Set in Bedstone

Spending money I don’t have

on drinks I’ve already owned

paperless diamonds

etched in pillow stone.





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.