⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poems contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm⚠️

~ The fireflies live on through my poetry, wings curled around strands of dialogue in quotation. "Watch how they dart about the pines in...

~ Without the navigation of a bookmark a dog eared corner or a memory of where I left off, I turn to the correct page on the first try--...

~ The other day, I unblocked you from Instagram. Not because I miss you. Not because I am inviting you back into my life after a year and...

~ I pin the anemic bodies of poems to the bed of palm like they are cadavers waiting to be d i s s e c t e d. This is the only...

~ When I say I wish I was beautiful, I mean I wish I could sculpt myself into the same loveliness borne in the eyes of Marble Goddesses....

~ The weight of Mount Olympus lies sepulchred on the bridge of my nose. This is where the goddesses live. They tell me I am beautiful. I...

~ Drink away the merciless cruelties of your reality. Happy shots all around (for a remarkably sad girl). “But you can’t kill your...

~ ⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm and suicide ⚠ ~ The envelope (delivered just this...

~ VI. I, Ophelia {The Drowning} It was her-- Flower Child. Weeping woman. Crazed Ophelia-- who taught me that the drowning is in the...

~ V. Ethereal Maybe being drunk is the closest I will ever get to zero gravity-- to walking on the moon. My fingers curled around the...

~ When I am sad, I find myself desperately sifting through the words of Sylvia Plath. And I guess it’s really quite funny (in an awful...

~ Her desire was painted green. The same colour of her pills and the gemstone she was named after, his eyes or the light at the end of...

~ The night breathes down the back of my neck in tendrils of air that smell of Mexican cigars and something like copper (something like...

~ Once upon a time, I would have called myself a storyteller. But today, I no longer convene–at least, not on a relatively frequent...

~ IV. Crimson It's not about the way it hurts-- it's about the way I bleed, the way my skin splits and geysers. A deluge of red leaches...

~ III. Annabel Lee At thirteen years old, I learn that not all mermaids are like Ariel-- some mermaids are called sirens, femme fatales...

~ II. Mysophobia Sure, now, when I look to the right of my bedroom door, I see the light-switch for what it is-- a light-switch,...

~ Please keep in mind that any similarities to Oscar Wilde’s own writing in The Picture of Dorian Gray present within this piece are...

~ I. The Fireflies There was once a time when the fireflies had made a home out of me. One evening, long after the sun had surrendered...