I don’t know what it means to be a woman, But I can tell you that there is a different kind Of power here And we don’t have to be your mother or your sister Or your lover To wield it Our bodies are not what we can make Not defined by theory or possibility…

It’s funny that men are supposed to be better at math, at finance, at numbers and calculating the owing of things. But I have yet to see a man held accountable. Women are, after all, the fairer sex.   Women are considered incomplete, born from a rib, lacking the moral compass to tell temptation no.…

bury me at makeout creek lay me down in the romanced paths warm loved dirt think about what these trees have seen kissing is hard enough for those still breathing dead kids are loved but can’t do anything in return   bury me at makeout creek better than the grownup graveyard with those lives well…

“wild women don’t get the blues” we aren’t taught to cry, just bide our time but I’m not ready to grow up, so tell me when and I’ll be there, a broken heart peach tree child   “please don’t say you love me” it never feels true and by now I’ve learned to want different…

there is a girl who didn’t have any fun at the party last night, the shower doesn’t seem to get hot enough and she did not know his name, just one more thing to apologize for she watches the women stand in front of a dead-eyed tribunal of men, this time, they know his name

We’re always putting off becoming better people. That new and improved version of ourselves lives in a future we can’t quite yet see, even if we try and squint past the fog. It is around 7:30 and train from Journal Square to 33rd street is quiet. That comfortable mutual silence shared by early morning commuters…

love turned bloodlust women are soldiers of a different kind there is magic in fury, and forgiveness in vitriol bitterness seems sweet to the sharpest of tongues we find solace in what may never come again

bitter girl with red rust want. the blue drunk night, frantic wind pulling. she does not dream. love’s elaborate language, a violet cry before dawn      

we will spring alive after the mess of it, a thousand moons play music like rain recalled come, let us tongue light about like worship

When people asked me where I wanted to live post-graduation, New Jersey was always a worst-case scenario. But here, I am, writing in this in the coffee shop I frequented in high school (thankfully, the wifi password hasn’t changed in over 6 years). I’ve written about coming for summer and winter breaks, and how strange…