Resistant Chill

Stinking summer breeze,

Leave this realm!
I cannot abide by the casual slaughter
of friendly nasal cavities
and cozy blankets.

The fortitude of winter
is never enough.
Burning through the
blue glaze of peace
shouting at us all to
sprout anew, live again as if
light actually exists.

Damn heartthrob in the sky
pulsating your matriarchal heat
across all landscapes
allowing your sister
to watch us while you
stun the rest into painful,
aching life.

Leave us be, to our cold reverie.
Drift to a collection of sentient stardust
more deserving your heat.

Sweet, lost mother,
your unconditional presence
your unblinking gaze of a love so pure
our eyes sour
from looking for too long.

Etched into my shoulders
are your fingerprints.
Connecting them resembles
the families of faraway stars
who laugh at your cause
who tear up
knowing your mission is never done.

Soul of summer
breaking apart the destitute ice
trailing from wrist to chest–


The red resin of existence
will be free to roam within me.

I owe you that much.


Okay I have 6 minutes to write a poem

I’ve been drinking

and truth be told I’m not entirely done.


your distance makes me feel warmer 

as if the way you reciprocate

every other moon

brings more brightness

to the skies claimed 

under your name.

The way you bury yourself

rather than leave me to appreciate

the nuance of air

renders all wandersome thoughts

shovels, built into my wrists

the pulse of me

calling to your subsurface 



that I might again

say, “hello,

how is your morning 

and, beyond carving

lapis out of clouds,

how might I better

the stride of your soaring?”

The Sky, Rewritten

Crossing your chest is
the cloud’s instant message.

An emblem of ember’s bane,
serrated–face to nape.




it travels


your arms are unfolded parchment
and the sky
is writing its memoirs.

down your stomach…

if only the winds could sail you
toward dry land,  inkless

You are grounded,

the story of you, Earthen.

tame the blaze
or you will be
but a cloud, grounded.

The wings you lack

lie within

your fist.

become bird,
become sea,
a latent hydration
ember, remedied.





No matter the miles,

the thunder that sounds–

No matter what tomb

the womb enshrouds,

take hold of the lightning

your sky sends aground,

and shed from your flesh






(Old poem I didn’t publish when it was originally written. Slight edits, but nothing too crazy. Okay, that was once true. Now there have been significant edits. Anyway. Apologies if the quality is sub par in comparison to my more recent endeavors <3) 


(Art comes from

Ponder Lust

Warped warmth and worry

tucked away discretely

like a Saturday nap.


Hello, and

have you had your daily brain drought?

I simply wondered



The apple in your eye

fell from the same galaxy

as the moon between my teeth.

I’m calling to your laugh lines

from a mixed up part of my

seventh–“seventh”– song.

You can hear clearly

the part where I falter

the part where my breath remembers

every droplet lost

from the last lash

your final glance

refreshed my sky with.


If that weren’t enough

to fertilize

the blatantly dry

grasslands of your

cloth           draft,


then know

seriously, know


I’ve always wanted stormy seams.

The Dusk, “Bought”.

If one could ever begin to twist

like the branches of trees we all derive from

there would be no lack of certainty

in the whims of our sunlight-driven whispers.


Tell me,

when last did you seek warmth without knowing

there is cold to be given in return?

How long will you stand still, shouting

that the evening has left you unturned?


No, the dirt that is shoveled leaves

answers in its wake.

You can add mulch,


broken conversation.

It matters not to your blue spruce.

The only matters a pine needle considers

are those just as pointy as

a minute itself.


Picture a frame

made entirely of dusk.

Your face

realizes its own potential

just as the sun

fades beyond

that which we all have decided

is “bought”.