo me completely.

I was late for work today because my son woke up as I was leaving and begged me to stay, to sit by him on the couch just for a little. When I finally left, I pictured explaining to admin that I was late because of a dream. I was late because my son was still alive and I needed to witness his breath. I pictured explaining that I might be late again tomorrow if I find more breath to witness. Won’t be here at all if there isn’t.

All that Comes

Today I don’t feel tired and the queasiness is a distant wave.

Today the sun hit my disco light and lit up my room with glowing bits of hope.

Today my alarm, and not my anxiety, woke me up.

Today, hope feels possible and happiness feels almost easy.

But yesterday, yesterday-

The best parts of my day were those when I was asleep.

Yesterday, everything made me sick- my body, the gray sky, election results, the way coffee smelled.

Yesterday was a pile of moments tipping toward despair. I had to remind my cheeks and lips how to smile and didn’t bother reminding my eyes.

But yesterday has become today and will soon be tomorrow.

All the comes will fade to memory. When moments are hard, don’t carve the sorrow into your skin, but let it slip like sand through your fingers. And when the sun hits the disco ball, hold the light like a quivering butterfly, for moments are here and then gone.

No feeling is final.

That Summer

What if that summer hadn’t smelled of antiseptic and hospital food? What if that summer hadn’t sounded like held breath and the constant and varied beeping of life-sustaining machines? What if that summer hadn’t taught me to fear phone calls and love and losing? What if that summer had let my body house joy instead of sorrow?

What if I hadn’t been left with emotional fault lines and bone-deep grief?

What if I was still the girl before, untethered to the crushing after?

Bite Size Fiction

It’s the leaves they first notice- swiss cheese holes through them all, like poison rain residue. Horticulture experts gather, brows furrowed, and begin testing samples. But soon the grass begins to whither- everywhere, almost overnight- strong blades turning brown and brittle. Next, the flowers lose their petals, lost pieces swirling across cement. The sky begins to dim on a Thursday, is brown by Sunday night.

The news shows image after image and offers no explanation. For once, pundits simply shake their heads. No one, anywhere, seems to know what to do. No one knows what to say.

Is it the air? The soil? Is anywhere safe? How long before the crops all whither with the grass?

People instinctively close their windows.

Doors stay shut.

It has arrived- the beginning. Or the end.

Through the Migraine Fog: Open Mic Mashup

you were the first one to ever look at me/ the sorrows washed away like a crown of wisdom/ you were hospital bound/ and how am i meant to move in an orbit 5 times too fast/ and instead of sleep, i’m thinking about how to tell you i love you without you noticing/ i scavenged a cereal box for you in 3rd grade/ time is a b**ch and she’s beautiful/ the trick to gaslighting is getting people to believe they remember/ my mother used my adhd against me/ in the shade you can barely see/ we’ve been neglected for too long/ and break at a touch/ the smell of rot takes over/ and all the plants have died/ and i was raised around the screams/ i was created by the pull of a trigger/ but you’re not bleeding so you’re fine/ your anger is a few sizes too big/ i made your demons my own/ absorbing your anger/ a child who reminds you of yourself/ she never thought your heart would give out before yours/ what made you change a year before you’d be gone forever/ i want to be held like a grudge/ and make you feel alone in a good way/ like the motherly hug the night gives/ to haunt you/ like black tendrils/ from the one who paid the debt/ beautiful, but broken/ a burial/ and i am the whole damn museum/ and this is for the kids who want to go home and those who fear it/ for the kids stuck in their own heads and the kids stuck in everyone else’s/ my screams break a thousand silent treatments/ the enneagram test calls me ghost and i’m so tired of mourning people who are here/ this kind of leaving doesn’t teach you to build a home/ so write a love letter instead/ if the world is caving in around you, pull out a pen instead/ there was a time, a moment that you loved being alive/ and these moments can’t stop thinking of you


I am, I am, I am

Depression is breathing down my neck and after years of sprinting in the opposite direction, I forgot depression’s arms offer not only sorrow, but false comfort. I forgot a tiny part of me would want to relax into depression’s embrace.

I’m just so tired.

All I want is to stop, to rest. To wear sweatpants and curl up under the covers. Just until I’m no longer tired. Just for an hour or week or month.

But depression isn’t rest.

And it doesn’t allow me to get back up when I’ve had enough.

So I remind myself: I’d rather be tired than numb. I’d rather fall into bed at the end of a long day than live there. I’d rather have bloodshot eyes than eyes that have stopped seeing. I’d rather cry than not feel.

I remind myself: I am tired and I am alive.

I am alive.

I am

I am

I am.

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.”

― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

And When I Sleep

My days spill out in front of me

A torrent I can barely see, let alone catch

To-do lists scrawled in Pilot G-2 ink

Every item elbowing for space

My days are run-on sentences

My asthmatic lungs can barely read

I wish I had an inhaler for my brain

And punctuation for my life


There’s something beautiful

About a life that leaves you breathless

“Dear God,” she prayed, “let me be something every minute of every hour of my life….And when I sleep, let me dream all the time so that not one little piece of living is ever lost.” -Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn