A collection of samples that will be included in the next poetry anthology.

"Ice to Ache" is predicted to be ready for publishing in 2023.


I thought this was the surface?

Grief dresses in pretty colors and holds my hands as I

watch vines without flowers grow out of daddy’s mouth.

He tells me they won’t understand,

asks me if I know

how to keep a secret.

I promise him his thorns

can fit between my skin and bones and then

his pupils roll out onto the floor in front of me -

left me starving for a familiar that isn’t

spine in tile grooves.

Tell me why,

edging second decade,

I still trip over his limbs.

Crave a body that peels easy,

fiend for the rush of it,

suck nectar from my fingernails

and taste exoneration.

They say to teach a child to swim

you send them plunging.

tease the choke of flood-lungs.

Show them consequence first

so they can learn themselves a remedy.

Maybe this is the backfire,

the flashover,

the inches that mature downpour

to flood.

When will touch

feel like touch


and not an aim

for puncture?


There Were Ants

There were ants at your mom’s house.

Little pests that buried themselves even in the thinnest of crevices. Growing and festering their colony, unnoticed among the chaos of everyday life.

Until one day, they were everywhere.

Utterly engulfing the kitchen produce. Violently suffocating any sweet thing left in the home we’d built.

An infestation impossible to ignore - an error in our responsibility, begging to be acknowledged and resolved.

This kind of blatant ignorance has become customary in the space we share. 

A rather unforgiving choke,

loving you has felt like the seconds before

a sharp left 

into traffic.

Succumbed to the gruesome flood-letting, we have become a feral thing, ungroomed and vicious - strangers to the very contents of our skin. 

My name, a song that once swelled like honey on your tongue now burns with a bitter aftertaste. 

Despite the rapture that sleeps in silence between us, we move forth with calculated oblivion, abiding by the comfort of our routines. 

We normalize an existence of ceaseless pouring and then wonder why we’re empty. 

Then suddenly we wake up one morning and realize that this,

in the palms of our hands,

at the forefront of our grasp,

This is our life.

There were ants at your mom’s house.

Little pests that buried themselves even in the thinnest of crevices. 

Growing and festering, 


Until one day, they’re everywhere.



Even oaks become skeletons

when winter comes home like a father with hard-handed rage.

Sometimes even the sky is too loud and

I am sawing off my jaw in hopes

of keeping quiet.

I am a house abandoned,

with branches growing from its windows,

like a broken bone that tears through flesh - 

as if uninvited destruction were a thing to be celebrated.

I am falling asleep at green lights now,


it’s not my fault I grew wrong.

Still I try to suffocate a thing

that does not breathe.

There is an art to unbecoming,

in order to become.