Anxiety

Before you leap into me,
let me share 
my internal stillness crushed 
under an exoskeleton, 
soft underbelly no longer
exposed to predators, 
hidden from even myself.

Home is...

stolen kisses on the subway platform,

the way you lean in to steal them back. 

trust in my navigation skills, which

includes concentric conversational circles,

until we eventually reach our destination. 

a pile of peace offerings in the morning; 

the word goodbye is quickly becoming 

my least favorite sound amongst the

cacophony of life, so here’s a banana. 

“I’m pithed” and “I don’t believe it” and 

sharing what lies behind the curtain, I

don’t think I’ve ever listened so intently 

to stories about spiders, bats, and eggs. 

setting expectations for when we will

both meet back on shore, rest, before

beginning our improvised adventures. 

“turn around,” firm requests of how I 

should melt into your arms, knowing this. 

... is where my heart is.

Naked

you gift them poems, 

in return receive silence ~

it cuts to the bone.

Normal is Overrated

when normal is as narrow

as a tightrope, we’re taught 

to fear the whispers of 

breezes, the presence of 

the earth, the feeling of 

fresh spring rains on our face

but who crafted, who sculpted

this fear and why is it ours

to hold, to cup in our hands

like some fragile being only

thriving when we allow it to?

if normal is as normal does, 

then how does a sliver reflect 

the range, a balancing act offer

the space to encompass joy

and love and exploration and 

that feeling of thinking in colors?

is normal not then found in 

the tumbles and the leaps

the way those moments steal

your breath and only return it

when you honor the demands

of the present through being?

when normal is as narrow

as a tightrope, it’s overrated

overvalued, overindulged, it’s 

granted disproportionate space

to a thin line that was never

that stable to begin with.

How Are You Feeling

depression is also feeling
"ok" being a huge win, 
a relief from the fog. 

it's your thoughts parting
for long enough to see a 

glimpse of the sun, to recall 

how you wear heat on your 

skin even if you're still kneading 

the chill out of your bones.

Healing

To the healers. 

To the healers and the seers.

To the healers and the seers and the doers,

To my beloved empaths. 

We can’t heal unless we’re healing, too.

We can’t carry the weight of woe 

in our bone marrow, can’t hold the shape

of grief, of trauma, of fear, of shadows

in our hands without sifting through

the sands of our own castles and walls,

questioning why we built them thick

when no amount of matter will protect

us, close our eyes, numb us to the world.

To my beloved empaths,

To the healers and the seers and the doers,

To the healers and the seers. 

To the healers. 

We can’t heal unless we’re healing, too.

We’re seven different faces on a Tuesday,

appearing still but in constant, motion. 

It is not possible to ignore and to grow,

decoupling the two severs us into 

fractions that will never become whole. 

We are mosaics of stories, of our own 

of those around us, our ability to know

ourselves is forever intertwined with our

ability to read and comprehend others. 

We can’t heal unless we’re healing, too. 

To my healers, my beloved empaths. 

love is a four letter word,

dismantling, rebuilding, healing

our selves and ourselves

remains our lifetime.