classified as fragile and

they told us what we could do

you can bear children, cook meals, and iron our pant suits


we are grew up on lessons of

‘ladylike’ behavior

and to stay in group and never walk alone at night


we are backbone of the nations

not fragile

and have demanded equality since our great-grandmothers


progress is ironing your pant suits

substituting wonder woman for damsels

and never taking no for an answer


we have work to do still

we have to build a ‘we are the people’ environment

for the generations to come







nothing changes, except everything…

you never plan to live your life broken and torn, it just happens,

nothing changes except everything.

and, people are telling you’re not what they expected when they see you after ten years.

you wonder if you should take that offensively, but you just smile and brush it off.

the house you live in has new creaks in the wooden floors, and the windows don’t open as easily. the people around you are more prone to yell, because you’re older.

and, you’re yelling back.

fighting in the dining room; clenching your fists and counting the seconds, one, two, three…

your father, the one who took you for go-cart rides, and bought you a 100-pack of waffles for your birthday, is asking what you were thinking…

your mother, the one who took you to the library and let you have how-ever-many books you wanted, is shaking her head in disapproval.

you drift apart and there’s nothing to do about it, because you aren’t little anymore.  you feel a simple bond, and you try to reach out to save what you had…but it’s not the same.

so, you pack your things. you kiss their cheeks, and say you love them. because, you do, but something hasn’t been right with you for a while.

and, then you’re gone. eighteen years. that’s what they gave you, and you repay them with, goodbyes, frustrations, worries, and hurt.

you wipe the tears as the drip down your face. you let the emotion seep onto the concrete, and eventually it will evaporate into the stars.




someone give me life,

because lately I’m having a hard time staying awake

I laid in my bed–mid day–

and stared at my ceiling in silence

my sweatshirt doesn’t keep me warm anymore

I’m chilled to my core

there is a lump in my throat,

I tried to wash it away

but it’s latched on from my lack of tears

no one seems to understand it,

neither do I.

the basslines in my headphones,

resuscitate me long enough

to keep breathing.



no one cared then, & everyone cares now.

i told people. i told a lot of people.

and, they told me that this would pass.

that i was complaining.


i shut up.

i hid it in journals.

i became reclusive.

you never say anything anymore.

tell me what’s going on…


because, all i got was,

dramatic. you’re just trying to weird. that’s just you being shy.


now it’s too late, isn’t it?

you should’ve all listened.

i was struggling. i was hurting. i was confused.

no one cared then.

i don’t need your sympathy now.













Dear Someone XXXI

Dear Someone,


no one will be you again

after you die


no one has your life

and can see with your perspective


no one will be a better fit for your soul mate,

they’ll wonder where you are…


no one will have your kids,

they won’t have your creativity and bright eyes


no one has your smile

or your sassy, snarky attitude.


no one will be the writer you are,

you craft characters; breathed life into them


so, hold on

you are more than you feel you are













boy, we’re a mangled mess

we couldn’t love right even if we tried

you look worried for me

but I’m worried about you too

the silence is killing me


you said let’s talk soon

about what? our feelings?

when? when we’re dead?

we’ll dance in the fire, won’t we?

my heart is burning with longing


I can’t label what we are

friends, foes, or lovers

I want you to kiss me

and hold me tight

but I want you to leave my life as well


















Dear Boy.

Dear Someone–no wait–Dear Boy,

We bonded on the music. I showed you the Neighbourhood, Halsey, and The 1975 (you still listen to them on repeat, I know it…). Then the girls and guys who had dumped us. Then the want to flee our problems. Then…then…then…I was in love.

You said you needed me to stay alive. You said I needed you to stay alive.

But–as a friends. Nothing more.

Then you said you said I was beautiful. Then you said let’s run away together. Then you said let’s move in together. Then you said I can ‘manhandle’ you. Then…then…then…and before I knew it I had agreed to all of it, because I thought you needed me and I needed you.

You knew it. I was looking for someone to replace the love I had felt all last year, and he had moved on. You played it, said he was a douchebag and I was worth more. Worth you?

You fueled my hatred of him, and when I realized I didn’t hate him at all; that I wanted to be friends…you got mad at me. Why? Were you afraid of him? That he was better? Because he was.

He made me feel worth something, and when you tried…it made me feel more empty inside and that I needed you more. More…more…more…until you were my drug.

You told me I didn’t need the therapy. We could work it out together. You fed me that lie, and I wanted to believe it. I DO believe it.

Out of all the insults I could give you, I know the worst to you would be…you’re still just a boy. You say you’re better, but you’re just lying to yourself now. You say you love someone, but you don’t know what love is. You lie like a little kid who wants to avoid all the problems but get all the benefits.

And out of all your lies, I think I believe all of them still. If you showed up at my door, I’d run away with you. I have to shove my words back when I see you. I try not to look at you, because I know I’m vulnerable and you know how to hunt prey.

I hate you. I love you. I don’t need you. I need you. Isn’t it the same thing, anymore?



Dear Someone XIV

Dear Someone,

I sat in the empty truck-bed looking at the sky. Mid-air and the breeze makes my tears feel frigid on my cheeks.

You are too young. I tell myself. 16. You’re a cynic who thinks the world is terrible place and cried for too many people.

You are too young to know about broken hearts and numbing the pain of it.

You are too young to want to die. Yet–you think about killing yourself every day. (Don’t tell the therapist, she’ll send us away and then the rumor will start.)

You are too young to be hurt and feel sick to your stomach for no reason.

We are such a cracked youth. Some of us are still intact; the perfect, the blameless; they make sick with their judgmental stares. Some of us have not been so lucky; we are the abused, the used, the mental; we understand this world more than some adults.

So, I may be too young to feel this. But–I’d rather feel it then be oblivious.



Dear Someone IV

Dear Someone,

I want more than this. I want to feel less,  I wish I didn’t hurt so much.

The people like to whisper. I shoot them glares. They think I don’t know what they’ve said about me, but I have my spies.

I stopped going out, except when I have to. I avoid the people I used to know, because now they are in the past and when I think of the past I feel stabbed.

The future, I don’t think about that either. I don’t feel like I have one. The writer? God, she’s so angry, all her poetry and stories are full of pain. People like feel-good fiction, mine is now so truthful, I get uncomfortable. The traveler? She realized money is hard to come by. The independent woman? She seems shallow and frivolous. And the last plan? The woman who got married and had a family? She realizes no one can love her as she is.

Some time ago, someone told me ‘carpe diem,’ to live in the moment. I don’t think this is what he meant.

The scariest thing about being depressed…is that you can’t beat the hopelessness. You can talk to your friends, listen to music, color, or watch T.V. It succumbs the pain to a small throb, but every night it comes back. Sometimes, it doesn’t even help at all.

Just get over it. People have told me. If it was switch, I’d have turned it off a long time ago.

Why don’t people understand that?





Find Me.

For people who might want to find me in the future.

You can find me…

I’ll be in the coffee shops, sitting at the window seats. Cappuccino on my lips and a book in my hands.

In the antique shops. Looking for objects without a home, because everything deserves one.

In the streets, watching the sun rise and watching for new possibilities.

I’ll be on the road, a nomad of sorts. Visiting old friends who have children and are getting their degrees. Visiting all those places I’ve seen in the pictures.

I’ll be talking to children, and telling them fairytales. Showing them ways to see the magic in the every day, because someone has to.

I’ll have long hair with a strip of evergreen in it. My favorite t-shirts and jeans. Barefoot, and still dancing circles around you. A beat-up car, because I won’t be able to afford anything else.

The music will blare around me. All the songs I’ve accumulated over the years. All the folk, rap, electronic, alternative, pop, indie, and even country. Listen, and you’ll find me.

But maybe–you won’t go searching far. When you pass my name in the bookstore, maybe one day, and you’ll pick it up. I’ll be in every page with you and everyone else I ever knew. It will take you back to those good days, when we were still kids.