Flowers in Her Hair

My response to being in a blah mood is usually to make pretty things that express the opposite mood.
The good thing about working with kids is that it reminds me to keep making time for the artsy, silly stuff. They’re not worried about their lives a year from now, if anything they are hyper focused on the present which has its own pros and cons.
As a grad student I have good days and days where I don’t feel great or certain of anything. But acknowledging that I will have both kinds of days can be helpful.



Coded Butterflies

And when does it end

The ambiguity of what I lost?

I send out signals

Pulsing red orbs

That beat in the dark

Your coded butterflies

Land in my palms

And I am left alone

Unable to decipher them

Yet still able to feel

Their gentle wings flutter.

Love Story

Everyone deserves a love story

But are any of them ever clean?

They are guaranteed

To take your breath away


They are sure to change you

To challenge you to grow

But if you’re not careful

The wrong one


In the wrong place

At the wrong time

Can ease into your weak points

And destroy you


Sometimes, it feels

Beyond recognition

But even in a good love story

As it grows, rises, and ends


There are remnants of your former self

That crumbled in the process

Of breaking and healing

And shaping new beginnings


Together or apart

There are always new beginnings

And the parts of you that broke away

Are somewhere in the stars


You set out to know someone else

But in the process

A new You emerged

And you have to get to know her, too


Love seems like a thing to have

But it is an entity

That transmutes you

Into the heart creature you were meant to be


And the story

However brief or however long

Lives in your heartbeat

Alters your pathways of reason


You are perhaps wiser

You are perhaps stronger

You are perhaps more You

You are perhaps cleaner


You traced the depths of your emotions

Into your palms

You survived hellos and daydreams and goodbyes

Perhaps one too many goodbyes


And in the end

Invisible ink is tattooed on your skin

The secret moments of your own love story

As you look to the horizon, whispering, “Let me write another.”