Tori bought me crayons

pieces of an egg puzzle
I couldn’t quite solve.

“…writes about religion
that really makes you think.”

her father seems like one
I’d share coffee with, raw.

I remember the day,
squeezing my temples,
learning Judy Garland’s icicle truths.

I grabbed a pen,
always reminding myself
not to sign as the remembered Marianne.

Wishing I could glide
across weathered Teflon
and bypass trees, wrists wrapped tight.

Oh, to stand on some aged beach
with a nude Adrien Brody.

*What you see are designs for double wall tumblers, made possible by hours of Tori Amos in the early morning. Both are for sale on my Etsy shop, Let’s Coast

Dead-ended Noodling (and other adventures)

chagrin in my cheeks,
skin scraped and wet
with a trace of deceit
washed off your hands.

seemed nice enough,
with these stories
of how you’d never,
in a decade’s song,
slam the xylophone
when it’s freshwater’s
clarity that reminds us
that no one is to play.

but that gaping mouth,
and lips that shimmer
on a teflon pan in age
lies open to my appeal.

Just one hotel room.

binocular streetlights
watch after you
with ultraviolet rays
I’ve denied while my skin
shimmers and peels
onto the concrete, moreover
so yellowed like the crescents
that fall from aching fingers.

what happens at the curbside stays.

Making Sense

cloudiness begs sight
to seek olfactory prime
when light strikes daily

I invite you all to read my recent article featured in Thought CatalogNot only does it touch on past relationships, but it also offers a glimpse into the themes discussed in my project in progress. Again, I want to thank all who offered to be beta readers for your time and feedback provided. You have been more than helpful!


dusty poppies murmuring
an apology to someone
I’ve yet to meet.

two by two
they rest
on a cracked, worn windowsill.

I count the ridges
across my nails
and feel a fighting blemish.

you proceed to argue
with fleeing clownfish,
felt in the sky.

I tug you back
as you lick a petal
expecting clumsy dreams.

The Smooth, the Rough, and the Playfully Sweet

the sweet I long for
that won’t rot my teeth
and the rush of water
that keeps me awake.

immunity to frypan sidewalks,
the gift I know all too well
that I’ll never unwrap,
even if I kneel to pray.

fruits are like boys
if you ask a good friend
about why her palms
press hard on her face.

she’ll tell you about color,
crispness and pride,
stems that eventually curve to the left
and the taste of knowing, he’s changed.

you’ll argue and laugh
because this one’s different,
based on the fact that he’s unpeeled
though truly, all you’ve seen is a sitting flame, contained.

Seventh Grade, Yet to Dance

I smirk.
He yells.
She asks, “Got a problem?”

I swipe my hand across chipped paint.
Knowing I’ll brush over indentations
left behind by acrylic hangnails.

At the ankle, there’s a scar.
The time I danced in the house down the street
that clearly creaked sheepishly unclean.

Couples were laughing a sidewalk away.
My Punnett squares X’d and O’d without thought
while I giggled, forecasting mismatched features of babies undetermined.

In the same shirt as the cheerleading captain.
The one who rose from a shaky table
to tell me I tried too hard, too sad, too bad my parents weren’t respectable doctors.

Feeling the dew hit the roof of my mouth.
The stem of a dandelion split in two
like boys and girls around me, mockery’s smudged blueprint.