I Rose with Her Breath

I rested, my body dangling

Entangled in chains.

Twisted I swayed

As stormy nights shook the walls

Rocking the world

From side to side.

Empty of even

the smallest remembrance, I was

Unused. Rarely worn, dust collected

In the roses engraved,

Spiraling up

And around my body.

Returned to the earth

Was she, and since,

No purpose have I.

I rose and fell with her every breath

And felt the pulse of her heart

Quicken and soften.

With her I rested

Between her full,

Pale breasts. Closer

Than any


Could reach.

Her creamy skin

Was richer

Than the froth

Of milk,

So fresh

It was still warm.

She spoke with a faint lilt

From round ruby lips,

And smiled from eyes

That glistened

A dark,

Midnight blue.

Robust as the scent of the earth

was the Spanish lavender

That seemed as if to come from her

And float in the air around her.

An indescribable smell,

Too dark and thick to call sweet.

On bright

Summer days,

Light gleamed off of my soft gold

Until came the frost

And I grew cold, prickling

Her skin.

There I stayed,

‘Til I no longer rose

or fell

With her breath

And warmth escaped her


Her pearly white

Skin turned gray.

I was stripped from her

Never to be worn

By as gentle and fair a woman


Never to hear

Her voice

As thick and smooth as honey

Or to feel the song of her heart


Never to dance and sway

As she moved with the

Effortless grace

Of a summer wind

Or rest in her warmth



“Question.” he said as he walked into the kitchen and placed his book on the counter beside me.

“Answer, hopefully.” I smiled and turned away from my laptop screen. My brother leaned against the counter.

“What color am I?”

“What?” I laughed.

“You said you associate some people with colors and weird stuff like that. So, what am I?”

“An idiot.”

I only made one New Year’s resolution – to do anything and everything that makes me happy, to pursue all things beautiful relentlessly, and to never stop learning and growing. (Okay, so maybe that’s three…)

Happy 2017! I hope this new year brings into your life whatever has been missing.

I love you all!


Strangers’ Faces

There’s something beautiful about living in a growing city. The mystery that it is to walk alongside strangers, passing them as you continue on your way – becoming a part of their life for a brief moment. Strangers to you, yet the loved ones of others. Strangers, each with their own story; a story that wishes to be shared with the world. Strangers, each with unique and complicated lives – beautiful lives – that you get to be a part of if even just for a passing second. There is something beautiful about all of these people, these breathing souls that we have labeled as strangers.

Lost a Friend


I lost a good friend of mine. I met her at a summer camp almost five years ago now. She’s been gone for months. She seems to have just disappeared. I haven’t heard from her or seen her, and for all I know, she could be gone for good. 

I will never forget her, though. I will never forget the small sobbing girl I found after stumbling out of my bunk late one night, and how she later became one of my closest and dearest friends.

She was curled in the corner of the bathroom. Her hands were pressed up against her dripping face and her knees were tucked close to her chest. Stepping into the bathroom, I closed the door behind me. I sat down beside her on the floor without a word. She peeked her hands away from her eyes for only a minute to look at me and then wrapped her arms around my neck. Her hot, damp face was pressed up against mine, her small was body shaking. She clung tightly to me, and I could feel her shudder with every breath she took. I smoothed her hair down and rubbed her back and waited for her sobs to lessen. Both clad in our pajamas and sitting huddled together on the cold floor of the bathroom, we fell asleep. 

I wish I was able to say something incredibly inspiring. Something..anything.

So many people feel lost and terrified. I wish there was something I could say to make them feel better. I wish words could convey a smile. I wish I was better able to convey my love for people through writing, but I feel as though my intentions get buried beneath my stiff sentences. I wish you could feel the love I have for you when you read this. I wish you knew that I am always cheering you on and I am proud of the person you are.


The little time I have to spend writing is eaten up by everyday stress. Every time I sit down to write I get stuck. I haven’t written anything in months.

I am staring at a bright screen and running my mind in circles, asking myself what I could possibly contribute that hasn’t already been said. Do I even have anything to say worth reading?

It’s two o’clock in the afternoon,  and I am sitting on my bed procrastinating. I know that no matter how hard I work, I won’t be able to finish all  of my homework as well as I’d like to in the little time that I have. So instead, I am sitting on my bed and staring at my laptop screen, racking my brain for any sort of idea.

Nothing so far.


Things I Loved as a Child

Water dripping from a gutter; puddles in the street; window panes; squeaky old wheels; the ocean; sleeping bags; cold wind that chapped my face; the stillness of museums when they first open in the mornings; apples; thick books; globes; the color of the sky after rain; the flickering glow of candles; embroidery hoops; Nancy Drew books; dusty chalkboards; the beam of light through a window; places that echo; wooden crates; tree stumps; fish tanks; bookshelves; ribbons; the Lawrence Welk show; the quilt my Oma made me; and my Opa’s soft voice when he used to read to me.

The Most Beautiful Words I’ve Ever Heard

B (If I Should Have a Daughter)  by Sarah Kay 


Instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.” Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint the solar system on the back of her hands so that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.”

She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried.

And “Baby,” I’ll tell her “don’t keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, you’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him.”

But I know that she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boats nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it.

I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind. Because that’s how my mom taught me. That there’ll be days like this, “There’ll be days like this my momma said” when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you wanna save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.

You will put the “wind” in winsome, lose some, you will put the “star” in starting over and over, and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.

And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting I am pretty damn naive but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.

“Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.”

Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining.

Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing and when they finally hand you heartbreak, slip hatred and war under your doorstep and hand you hand-outs on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.



I sat with my bare legs over the edge, my ankles submerged in the water. The dock swayed with the soft waves that rippled from the boats far out on the lake. The old boards creaked with every rock of the waves. I let the wind pull at my hair as my thoughts trailed, my eyes staring blankly into the distance. I could hear her soft breathing behind me, rising and falling. I let out a sigh. The sun had slid down behind the tops of the trees, only a curved orange glow peeking above the edges. The warm glow melted through parts of the sky, turning the once pale blue into inky patches of pink and gray.

“Do you ever feel like dying?”  she asked. There was something off in her voice. Her tone was cold. I turned to look down at her face as she laid on the dock. Her hazel hair was swept off to the side, her dark green eyes stared up at me. She was waiting for me to react.

I looked back out over the water. It was mellowing, the waves turning into small ridges and disappearing before they neared the shore.

She poked my side with her small finger.  “Answer me.”

“When I was seven I had scarlet fever. Then I felt like dying.”  She smirked. She enjoyed it when I tried to avoid her questions. She sat up and joined my gaze on the water.

“If I was to do it” she started, “I would jump.”

“I would sit on the ledge of a beautiful bridge overlooking a river. It would be early morning,”  she paused.  Her voice was soft, as if she was telling a fairy tail. “I’d watch as the sun would spill over the horizon.  Then, I’d push off the ledge,” her hands gestured like she was about to push off the dock and her lips parted in a smile. “The skirt of my dress would ripple and pull in the wind as I plummeted, exposing my legs.  Then I would hit the water and my body would slowly sink. The fabric of my skirt would be the last to follow me to the depths, billowing and floating above as I dipped further away from the surface.”

Her words fell out of her mouth without any effort, like she had thought about this for a long time – like a story she had told over and over again.

Her voice fell silent. I could feel her eyes searching my face, waiting for me to respond.

“It would be romantic.”  She sighed.



The room was bare of all personal effects.  It was dark and empty, all but some boxes packed in the corner, and a girl.  She kneeled on the dusty floor by the boxes.  She ran her hands over them – Samantha’s old things – all packaged and tucked away.  She opened the first box and rummaged through the stacks and stacks of notes, scribbles of ideas.  A smaller rectangular box sat at the bottom.  She pulled it out and opened it.  The top came off and pens spilled out onto the floor.  Her favorite pens, some barely ever touched, because every time she had a new idea, she got a new pen.  Looking back in the box she noticed a piece of paper had slipped between the folds of the cardboard.  She pulled it out. The paper was old and wrinkled, the words faded and hardly legible.  She read what she could make out.

before I die

I want to watch the sunset from Santorini, Greece,

swim in Devil’s Pool in Africa,

go Hiking in Iceland,

backpack through Europe,

see the Aurora Borealis with my own eyes,

spend a night under the stars, 

go lavender picking, 

write a book,

go to Africa, 

dance in the rain – because that sounds cool,

go to Finland, 

let go of a floating lantern in Thailand,

see a broadway musical,

ride a gondola in Venice,

make a call from a London phone booth,

drink coffee in a Parisian cafe,

visit Stonehenge, 

throw a coin in the Trevi Fountain in Italy,

finish reading a book in one sitting,

see the Fairy Pools in Scotland,

walk behind a waterfall,

soak in hot springs in Iceland,

and bike through the city streets of Amsterdam



“It is easier to hold onto pain than to joy.  Our pain marks us, leaving behind a trail of sorrows.  Joy disappears under the grief, masked by a thick curtain of despair.  Even the beautiful memories are tinted with melancholy.  A distress fills our hearts as we long for those memories past, questioning if such a feeling with ever be relived.  

But of no fear, for time is near, that all will be forgotten.”

~ an excerpt from Gone to Paris


I Did Not

There was no light in the church.  The sun had set and the lights had been turned off, leaving an eery look.  Slowly, the congregation lit up, candle by candle, until the whole crowd of people were glowing.  The flickering light cast shadows on the walls and the faces of strangers.

Packed shoulder to shoulder they stood, clad in black, surrounding a thick dark box.  My friend stood by its side, clinging to it, her knuckles white.  Her mom stood behind her, one hand on her back and the other beside her hand on the box.  I stood beside them quietly, looking around at the people I hardly recognized  Strangers – they were strangers to me.

I peered up at Mrs. Deirdre again, her hand still on her daughter’s back.  A tear trickled down her cheek and over the corner of her lip, shining in the glow of the candles.

I looked at my dad standing behind me, his face hard yet sad.  My mom cried as well.  I glanced at the face of a stranger to my left, a tear also on his cheek.  There wasn’t one on mine.

I looked at the long box again quizzically.  It wasn’t there the last service on Sunday. Where did it come from?  I leaned in closer but I couldn’t look inside, the top of my head barely clearing the edge.  My brother stood in front of me and stared down at the box.  He also cried.  I did not.

Evening Thoughts

I hated writing growing up as a student with such a strong passion.  I had never been more frustrated than I was in writing class and yet I had such a deep love for it.  Now I sit on my bed in my pajamas and wonder what writing even means to me.  I barely actually ever publish a post, even though I have stacks of notebooks filled with material.  I don’t even know why I really have this blog.


Sister’s Presence

She stroked the baby’s head.

With her tiny fingers, she played with his even tinier ones.

She leaned down into his wooden cradle, her hair just meeting the mattress as

She lightly kissed his forehead.


Straightening back up, she smiled and

Pulled the blanket back over his small body.

She stood there watching his sweet face as

She stroked the baby’s head.


As if he knew of his sister’s presence,

His little sparkling blue eyes opened and looked back at her.

He grasped his tiny hands at the air and

With her tiny fingers, she played with his even tinier ones.


Grabbing tight to her fingers he thrust them into his mouth.

Her smile grew even larger.

Reaching her nose to his round belly

She leaned down into his wooden cradle, her hair just meeting the mattress.


He stretched and giggled as she tickled his tummy.

He wriggled about and grabbed at the air till he found something to pull at:

Her hair.  She laughed and for one last time,

She lightly kissed his forehead.




The fragility of a life returned to sleep.

An angel whispers in your ear.

Time to leave behind the people you can’t keep.

The fragility of a life returned to sleep.

A guarded peaceful sleep, so deep.

“Come with me” the angel says “do not fear”.

The fragility of a life returned to sleep.

A gift of rest and eternal peace.