writings!: sunglasses


shaded. jaded. eighty bucks to be an icon, or maybe a cat. round red ones for that crown-of-thorns look,

aviators because you ache to go high,

pink heart shaped ones if you’re a girl who wants to see the world brighter.

your face is shrinking and your freckles blaze, sweat and tears and plastic won’t stop sliding down your nose and you keep trying to push them up but i guess they’re too big?

lenses are darker than undereye circles.

novelty glasses at the tourist store in florida and everyone’s worried about you, but who can tell when there’s beer bottles around the edges of the lenses, take a picture sister and maybe you’ll try it someday…?

then there’s the classics which never looked good on you, fake ray-ban ovals glinting like hummingbird eggs on the edges but when you push them up hawks dig their talons into their hair and i can see scalp

pink heart shaped ones if you want the world to see you brighter,

they broke last six months ago and won’t stay on straight, but maybe you can glue them back together.

you have another pair but they aren’t the same.

for now, you stick to sunscreen. your eyes burn and peel. your face dresses itself in satin.



when women become insects

“we didn’t used to be this way”

i look up a history of beauty. a history of cocoons. black and white photo of a 1920’s actress,

stripped down

hip bones jutting like ivory plates,

empty plates,

i live off honey. girls cluster. compliments fall off tongues and roll into a corner. nectar. give and you shall receive.

my mother has a fixation with flowers. it was always the monsters on them that grabbed me. i took blurry photos of spiders when my sister ran

and people used to poke my shoulder blades. they stuck out enough to be wings. it is hard for me to distinguish between feather and bone. angels vs. anorexics, what’s the difference?

when the women in my family cry, our bodies shake so hard they vibrate

we are wasp-waisted bumblebees trapped behind a screen door.

writings!: backyard

when we were young the lawn was a forest we traveled daily,

painting sunflowers with blue nail polish on the back wall of the tenants house, where no one could see.

there were handprints there and they weren’t our own

we worked around them.

Where are you?


Where are you?


mid may and the loquats fall like blazing suns. my father goes outside and collects bowlfuls. they sit in the kitchen until their yellow turns brown, because how can something be what it can’t see?

seasons go by. seasons goodbye. dad leaves house. loquats die on the lawn. no one to put them in a bowl.

tenant lives in the studio after the lawn. she’s pretty like the girls you hated and wanted to be. she paints your sister’s nails gray. you remember the sunflowers.

tenant moves. new tenant. elias. he serves in the army, you think?. he complements your camera’s zoom lens. you smile. thank him. raspy voice. tenant lives. you go away one weekend. tenant dies. “brain aneurysm.” his family cremates him. he is still here. mostly, he sits impassive in the loquat tree, staring down at you. but sometimes he visits the sunflowers, taking pictures with a zoom lens.

years spin. like the wheel on that tv show you can never remember the name of, even though it’s obvious. new tenant. her motorcycle sits in the driveway and has cobwebs. once in a while you sit on it. she doesn’t mind.

it is cold outside. you do not go there much anymore.

cat sleeps on grave of other cat, by the new tenant’s house. cat is ok. new tenant has dog. dog is ok. old. not as old as elias.

wind chimes. bird head rots in lawn (cat?). body weeps in sunflowers.

writings!: sophia can’t sleep


she tells you through a text that the doctor prescribed her valium for her insomnia.

you don’t know what valium looks like; but last night you a dream that it spilled endlessly out of a bottle like cough syrup and blood and

drowned her as she slept-comatose. isn’t that how these things work

anyways? bullets shoot through phone screens. thoughts travel from your head to hers

in the night.

pillows like pills. sheets like paper. tired moon prescribes and prescribes, lab coat gray with craters and dirt and


from future fires


writings!: ode to kyra


brown hair in the sun shines red-gold flute playing witch notes rising higher meets the sun

too smart for her own good

too insecure to feel good


winged eyeliner doesn’t smudge anymore. sparkling eyes with sparklier eyeshadow


swing dancing rag doll. words fall out of fingers. too hard on herself. projects anger onto people like a whiteboard


pillow festers with tears.

tea tree oil on everything hugs to feel like she’s worth something somehow the always the object of creepy older guys befriends the wild for thrills ride or die whirling arms and golden face tries too hard dies too hard too much to live for in too little time

invalidation is her achilles heel, but she will insist it’s everyone’s.

writing by ~me~: candyland


popsicles and front stoops, mid july, jean shorts frayed at the edges. we picked at the lose strings

we picked at the fabric of our lives and lies

summer between sixth and seventh grade and we talked about boys cause we thought we were straight

and katy perry kicked her high heeled boot at our faces. we were scared so we listened to her on the radio

we longed for something greater

freckles and pseudo tans. tampons and target bras

i am we are still trapped in that moment

heartbeats linking us together. trapped in shaking cages

piled on the back of a dusty ass pickup truck

driving us from girlhood to candyland.

writing by ~me~: a girl walks around after dark

how many times have we told you you can’t walk around after dark

cold air cold stars rain trees blowing leaves like my city is a whirlpool of

It’s not that we don’t trust you, it’s just

streetlights and rain. asphalt turns to diamonds. fresh air

it’s not safe for you

our voices filling the gaps between the rain and the earth magic returns to us

shady people out there, it’s dangerous

the night turns us into something beautiful we are in control these are our roads

you’re sixteen

no catcallers to burn us because the california night is a cloak like the sea but our mothers are wondering where we are

you’re just a girl

cell phone rings over and over mom’s too nervous behomeintenminutesoryou’regrounded

artemis sits in the moon and stares at us with her knees tucked up asking herself

 a girl

why a girl

 a girl

can’t walk anywhere

after dark.