Opt Outside

I’ve always found the outdoors to be a spiritual experience, to be “my church” so to speak. If God is chillin’, I figure he’s closer in the open air than I’ve ever felt to him in a building, crowded with people. Experiencing a beautiful place, giving thanks for it, recognizing the air in my lungs and how good my body feels – this is its own kind of worship and I turn to it frequently. This is a rabbit hole (and a poem I’ve been working on for a very long time) I’ll save for now – but regardless, I’m big on being outside. Enjoy the snippet below!


Is it any wonder that Mother held me,
tucked me into her wilds
petal soft against my cheek?
“It’s okay to be free, child.”
Chase the wind in your hair,
catch the sun on your skin,
and dig for the ache in your bones.

Is it any wonder that Mother held me,
when Father told me no?

On Moving 5 times in 5 years

I wrote the piece below days before I relocated to Seattle. It was my fifth move in just about as many years. Some of my moves have been willing, and some have not. Regardless, I’ve weirdly fallen for that breathless feeling of the unknown. It’s cleansing to start over, reinvent yourself, be better than before.

The first was June. 
Hot. Bare thighs squelching against old leather. 
I cried when I picked up the U-Haul. 
Rushed in the house, I learned what it was to hate someone. 
I drove away smiling. 

The second was May. 
Mild. Early summer gloom held the morning.
Some friends people only love you
when your misery matches their own. 
I refused to be a shell forever. 

The third was November. 
Windy. Leaves painted the driveway in crimson. 
A man asked me – 
“None of this means anything without you.”
I went because I love him. 

The fourth was January. 
Cold. The trees as bleak as we felt. 
We went for me, but we went together. 
300 days of sunshine. 
I learned that home is a heartbeat. 

The fifth was September. 
Snow. Even the weather frowned on us. 
It’s practically a habit but I only want to do it with you. 
They say it’s dark here, depression assured. 
I’m going to disagree. 

Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.

You once told me in a dark parking lot at 3 a.m.
“She won.”
As if the love I had to give was a competition.
I still sat in your car while you asked me to be your friend.
I don’t know when I got out,
and I don’t know when I took your words
lit them on fire
and let them burn me from the inside out.
Until what was left were the ashes of a girl,
who turned rage to water,
ran her fingers through the clay of her broken soul

and became her own fucking god.

An Appropriate Beginning

Sell Out

I’ve been staring at blank pages for years.
I only fill them with corporate bullshit now.
Haikus were lost to some muted email thread,
finance claimed Metaphors,
and Rhyming starved in an untitled file on my desktop.
There are no Sonnets in my program charters
just pieces of my soul lost to the flourish of angry ‘t’ crossings in blue ink.
How much did they pay you to sell out? A lot.

Not enough.