When I was a child I would often lie and say that my favorite flower was a Bird of Paradise. A cute faux pas. “What a peculiar choice!” strangers cry, half interested in my quaint belie of the kinds of petals that give me pause. I promise no ill-content was the cause, and it’s true those striking plants caught my eye. Why would I lie about something so small? The gall to boast some kind of perspective. In truth, I had no perspective at all. I didn’t even have an objective bu

This paper is almost smooth. Almost, because it is juxtaposed between the etching of my fingerprints and nothing. Each ridge of that unique pattern catches the inconsistencies of whatever paper manufacturer crafted this notebook. Don’t get me wrong–it’s a good notebook. Each page is infused with dozens of wildflower seeds, so when these thoughts are ready to be buried they can bloom into milkweed or lupines or goldfields. That is to say, if I ever have the heart to bury the

On an urban hike I happened by these cottages with sunlight and fae catched! With bricks laden with vines but roof’s unthatch’d, and bushes and brambles in between trees. To be outside when everyone is in, hiding from some meandering raindrops. As someone else’s gravel cracks and pops, my boots become a storm-harbinger’s din. For a brief moment those houses were mine, and my thoughts were asphalt under moss-- my body the uneven sidewalk tossed asunder from the blackened roots

I think I am tired of being raped. It’s the legacy of the blackbird’s crow, in the back room where pornography’s taped- succulent gifts of suffering endow. So, the blackbird sings in the dead of night and I am meant to fear the midnight hour? While the stenographer records in light, the hollow screams of a de-petalled flower. Why must my rage only be justified once i’m scarred by the actions of the vile? When my throat’s been torn and bled and dried, perhaps I’ll vomit rubies

I’ve tried so hard to make my soul perfect by denying myself the right to feel. Pain, as it is, has its own appeal. I’ll admit I’m fond...

There is something so attractive about living in a place so unreachable. Earth that dessicates without knowing drought Can still somehow...

This post explores the concepts of gender, mass media, and reality through the works of William Shakespeare and Jean Baudrillard. This is an excerpt of a larger paper that explores these concepts. This won the Outstanding Student Award in Literature and Rhetoric at Chapman University.

I gently decompose in a green grove, shedding my tired flesh until fresh moss and ichor coagulate to emboss forgotten meadows that...

I Magician The pyro tyrannical magician II High Priestess ignites her illusory partition that veils the dreaming and the waking realm....

Before the fool set out on her journey, she asked her mother why she was forced into existence. “We are the center of all the roads,” her mother replied, “For a wanderers’ outlook is never certain. We are the paths laid before them, destined to be tread on." The fool listened to her mother as she stood at the crossroads of life and death, and of love and loss. There were centuries behind her and there were eons ahead. The road stretched in opposing directions: North, South,

I hate that you matter so much to me when I am just a piece of falling ice. Individuality can’t suffice If my cracked design leaves me so...

Perhaps my best course of action is to write a sonnet. A quaint metaphor for this is ineffable rage- my spineless core craves structure,...

I am poetically prosaic. Truthfully, I relish in the mundane- unabashedly neo archaic. My ancestrally xenogeneic splicing of evolution to...

I remember passing you on the street. As we walked in different directions I felt all of your childhood's infections. Scarlet fissures on...