come back.

i cried on your shoulder during pretty woman.

you cried on my shoulder on the sand.

we suntanned and dreamed of the future.

we read books and listened to music.

we danced and stargazed.

we had deep conversations on late night gas station trips.


i should’ve listened to you.

i was selfish. please come back.




i stopped.

i stopped finding

soft, meaningful poetry

in your footsteps

and the cracked driveways


i stopped looking

for you

in crowded rooms

and my coffee’s reflection


i stopped asking my friends

if they were happy

they wear dark circles for makeup

and coffee stained t-shirts


i stopped living when i was sixteen

i’m looking for reason

no one can tell me where it is

or if it even exists







aren’t they funny?

they think they know

our hearts more than we do

i told you crying

and you just said

not to pay them mind

they like the drama


they don’t know us at all

we fight more than talk

we struggle more than live

how you think i’m crazy; too sassy

how i think you’re too level-headed

you’re more of a brother,

you give advice (and i roll my eyes)


but, we have things in common

sarcastic humor, good television shows

folk music, loving animals and kids

i encourage your dreams

not what everyone wants you to be

you encourage me to be myself

not who everyone wants me to be


so, i shut them out

they can say what they want

we’re friends

we’re family

you’re right,

they don’t know anything

about us

and that’s alright
















about me.

dear someone,

i got rid of my about page, so i thought i might as well.

(how to even start…?)

i love winona ryder, she is everything i want to be. (plus, i want to date christian slater (from heathers) good lord, the leather trench coat and gold hoop were attractive.)

i’m kind of a poet, kind of not. i used to write better, now i use it as a source of comfort, and my words paint a myriad of pain. i don’t think self-hate and trauma is poetry.

i love studying the human mind, but i hate psychologists (how ironic…)

i have friends, but for the most part my best friend is myself. i keep my thoughts to myself. i talk to myself.

i hide under blankets of self depreciatory humor and anxiety.

boys are overrated. not that i dislike them, but i don’t enjoy them either.

girls are dramatic. i’m not into gossip and shopping.

i prefer coffee friends. the ones you call at three a.m., talk about the world with, who you can tell all your thoughts to, because they understand. (granted, i only have three of these.)

only seventeen, and i hate life. no, correction, i don’t know how to love life anymore. i feel like the main character in, this is side of paradise by f. scott fitzgerald. tired of human tendencies to sin and then to hide under layers of frivolous spending and partying. aren’t we all a victim of that, though?

speaking of books, i love them. i read mostly classics. they seem to have more depth. new books don’t have the same haunting effect on my soul (excluding a few…) i also enjoy reading history textbooks, biographies, and philosophies.

i believe knowledge is one of the most vital part of becoming the best person you can be. i strive to always learn and be open-minded.










A message to bloggers:

Do you know you’re special?

Do you know I admire the words you write?

I think of you as my friends.

We are the next generation. I think that’s hope in itself, because each of you are wise beyond your years and understand things better than many adults I know.

I cry with you when you’re struggling. I smile when you post lovely, happy stories.

I’ve been enlightened by many of you. Inspired more times than I can count.

You understand mental illness, pain, death, humor, happiness, or how sometimes I have the hardest time trying to figure out what color the sky is.

I never thought a couple people over the internet would be my friends, but you are and I wouldn’t have it any other way.





for them.

for her:

sometimes I look back

on Taylor Swift songs in the car,

and daydreams of Prince Charming

I set those memories a blaze

I couldn’t even look at the photos,

so, I had someone else burn them



for him:

I tried to forget the man I grew to love,

that I left our friendship in pieces

I boxed up the letter, the earrings,

and in the process

I tried to box you up

threw you in the darkest part of memory closet


and now,

you’re both back

you love me still

I don’t deserve your friendships

I feel guilty how I tried to make you burn

it haunts me in my worst nightmares.