Mythological Places.

born in the wrong time period

i think that if i were a nymph,

i would reside in a forest.

it would have to be a very lush forest filled with every flower imaginable,


ivy winding around trees,

little cottages and streams.

there would be very pleasant sounds,

like water rushing over stones,

the crickets at night,

the crackling of a small fire,

the wind making the leaves on the trees rustle.

there would be deer,


birds in a vast array of colors,




i would like to share my blackberries

and plums with the deer

and my hands

and mouth would be stained purple.

it would always be warm outside.

sometimes the earth would be moist from the rain,

but i could always find a dry place to sleep.

there would be enormous mushrooms,

red with white spots,

that would act as a canopy for me to sleep underneath.

the nymphs would wear flowers in their hair always

and bathe in the river.

they would be beautiful,

but frightening,

as though they might bite you.


13 Reasons Why.

And today I’m sharing Hannah Baker’s poem:

today i am wearing lacy black underwear

for the sole purpose of knowing i am wearing them.

and underneath that?

i am absolutely naked.

and i’ve got skin. miles and miles of skin;

i’ve got skin to cover all my thoughts

like saran wrap that you can see through

to what leftovers are inside from the night before.

and despite what you might think, my skin is not rough; nor is it bullet proof.

my skin is soft, and smooth, and easily scarred.

but that doesn’t matter, right?

you don’t care about how soft my skin is.

you just want to hear about what my fingers do in the dark.

but what if all they do is crack open windows?

so i can see lightening through the clouds.

what if all they crave is a jungle gym to climb for a taste of fresher air?

what if all they reach for is a notebook or a hand to hold?

but that’s not the story you want.

you are licking your lips and baring your teeth.

just once i would like to be the direction someone else is going.

i don’t need to be the water in the well.

i don’t need to be the well.

but i’d like to not be the ground anymore.

i’d like to not be the thing people dig their hands in anymore.

some girls know all the lyrics to each other’s songs.

they find harmonies in their laughter.

their linked elbows echo in tune.

what if I can’t hum on key?

what if my melodies are the ones nobody hears?

some people can recognize a tree,

a front yard, and know they’ve made it home.

how many circles can i walk in before i give up looking?

how long before i’m lost for good.

it must be possible to swim in the ocean of the one you love without drowning.

it must be possible to swim without becoming water yourself.

But i keep swallowing what i thought was air.

i keep finding stones tied to my feet.

My Real Life: Part One

It has occurred to me how relevant the phrase “write what you know” is to me. It is not so much writing about direct experiences, but writing about the things that have meaning to me, what stirs me and what has been on my mind lately. It wasn’t until I allowed myself to be vulnerable and open that writing has given me such satisfaction. I no longer feel removed from what I write, but as though it is something that is close to me, amplifying my spirit. It feels like a window into a heart that I won’t let most people touch.