i didn’t go home again

drinking my third cup of coffee
at the coffeeshop off North Elm Street,
black with no room for cream,

and knowing i’ve spent too much
even as i prepare to buy another,
i begin to cry

because only empty corners and cobwebs,
silent shadows and dirty dishes
wait for me at my studio apartment

and i can’t stomach another evening
tracing the same spots on the ceiling
and stains on the floor

so i’ll stay another hour or two,
even though it’s already 9:30 at night,
and pretend to be the barista’s best friend


National Poetry Writing Month Day 24

Once again off prompt.

we can talk later, i don’t want to ruin your evening

i’ve started noticing 
my body can’t hold it all, 
it is crawling out of my skin 
every time i open my mouth,
all these hundreds of dead bugs 
and i need some relief 

because i feel this disconnect
i feel this sourness, an unforgiving citrus
on my lips, a burden in 
the palms of my hands

i am covering my body 
with sheets and towels, 
hiding from my intense dreams
and from you pushing away

its almost like we are moving,
realizing we are on the fast downhill
to destroying me 


NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo Day 20: Write a poem that “talks.” “Try to write a poem grounded in language as it is spoken”

Soooo, I wrote a poem made of lines from text message conversations.

when the whippoorwill sings and the full moon rises, i realize i have always known you

i lean against your legs,
while i watch the poem drafts
i’ve been scribbling all evening
dance in the yellow campfire flame
while i drink the instant coffee
we made on a camp stove
and flavored with leftover creamer cups
we found forgotten in the car from our last road trip
while i dig my toes into
the cool mud from yesterday’s thunderstorm
while wearing the too big jean jacket
you stole from your father
while the fish splash against the bank
looking for crickets and fireflies
while i wonder if i have known you before
because there is an echo of a memory here
of the two of us
in the soil of these woods,
intertwined in all these miles of roots
like a poem i forgot i wrote


National Poetry Writing Month Day 19



astraphobia

with the crash of lighting
and cacophonous call
my spirit roils inside me,
twisting and turning
as if burning, as if boiling
being roasted alive
like a lobster in a pot
at a seafood restaurant
claws scrambling against,
clumsily clambering against
clanging helplessly against
the metal walls that are surrounding them
just as i claw at my chest,
trying to rip away
the skin that holds me in,
the body that keeps me here
waiting to be lifted by a tornado
into the sky and then thrown
back to the earth,
a rag doll, limp and useless
and dead.


NaPoWriMo / GloPoWriMo Day 17: prompt was to write from a different perspective, but i went off prompt thanks to this storm. I appreciate it, Texas.

this studio apartment: an itemized list

a couch, grey, bought at Nebraska Furniture
my first major purchase on credit because
she had too many student loans
and the matching chair to its left,
pale fabric covered with dark words,
something i thought ugly
but she liked
across the room is a table,
a graduation present from my parents
that she picked out,
black of course even though i would’ve
preferred natural wood that i could paint,
with two pleather chairs destroyed by cat claws now
and on that table is the television
i had to call the cops to get from her along with
my depression medication that one day in January
and to the left of that is a bookshelf
looming over the room and filled with
pairs of earrings, a bowl of lemons, incense ash,
cards from friends, an old lamp, and photographs
in between books organized in a way
she never would’ve allowed
and there is a fridge off in a nook
covered with magnets, doodles, receipts, and
affirmations from the domestic violence
counseling sessions i attend every thursday
the kitchen cabinets are around the corner
crowded with just two plates, two skillets, two pots,
and the ten different coffee mugs that i bought
at goodwill after she gave away mine
because she thought i shouldn’t be allowed have them anymore,
there’s a basket hanging above the built in cutting board on the counter,
filled with semi-fresh fruit that keeps rotting, and
i keep throwing out and rebuying
cause my stomach is too scared to eat
without all three locks being set
so that she does not come in
unexpectedly


NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo Day 16: “I challenge you to write a poem that uses the form of a list to defamiliarize the mundane. “

To My Bean Burrito From Taco Bell

i have been waiting for you
beneath the arching branches
of the trees that frame the parking lot, 
i know you are there inside,
just beyond the glass,
nestled in warmth, waiting.
can you hear me out here
in the dark, under the street lights,
writing to you, speaking to you
from the coffee stained front seat of my car?
i ask for them for you every night,
i beg for them to let me in,
let me see you, caress you 
i ask for their permission
to get to know you, yet 
when they finally free you,
i can never find the words,
so won’t you take the ones here
as penance for the nights
i couldn’t speak, the nights
i went home and cooked,
the nights i forgot about you
because these words here
are the only ones i have except
“may i have a bean burrito?”


National Poetry Writing Month Day 15: try to create a sort of specific voice or character that can act as the “speaker” of your poem, and that could be acted by someone reciting the poem.

(This is try 2 for today, so it’s a kind of bonus poem!)

the mortality of memory

i keep rewatching the video i took of the waves
meeting the beach in southern california
on the trip to my grandfather’s funeral 
because i can’t remember the sound of 
his voice or the waves hitting the sand the day


i keep wondering if the waves knew i was there,
if they were coming up to my toes to reclaim
the tracks of salt water running down my cheeks
or if they simply move through life without notice,
consuming any and every thing they come across, 
each pebble, seashell, and body 


i keep wanting to return to that beach,
kneel in the sand before the waves, 
and ask them if they remember who i am
if they don’t, i’ll let them wash over me, 
claim me, take me down to the depths
where nothing lives except darkness 
because i’m beginning to think no one, 
not even the ocean,
will ever remember 
this name, this body, or this soul 


NaPoWriMo Day 14: Went off prompt today

my body is growing

leaves and vines are spilling
from every one of my pores, tearing
apart my skin, ripping
my flesh in pieces, splattering
the walls with blood and bits
of who i used to be

i try to touch the greenery,
growing my limbs, my stomach, my face
but my hands are shaking too much,
and they are dissappearing under
the thousands of stalks and stems,
and i can no longer find
the curves of my hips or dry elbows
and my collarbones and ankles are gone,
replaced with tendrils of ivy;
i don’t think i’m a person any more


National Poetry Writing Month Day 13: Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem about something mysterious and spooky!