The higher you climb,
The further the fall.
But here I am,
Teetering on the edge of Everest.
On top of the world,
Higher than I’ve ever been.

It feels as if I’m floating.

You, a short series.


PLACES,  2015

I’m not sure I like Italian.

But I let you take me there.

I’m sure you thought it was fancy,

A way to impress me, to get the girl.

You got me then.

In the cheesy dimmed lights,

The wine glass decorations.

Over a dinner I could barely stomach, and 

Now I’m not sure it was the food.

Maybe, the butterflies.
A park in the evening.

Should I go? 

I asked everyone who would listen.

Parks and strangers never sound inviting.

But those butterflies clouded my mind. 

The lake sparkled in the sunset as 

You held my hand for the first time.

At least, when the Mosquitos weren’t 

Ruining the moment. 

The water was still as were we

Until you made the move, confidently.
With your lips still on my mind,

We saw each other again.

Dinner. Movies. How cliché,

Yet I wanted to be there.

The night is hazy, and the movie was alright.

However, in your car, wrapped up in you with my favorite song playing

Is my favorite part.

My knees were weak.
They’ll tell me it wasn’t long enough,

Ask why I didn’t wait.

But that night, in my room,

I gave myself to you without knowing.

There was no romance, no delicate pace.

The sheets weren’t soft and the TV was loud.

But it felt right.

 And had you never called again,

I would have been okay.
But you did. 

You, a short series. 

standard edition, 2015

You look nice today.
A genuine compliment from a 

Friendly face but feels more

Like an insult. 

Is it the layers of beauty product

Smeared across my skin?

The unnatural lashes, rosy

Hue of my cheeks?

When it takes effort to 

Be praised for my beauty

I must only be when I wear

My own personal war paint.
Something is different about you.

He tells me with a grin,

It’s the good kind.

I smile back as he unknowingly 

Encourages the beginning of 

disorder, consequence. 

Is it because I’ve

Starved myself for two weeks


It takes sacrifice to be Sexy

I must only be when I can 

Fit into sized zero jeans.

One Night. 2015.

I’m not asking for much,
just the feel of skin on mine.
I don’t want your heart,
Hell, I won’t ask for a last name.
Give me fingers brushing along my spine,
Tangling in my hair as your lips caress the
most sensitive part of me.
Give me arms around my waist,
crushing my breasts into your chest as
we ride wave after wave.

I’m not asking for much
just the feel of your skin on mine.
I don’t need your heart,
Just a name to scream into the darkness.
Make me feel like I’m more than a fuck,
even when that is all I want to be,
all I can be for you.
Make me forget that I’m alone
that tomorrow my bed will be cold
when I wake up to empty sheets.


online, 2015.

Imagination is 

Where she is nothing but a thought 
To which you can close your eyes and caress your most beautiful visions of her.
An avoidance of looking into her soul,
Bared in the depth of the oceanic irises that fill with lust at a single word.
A place to hide from your demons,
The qualities you deeply despise of yourself
You can be anyone behind your fingers.
Because when Late night came, so did she
A meeting filled with a desperation for normalcy 
But plagued by a bittersweet reality.
In front of you she kneeled to rid you of your worry —
But she could not measure to fiction 
Even when her lips parted intimately.
You can only repay her with stories,
Years of your life for five minutes of hers.
She is full of you but somehow still empty.
All the promises made will never be kept
For you can not look beyond the flaws outside her.
She is not what you expected, it seems.
Her quiet laughter put you at ease,
You both remain opposite and alone until
It is almost morning when she gets up to leave.
When she returns home
She wishes you never really existed and perhaps were simply a bad dream. 
You will find a new imagination.

Days. 2015.

One thousand
Two hundred
And eighteen days
With you.

Infinite kisses.
Infinite moments
Just staring into
your eyes
“I really fucking love you.”

One hundred
And seventy days
Without you.
And it’s as though
You never really existed.

As if
You were
But a beautiful dream.