your local cryptid

United States

*formerly lemonnsharkk*
I don't know what I'm doing - I think that sums me up pretty well
avid reader
roller skate enthusiast
lover of horror movies
*have a nice day! :)*

Message from Writer

watching: hannibal, the walking dead, the umbrella academy, schitts creek

reading: the stand, the beast, the fault in our stars

playing: the walking dead, sally face, cuphead, animal crossing

Published Work


But I’ll give back my body 
Feast on my state of mind 
And I’ll watch you cry as you say goodbye 
As I leave all of my senses behind 

And It’s lonely down here six feet under 
But the worms can all be my friends 
And as it comes to a close with dirt on my clothes 
It’s just how my story should end 


I’ve seen you here before 
Pushing back the door 
Winding back our ticking time machines 
And slowly dropping to the floor 
I know your lips 
The way they crack and turn 
Hold me like a breath 
So I won’t have to learn 

And all those shitty songs 
And all my broken hands 
And all our petty words 
Strung up with silly bands 
And I am just a gem 
In this godly chandelier 
Dropping in the ocean 
Just to tell you I was here 

And you can break me first 
I swear that I wont mind 
I’ll sew myself together 
Stop acting like I’m blind 
And I am just a gem 
In this godly chandelier 
Dropping in the ocean 
Just to tell you I was here 


adrian-juniper leigh 
aj, juni 

i like the way they work with my tongue. the way they easily press up against my teeth and closed lips, gnawing their way out. they make my mouth feel like a freshly ironed shirt, but also with the soft breeze of a plant in the wind. 
they don't make me feel like a wilting breath 
a sentence, waiting softly to be continued 
they don't hold the melancholic softness of our breaths imprinted on the frosted air 
not the slow moan of curtains stretching over windows 
to catch the sun in their nets of selfishness 
and swallow it down to fuel the groaning beast that is their stomach 



i had a dream about you 
in which your bones pressed into the soft fat of my stomach 
and when the sun hit my eyes I was 
genuinely terrified 

you smelled like you did 
your hair falling in all the correct patterns 
the scaly grafts of your skin weaving together 
to form a melancholic tapestry of tears 

the chronic hunger in our stomachs fester 
slowly crawling up through our throats 
and blossoming at the corner of our mouths 

is it possible for you to shift into an illusion? 
maybe if I reached my arms out far enough 
we could bridge the gap to bring you home 

Pillars (footnotes)

    Watching your soul escape your body is a tedious process. We are currently driving down the I-75, fingering the air through the open Toyota windows. Cadence’s car is a mess. The seats are a kind of hairy beige color, and the floor is littered with small silver linings from processed food wrappers, which glitter when the light from the streetlights flashes over them. She grips the steering wheel with delicate patience, drifting her eyes from the road, out her window, and then back on the road again. Ricky Montgomary plays slowly from the radio, the whispers of his words worming their way into my ears. 
“He’s singing, she’s a, she’s a lady… and I am just a line without a hook.” 
The car’s clock reads 4:23. Why I signed up for the graveyard shift in the first place eludes me. Maybe it’s the comfort in knowing that social interaction would be kept to minimum. I fit the type who...


I hold your broken fingers with my thumb on the joystick 
maybe one day I could commandeer a broken vessel through a wasteland  
just like you move your dark outlined face to the wind 
I lose myself like you lose your sanity;
slowly and delicately, with a mouthful of broken teeth 
you remind me of myself 
hoping for the outcome to look better for 
the little souls around us. 
    your actions will determine what he will become 
    acting like my anger is a threat
paint me as a villain 
maybe through this I can display my intentions 
because, if he comes out as heartbroken, will that bleed through into reality? 
am I a flesh being of a mother?
the sweet tangerine peels falling off my eyes 
do I hold his tiny eyes in the palm of my hand, 
and are they harder to commandeer then when my thumb rolls around in circles?

Song Writing Competition 2021

Report Card *Final*

(Verse One) 
    I found a song 
That I thought I could use to shatter ground 
But it's too hard to break the glass when there's no ceiling to be found 
    I thought we'd sit 
I thought we could coexist and mingle 
But two wrongs don't make a right and maybe that's why I'm still single 
    I thought that maybe 
If I called you baby 
Then our worlds collide, I'd be warm inside, but I'm still feeling crazy 
    You made me see 
Before my world was all in 8-bit
But after time and retrospect I guess you really made me hate it 

    So I can get my A-plus 
Toss it in a box like I'm bored of love 
Wondering why I feel so messed up; I'll rise above 
I got that Sunday morning fever
Though I can't see her 
Till my feet hurt, I'll believe her 

(Verse Two) 
    I found...

the inside of my stomach tastes like sunset

it's in the way my legs shake in confrontation 
not that; my legs are always shaking 
it’s in the way that i can fit your life into my open palm 
and then slowly squeeze until the juice is running down my arms 
its sticky and smells of plaster 

it’s in the way i lobotomize myself slowly 
though I can’t tell whether or not i am the one holding the icepick 
it’s in the way that i slowly become a corpse of the highest order 
while still regaining enough composure for day to day conversation 

your heart still tends to beat 
even if it is only every so often 
but darling, my heart stopped so long ago 
i’m afraid to wake up 

better yet i'm afraid to fall asleep 
even worse might be the fact that i still don’t know how to concentrate 
on anything but these psychedelic urges 

I do not want to be a poet 
My figure is too...

I wrote yet another piece about you because I have nothing left

ricky montgomery makes me sob 
i find irony in the fact that everything makes sense but yet 
at the end of the day we are both just empty vessels 

I often remember you as a garden 
Your insides spilling over me like fallen leaves off a tree
On all levels except physical I have transcended 
I am a puddle of bones and a locked key 
                                                                                      I made a monster out of twine and contempt 

Lilith (footnotes!)

       The sky had started to swell and fill, making the horizon occupied solely by bulbous storm clouds. Lilith stands by the kitchen window, wringing a coral colored dishtowel between her spotted hands. Storms are never a good sign - her mother had once said that rainstorms were just God crying, but Lilith wonders what could make God hold this much disdain. 
It's summer in Parasol Point, and the air is sticky with sweat and disdain. Rainstorms have been becoming more frequent with the swaying of the tides and the ebb and flow of tourists looking to find a California-esque surfing town, but instead finding a grey mess of heat and thunder mixed with the sound of waves. Eventually, towards the middle of July, they begin to realize that their summer vacation dreams don't settle down here, so they slowly pack up their vacation houses and drive away, surfboards stacked on top of their minivans. After they leave,...

Song Writing Competition 2021

Report Card *Final*

(Verse One) 
    I found a song 
That I thought I could use to shatter ground 
But it's too hard to break the glass when there's no ceiling to be found 
    I thought we'd sit 
I thought we could coexist and mingle 
But two wrongs don't make a right and maybe that's why I'm still single 
    I thought that maybe 
If I called you baby 
Then our worlds collide, I'd be warm inside, but I'm still feeling crazy 
    You made me see 
Before my world was all in 2-bit 
But you're the one who I could talk to so I guess I'll just move through it 

    So I can get my A-plus 
Toss it in a box like I'm bored of love 
Wondering why I feel so messed up; I'll rise above 
I got that Sunday morning fever
Though I can't see her 
Till my feet hurt, I'll believe her 

(Verse Two)  ...


I don't remember which one of you I held first 
Whoever felt the brace of my hands as a cradle on their back 
Must have felt the imprint somehow 

Crayola markers can be thrown across my room 
Eventually I'll surrender my sanity to you're chubby little palms 
As I watch the baby fat melt from your cheeks 

I am destined for a lifetime of solitude 
Only for the fact that I was born as a solo act
While you play a duet in your mothers stomach 

I fear I'll stray to far 
Become more of an aunt or a cousin then an older sister 
Only for the fact that I attended 11 more years of sadness then you 

I'm defensively older;
Not necessarily wiser 
You could be more sure of my assertations then I am


sick note

i don't regret the placeholder; 
wrapping my heart between sets of ribs 
in reality, i am just a jellyfish of nerves, draped over bones, and covered in a flesh suit 
but yet i question my own mortality 

i'd ask you to write me into something 
make the ink connect to arteries 
maybe i could dig deep for the meaning later, 
watching your skin fall away under my fingernails 

maybe i could be a garden 
we could cover my limbs with grass and turn our world into a greenhouse 
our sick notes dotting the walls and 
turning the sunlight away 

"brothers and sisters, I am an atomic bomb"
i will gradually watch myself turn bitter 
watching my torso decay 
the fluid of my ears carrying me out 

Glass Animals {3} (typo republish)

    Lucille DeLond didn't know in which direction to steer the growling metal beast that was her life. If she sits down for a moment to reorganize her thoughts, she can vaguely try to remember a parent-teacher conference she had in the eighthgrade which essentially, to her knowledge, ended in the teacher describing her as 'a waste of potential'. 
She wanted to be angry about this - a deep sort of guttural, pent up rage. But really, she knew it was right; she was full of potential energy, but all she could do with that sort of "kinetic desire to do better" was to sit and let it fester. 
    Her relationship with one Callie Qualls is ... complicated to say the least. Callie is a placeholder; a vase without flowers. Or maybe she is the flowers without a vase ... Lucille has never been one for metaphors. That's something she and Val can have in common; they really are...

Glass Animals {2}

The transition wasn’t easy. They were all growing up; a fact that they all had slowly struggled to grasp. 
Valentin did't like who she was becoming. Her face was elongating, and her eyes were slowly losing their childish charm. 
When they had reconnected briefly, her cousin Inessa had run her fingers through Val's now long and unkempt hair and said
"почему ты не разрезаешь это? это зацепится за что-то"   (Why won't you cut it? It's going to get caught on something)
Я просто не могу выбросить ее из головы. Она была той, кто всегда резал это" 
(I- I just can't get her out of my head. She was the one who would always cut it) 
There was no doubting that Tegan was dead. People die all the time, Val thought. I know plenty of people who have died. 
But then why can't she get Tegan out of her head? 
So she cut her hair. It had fallen like...

Glass Animals {footnotes!}

She’s become a collector of sorts, her general appearance made possible by mementos from others. She hates to admit it, but she’s growing up; her legs and waist have extended, and her hips and thighs are starting to fill out. 
Valentin Melnikoff holds her hands on the steering wheel, her fingers clenched and her legs tense. 
“OK, it’s pretty easy. All you gotta do is press on the gas when you want to go, and then hit the break when you want to stop. And then you move the steering wheel to go in different directions. But you don’t want to just push down really hard on either, because then you go all crazy and everything.” Amélie Bennett sits in the passenger seat, her feet on the dashboard. 
“Man, you’re pretty bad at explaining things.” Val says out of the corner of her mouth, her eyes still plastered on the road. “Are you sure this is even a good idea?...


Yearning for something 
Other than your 
Unforgettable words 

Yielding your emotional baggage 
Out of your chest and 
Unconsciously dropping it into mine 

Year-long conversations 
Overtly signifying the end of something old and 
Ushering in the start of something new 

 You should know that ‘new’ doesn’t always mean better 
 Other times it feels as if you split my head gracefully in two 
 Ubiquitous energy isn’t always tangible


Maybe one day we could meet again 
Ideally it would be raining 
Because tears from God don’t stimulate as many tears down my cheeks 

                              Hold me close 
Hold me tighter 
                     Hold me so I don’t become a piece of driftwood and
                                                                   float away 
Down the sweet river of your undefinable justice 

You are the acetone to my tongue 
The quiet running of the water matched with your porcelain skin 
I will inevitably turn into an animal; 
Some kind of wild beast with massive claws 
While you will become a bird 
And slowly muster the courage to fly away


i am not old enough to yet understand my aunt's calloused hands 
i figure she might not like it if her niece possibly turned nephew 
only for the fact that it implies i will complete my metamorphosis and become a man 

i wonder if the hunger inside eve's belly 
turned into some kind of modern day feminist ache 
or if maybe it turned into something more mundane 
like menstrual cramps or hang-nails 
if maybe the fact that i received a clock on my birthday 
alludes not to my own death 
but the death of something i have yet to understand 

i read my aunt's books of poetry on the kitchen floor at midnight 
drinking milk and ripping my fingers through the skin of an orange 
i was never built for love or perfection 
my broken fingers were made for building  


a piece of space, visible in undertow

is this what being touched by an angel feels like? 
because I am cold, and my lungs are aching 

i float in the water, and my body is obscured from the sun 
i am a drop in the ocean, who now has been dropped in the ocean 
my eyelids are starting to feel lifeless 

It feels like someone flipped the switch on gravity; 
my hair is limp, but yet looks as if it is slowly reaching for the sun 
​like my outstretched palms 

later, after I crawl my way through the top of the water like a worm digs through earth, 
i pump my lungs full of heat 
i lay my body out on the surfboard like a mouse ready to be hit with a scalpel, and I laugh and laugh and laugh 

hours after, when I'm laying on the concrete with my top side flipped to the sky, 
we touch fingers, softly. 
my eyes are like kisses from the...

in which I remember to breath

You don’t deserve to know I cry over you 
I can’t tell you how I can’t listen to my favorite songs anymore
Since the memories crawl into my ears like tapeworms 
To put it bluntly, I hate you 
                                       (I know I don’t actually mean it, but it’s just what I need to say)

I can hold your fingers between my two front teeth 
My hair isn’t matted yet and my legs don’t make it so I can’t get out of bed 
But that’s where I’m going if my eyes don't stop glossing over
I’ll bite down, hard

                                                          my organs are glass 
                                                          my eyes are packing peanuts 

Requiem for A Lost Soul {a snippet of something I might work on later}

    The sun outside my window is less of a sun, and is more of a giant desk lamp suspended over the void. My face looks generally intact, though my eyes are significantly glossier than they were before. There is some kind of black substance leaking out from some of the follicles closest to the veins on my wrists. I swipe my fingers over the goo, and raise it to my nose. It smells like cinnamon and sweat. I squat down, and rummage through the cabinet below the bathroom sink, until I find a roll of gauze, the box marked from 2007. It smells like a hospital hallway that has been overrun with mold, but I still grip it in my teeth and pull to unravel it, and then take my fingers to wrap it tightly over my steadily leaking arms. To put it bluntly, I’m dead. This isn’t a new shocking revelation; I’ve been dead for at least three days...

Book Review Competition 2021

"The Girl With All The Gifts"- Book Review Competition

 Writing about something that is generally well known is hard at times. If you stay very faithful to similar works that have come before you or to the concept you are centering your piece around, there's a risk of being unoriginal. If you stray too far or add too much in, the original concept or genera can be totally lost. Creating this balance is very hard, especially when dealing with the topic of the undead. 
I am an avid zombie fan. Post apocalyptic horror will always be my favorite genera, and I have spent many hours of my life watching and reading media dedicated to showing what society would be like if something like that would happen. So when I heard of 'The Girl With All The Gifts' by M.R Carey, I was intrigued. 
    The book tells the story of a girl named Melanie. Melanie can't tell why she and the other children in the air base where she lives...

just a few things i can't do anymore because it seems that everything reminds me of you

bus rides; 
the names 'caroline' and 'ophelia'; 
google translate; 
mrs peregrines home for peculiar children; 
card games; 
playing the piano; 

i miss your hands. i miss the wiriness of your hair. i miss the little subtle ways you moved your nose when you read. i miss the coldness of your arms, and the warmth I brought through you when we held hands. i miss the playlist i made you. i miss the way you talked me through your journey reading my favorite book while my legs wound back and forth on an stationary bike. i miss the notes we passed during class, and the uno reverse cards i showered you with. 

the color pink; 
dear even hansen; 
pumpkin spice lattes; 
pillow forts; 
cream cheese; 
girl in red; 
steven universe; 
honey bears; 

i miss the way your hair smelled. i miss your coffee and i miss running through the rainy streets during...

Bread and Light


i drink the light that comes through my window with a silver spoon 
it folds down my throat, white and hot 
it fills my stomach until my heart is a dead-weight 
and I can't open my eyes lest I be blinded by the rising sun 
    some words are sticky. they plaster themselves to the walls of my throat like peanut butter 
until the tunnel closes around me, and I find it hard to breath. 
rib cage; 
others are sharper, and draw blood from my insides 
until I am a puddle of bones, hungry once again 

the words fill my stomach until I am so weighed down that I sink deep into the water of my tears
    I wallow in my mind sometimes; more times then not I am weak in the real world, 
    but in my head I am full



i wish i could say that you are kind. 
i wish i could say that your fingers don't rip at my scalp and tear my follicles away 
i wish i could say i love you 
without feeling the kind of regret you set into my stomach 
    maybe if i convince myself that you are real, my sides wont hurt as much 
    maybe if i convince myself that one day your hands will be tangible 
sometimes i see your eyes set deep into mine, and i'll stand at the mirror for hours, trying to wash away all the traces of you from my head 
but other times i'll try my hardest to absorb your body deep into my heart 

i wish i could say you are real 
but my eyes are red and my feet are tired and i still can't reach out and find you 

The Drabble

undertow (story in 100 words!)

    the sand is seeping slowly through the cracks between my toes. the tide is coming in.
you left me 
seagulls flap their wings and stretch out there beaks in a woeful call for love. soon they will descend upon me, their beaks grazing my fingers. i've been here for a long time; i wonder if they've gotten used to me. if I leave, will they miss me? will there wings loose a certain special charm that only I can hear? or is my perspective on their standpoint meaningless? do they care? 
you left me. 
and the tide is coming in.


i am the child of two front teeth 
    the offspring of two shoulder blades
but yet i am the curved spine that separates them 
    do it like its roulette; roll it burn it loose it 
my music taste is a party platter of emotions 
    just like my eyes don't reflect the solid earth of my parent's 

i was born on the coldest day of May 
    my mouth kneaded into an open 'o' 
and my fingers stretched out 

i am a child of marble halls 
the fruit of the folds in a bedspread 
    the offspring of the quiet ticks of a metronome; 
    mixed with the sound of the waves in the ocean 

Untitled Anomaly

when I was eight 
I went to the Mutter Museum with my mom for the first time 

ever since I went home, i've been paranoid about 
becoming an anomaly 

I had panic attacks about 
going to bed cold, 
and finding that my toes had frozen and broken off 
and were scattered through my bed like empty thoughts 

I've played piano since I was three
I've pinched my fingers between the keys
and stretched my hands out so long that 
they can hug more then an octave of cold ivory bones

I'm not entirely sure how these relate 
but I think it's in there somewhere 

Word Smith (part one)

    “I don’t understand why the ocean is considered so symbolic. I mean, it’s just an over glorified body of salt water.” 
We stand in the rain, watching the water splash slowly onto our matching Chuck Taylors, which are slowly becoming encased in a casket of mud. 
“But aren't we like, 70% water or something? I guess we’re just over glorified bodies of water too.” 
    Val shrugs. She’s the one holding the umbrella, which bounces slowly with the small quaking movements of her grey hands. She’s only a little less then a year and a half older than me, but Val towers over my puny 60 inches of bones. I nearly sink in the middle end of the Orange County Golf Club's pool, and my anchor-like hips do nothing but weigh me down. It would be gracious to compare me to a pear or maybe an orange, but Val is a nothing short of a string bean. Val-en-teen the bean. It...

word smith (part ?) *read all the way through!*

"I never understood why the ocean is considered so symbolic" 
We stand in the rain, watching the mud and water slowly splash onto our shoes. 
"I mean, in my opinion, it's just an over glorified body of salt water." 
Though she's only six months older then me, Valentine towers over my puny 60 inches of bones. Her hair is platinum blond and hangs down limp to her shoulders. Her eyes are blue like a raging river, and her lips are soft and pink like a tulip's petals, soaked in mist. 
It's July 10th, and the air is hot a humid. Mixed with the rain and mud, the day seems like a waste of air. The wedding is set for August 15th; the holy ceremony unifying my dad with Valentine's mom. 
We had met in May, after dad and I moved into her mom's house in Orange County. To be honest, they seem like the only people worth caring about in...

rose tint my world

i am both the rock and the hard place 
                            meant to be chewed and not swallowed 
spat out rather then ingested 
                           i am both the calm and the storm 
the lighthouse and the rocks 
                           both the domino and the marble 
the carpenter and the walrus 

                                          i remind myself of a loading screen 
                                          a snowball of sadness 

How I Realized

When we stopped talking. 
We smile in the hallway. 
We look at each other sometimes in class. 
We say ‘i love you’ through text 
While we don't talk during school. 

When I start looking. 
IKEA girl got a real nice stomach. 
Her eyes are really pretty. 
CVS girl is to die for.
I say ‘i love you’ so much that 
My phone recommends it every time i
Send a text. 

When I don't cry. 
We break up over text
While i watch Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer
And eat soup 
And lay on the carpet like some pathetic animal
And the next day at school I can still look at you without crying 

‘Friends with benefits’
What does that even mean? 
You never kissed me 
We never danced together 
I only watched you from across the room 
Looking between the billowing skirts on the carpet 
I danced with six people that night 
And none of them were you 

When I...

i know we're lost but soon we'll be found

today, I am tired 
my head is a bowling ball, and my fingers are tiny little twigs 
inhale, exhale 

today I am tiny 
I am so very very small 
my voice box has been replaced by a tiny mouse who has crawled down my throat 

today I am lost 
the wrinkles in my mind have folded and swallow me into them 
i am a worm, slithering down into the comforts of my blankets 

today I am a spiral 
i swim and relapse and cry and spin and twirl and break and build and drown 
i am a bubble 

i am a drop in a ocean, ready to be washed to shore 



both my parents grew up in the country. 
my mom was home schooled in the middle of the woods in a house her father built from the ground. 
I am incredibly disconnected; 
half of my life spent on the concrete, and the other on the dirt. 

the homicide rate in my city is sky rocketing ; my mothers father is a hunter 
I've heard people die ; my mother has plucked a turkey free from all it's feathers 
I was in 6th grade when someone got shot by down the street ; I was 6 when I ate a deer's heart 
They tied police crime scene tape on my front stairs ; My grandfather removed it from the freezer in his basement 
We ate dinner afterwards, like nothing had happened ; He cooked it with wild mushrooms and potatoes 
It tasted delicious 

During family reunions, I get poked and prodded and hit with the 'you've grown so big!' 
I watch...


both my parents grew up in the country. 
my mom was home schooled in the middle of the woods in a house her father built from the ground. 
I am incredibly disconnected; 
half of my life spent on the concrete, and the other on the dirt. 

the homicide rate in my city is sky rocketing ; my mothers father is a hunter 
I've heard people die ; my mother has plucked a turkey free from all it's feathers 
I was in 6th grade when someone got shot by down the street ; I was 6 when I ate a deer's heart 
They tied police crime scene tape on my front stairs ; My grandfather removed it from the freezer in his basement 
We ate dinner afterwards, like nothing had happened ; He cooked it with wild mushrooms and potatoes 
It tasted delicious 

During family reunions, I get poked and prodded and hit with the 'you've grown so big!' 
I watch...

the myers family reunion falls apart slowly

she doesn't know if she's a ghost or not
she's less of a spirit, and more of an afterthought 
an extra puzzle piece that does nothing to the whole picture, but boosts moral slightly, and makes you say 
'ha ha ha that was unexpected' 
scrape your glass fingers against my porcelain cheek and I'll watch you flinch at the sound  
I like to think you love me 
but that's all it is; a thought 

you make me swell 
communion of saints 
but i'll die before I say it to your face

It's quiet without you 
my mind is scattered and I can't pick up the pieces 
they just keep melting down the cracks in the floor. 
you plunge me into darkness 
and I'm waiting for someone to pull the plug, let the water drain out, 
and pull me up to shore 


in which wuthering heights cries crocodile tears

I see your face in the washed up soap suds 
trickling slowly through my bathtub drain. 

I pretend not to notice. It's the only thing I know how to do. 

I slow danced with you in Spanish class. 
El susurro de tu camisa mezclado con las luces fluorescentes fue suficiente para hacerme doler la cabeza. 
siempre fuiste mejor en español que yo. 

I am a headache and you are my aspirin 
both the rose and the thorn 

I love the way I still see your face in the suds 
flowing down my bathtub drain 

but I'm not hesitant to wash them down 


procrastination piece

I have an audition 
for a TV show 
due on Saturday 

The script is 15 pages long. 

I really should be memorizing it. 
But my procrastinating habits sink slowly into me again 

I'll watch Black Mirror episode explanations on youtube. 
I'll listen to old creepy songs from the 50's 
(I swear it helps me focus somehow) 

But I swear I'll do anything to not memorize this script 

I know I want it 
I really do 
but my brain keeps holding me back 

So I'll write this poem on WtW 
and then I swear 
I'll go back to being productive 



my relationship with God is .... complicated 
I guess I'm told that people like me shouldn't be Christian 
I'm pro-choice. Pro BLM, Pro LGBTQ+ rights. Anti-firearm.
I'm non binary. I like women and men. My siblings are POC. I have a gender-queer parent. 
I guess I'm shown that people who believe in God shouldn't like people like me 

I go to Church. I sing in the church choir. I've never been baptized, and I don't plan on ever doing it. 

I started going to church in 4th grade. I was scared. But what I realized is that God appears differently to everyone, and that God will love you no matter what. I think that faith shouldn't be inserted into values. God says 'love thy neighbor as thyself', and that doesn't exclude people with opposing beliefs. 

To be honest, I don't really like going to church. I find it really really boring. But one thing I love about it is that...

you are not your mother's daughter

You sit on the porch at midnight
Letting your legs scrape the concrete of the stairs 
Light rain spraying your face 
And casting themselves on the little baby hairs 
Sticking up from the top of your head 

Your skin is glassy and humid 
Like a honeydew melon 
But it stretches and clings tight to your bones 
When you least expect it to 

You drink water religiously 
Like a communion of saints 
One bread, one body, one cup after another 
Kid ain’t one to mess with when she’s only on her debut 

You have baby hairs and dimples 
But you let murky water consume you and 
Flow into your nostrils and out of your clenched teeth 
The child of a one night stand between 
Manslaughter and 1st Degree 



your eyes are red and scrubbed dry 
finger nails and fishing poles scatter themselves over my bed 
your hands are small and cold, patches of rough skin breaking over the surface 
and I hate my skin but I love the way yours feels
sitting together under storm shelters, demons squirming to crawl out of our eyes and nose 
i hate my hair and yours falls out in patches 
I sit with you on my lap like a ventriloquists dummy 
except im pretty sure your the one pulling all the strings 
you smell like milk and salted rice;  your voice softens and hardens like the falling of the rain 
i push my head against your shoulder, one earbud in and the centipede that is the world crawling out the other 
starting fires with our fingers as matches 
my head is an anvil 
your head is a bouquet of roses, 
soft billowing petals fall against my hands, but I can't deny...

Collective Voice

sunday morning fever

The moon beats down onto the back of our legs. The starts can act as our freckles, and the darkness of the night sky can be our skin, and the folds of our hair. 
The water is only about a foot deep, swirling itself around our feet and ankles, until we realize that maybe it's not the best to swim in the dark. But stars don't need light. 
We have hinted sunburns curdling and stretching over the bridges and nostrils of our noses. 
We slept as a collective, individual beings in wooden beds, the heavy parts of our breathing hitting the same sour note. 
Our skin hits sour notes on sticks and pebbles, our shoelaces slapping against man made forest hate crimes. I can watch someone snap a stick with their bare hands, and I know I'll hold up the breakage over my head for the rest of the day, but due to me we are cocky and bold ...

Sunkissed Hyacinth *part one*

Cavalli doesn’t really feel like he knows anything anymore. He had just turned 16 before all this happened - and felt thoroughly dissatisfied with the results. He was stuck now, halfway between adulthood and childhood, and he didn’t know where to go now. It was kind of like he was the discarded toy of two siblings, both fighting over him. Childhood was pulling him towards a life of never doing anything, while adulthood was pulling him towards a life of doing too much. He would have gotten his first tattoo the day after his birthday, except for the fact that he didn’t know what to get. He was the kind of person who played football in highschool; not because he liked it, but in the hopes that it could make him like it.. He liked to describe himself as ‘Outgoing’, ‘Friendly’, or something along the lines of that. Really, the best word to describe him was probably monotone. He had...

The Violins Play in D Minor

My brother is lost.
I know he isn’t really lost because he’s sitting next to me on the acrylic looking hot pink couch right now. I mean it in more of a poetic sense. That whole Edgar Allan Poe deal, with the raven, and the hearts under the floorboards. 
The entirety of Stephanie's living room is pink. There is pink stuck up all over the walls, in wallpaper and picture frames, and pink carpets and furniture. The only things that are not pink are two black and white photographs stuck in there pick covered frames. The first was of a wave crashing onto a field of rocks. A seagull stuck in permanent flight was being sprayed by the foamy brine. It looked terribly sad and terribly poetic, which was leaning away from the general being of the living room so far, but Stephanie seemed not to mind. The second picture was Guernica by Picasso. Naturally, it was a print, seeing...