Published Work

Hello.

Published by Humans of the World

I'm sitting with my legs crossed in the lobby before my procedure.

My fingers fidget with stale air.

Oceans of tears hang behind my eyes.

Waterfalls of failed attempts at figuring out my body's ailments follow me down the hallways of the hospital filling the space I'm sure gratitude should fill.

My name gets called from a voice belonging to a body that not once looks me in the eyes. She checks me in without a hello, how are you, or the slightest crack of a smile. I want to tell her that I need her smile right now. That the past year of my life has been riddled with moments like this, hollow interactions surrounding deep cuts made by weapons unseen, but instead I answer her questions as quickly as she asks them. Then head back to the lobby and sit with my mom.

When my name is called for the second time, a lady about my size and height offers the pleasantries I longed for during check in. I smile and tell her, "I'm okay," thinking that saying it aloud may be the magic trick to make it true. She guides me down a florescent hallway and points to the first door on the right. We enter a pale room with machines as tall as basketball players but far less friendly.

There's one maroon chair, a sink, and no place to put my clothes. I put the medical gowns on, one facing front and one facing back as directed. Then I sit my black jeans, floral bra, and gray t-shirt next to my dignity on the cold hard tile floor.

And I think, at least she said Hello.

The Man in the Yellow Beach Shop

Published by Poetose

Poetose Posts - POETOSE

Your back is facing me, but I’m pretty sure it’s you, even though we’ve never met. You’re kneeling putting something I can’t quite see from my angle on a shelf. You work in a beach shop. The one on the left side of the street with the tethered yellow awning. The same beach shop I think I may have stolen something from when I was a kid. I can’t seem to recall if that is a real memory or a dream I once had. This time I’m not a kid, you aren’t either. Although, your smile luminates the way I thought only a child’s could. And there’s no stealing, not yet, but there will be. You will somehow with one clean swoop steal all the caution cones from my heart and park your muddy tires in my driveway. But before that, you will turn around, our eyes will meet, mine, emerald leaves, yours, bark of the same tree, and I will awkwardly wave, the way a first Bumble date would, and my dog will stand on two legs begging you to rise to your feet and greet us, and you will do just that. We will walk on a crowded sidewalk bustling with teenagers in clothing made to be too small for their bodies until we find our way to a quiet bench across from the overpriced doggie boutique. You will say words, a lot of them, and call your self-determined excessive talking word diarrhea. I will be tickled by the use of the word diarrhea in your sentence. You will soon walk me to my car and not comment on the make or model. I will like that. I will notice your spider tattoo on your right calf with eight broken cherry stems for legs. We will kiss moments after but not without you asking for consent first. I will like that, too. I will lose time in that kiss. The only kind of losing you can do without a side-effect of grief. And just like that, in 42 minutes of time, you will have changed my entire summer.

Online Dating (again)

Published by Poets Choice in the Poetry Anthology Book

"Online Dating Misadventures"

I don't know you, and yet, you've somehow got me dreaming about you from halfway across the world. I watch the surfers tend to the waves from my breakfast pew, latte on the alter,

and wonder what it would be like to watch you. Floating thoughts of what ifs instead of usual falling threats of why nots.

-Yesterday I was barren of dreams like this.

The Match

Published by Poets Choice in the Poetry Anthology Book

"Online Dating Misadventures"

An addiction to what breaks my knees seduces me away from who I could be.

And I let it.

I say, “maybe this time will be different” as I check my phone for another online match’s text.

And when the text comes through,

I smile that smile only he can jostle from my cheeks.

She’s never quite whole enough.

Fills her cups with him.

Wonders why she wants to spit.

Too Good for Swiping?

Published by Poets Choice in the Poetry Anthology Book

"Online Dating Misadventures"

To the man who thought we were too good for swiping,

The one who screamed, and belittled, until I was so small,

he could barely hear the CRUNCH of my bones on under his foot.

You were once as big as a mountain.

Now you're just an unopened email

in my SPAM box

moved to 'delete forever.'

-smaller than small

To the man who swiped right,

Your words were medicine.

And you thought you were just talking.

-you were bigger than big to me