my hometown

Nothing is as still as my hometown. It rocks with age as I drive on holy ground to a never-ending horizon of billboard signs and palm trees. Emblazoned with hope for the future, they pump money into the school system just to turn despondent when high school graduates flee to a new place. 

Insanity creeps up on you when it’s hundred degree and ninety percent humidity. Time drips like sweat into an endless pool. When the cold hits, everyone turns their radiators on to feel a part of the larger portion of the country.

No one knows me as intimately as my hometown. She cradles my secrets in potholes and swings into the mall at the age of twelve. She knows my breakfast order at the local café and knows the exact room when I first got kissed. She could recollect the sound of my cry when I hit the pavement in a biking accident or my sobs in the car when I got my heart broken.  

And who am I? but just a bystander in the way of progress? I grow plump on the promises of the others and the sugar they feed us to keep the peace. They told us we were the future, and I am nothing but an obstacle, who wants to dwell in the past. My hometown is a symbol of progress, she no longer tells me I am ok. 

My hometown becomes engulfed in tolls and concrete. She breathes pollution and smells of construction. They cut down trees to put new dilapidating strip malls. They undress her of antique and charm and make her appeasing to the newcomers’ eyes. They put theme parks and easily accessible attractions. They market and tell us we live in a special, magical place. What is magical about this? Who decided we could live in a world where we robbed ourselves of true pleasure? 

Do you wish to leave? Sometimes. But then others, I look at the highways and the high scraped buildings. I see the sky is constantly blue and the plants are always green. And no matter how far I wander, when I come here, I have to say I’m home. For I could be anywhere and nowhere is here. Nowhere is the place that understands me so deeply, but they are destroying her. They tell me to leave if I have nothing to offer, nothing to gain here. 


i met myself passing on the train
i wore my hair in a messy bun
and a sad look in my eyes
but they glimmered with hope
she told me a story how
brokenness makes us whole
and being whole can leave
you in pieces
i have lived more than
a lifetime in this seat
and i have just started
to understand the
and i look up and down
the halls to find
my soul is just
a passenger in the madness


you stopped talking
i think i knew

i kept calling
and crying in the voicemail box

i wrote a lot of poems
they were a broken mess

i went to the beach it stung;
and i wished for you

someone told me about your girlfriend
i remember that was supposed to be me

i told my best friend i missed you
sometimes she told me you weren’t worth missing

i wrote you a love letter
and then i burnt it

i realized i didn’t need you
it took long enough

i saw you for the first time
and i laughed a little because i wasn’t fooled

the scream

society says to be more like the mona lisa 

but my emotions are muddled

i am more like the scream 

but if art is relative

then why would it matter if i’m emotion rather

than perfection

my brushstrokes are chaotic and there is no order

but i am still a masterpiece

yet all society says is

you are not to supposed to scream in public

you are not supposed to leave your stereotype  






someone asked where you went

the words didn’t leave my lips for a minute

//flashes of memories stuck on thumb drive//he’s gone//i don’t care///he left//i don’t know why//maybe he didn’t like my new hair//or i annoyed him//a month later, he replaced me with some girl//we’re completely different//i bet she did all the things i said no to//he lied//he liked to replace sugar with salt and not tell me//he was immature//he wasn’t worth six months of agony//he probably thinks the same thing about me//you escaped//thank god he’s gone//you almost were trapped//

i shrug while laughing

i just say, ‘i’m not quite sure, but yes, i’m fine.’

emotional girl

it’s 12:15 AM and i’m driving on the interstate home. the indie rock is blaring over the speaker in my beat-up truck. and, maybe it’s the beauty in life or it’s the melancholy longing in my heart that makes me cry.

i cry for the thrill of it.

maybe, this is who i am meant to be. maybe, i am a little mad and insane and i can’t quit being loud at parties and parties can’t quit screaming back. and, maybe i feel more at home in a field of flowers or in an unknown part of a city.

maybe, i am the emotional girl with her head stuck in pages of anna karenina and kissing the lips of oversized coffee mugs you see in movies they start ridiculing.

i said once in middle school to my friends i meant to be alone and none of them believed me. but, the more i live and learn. the more i love and lose.

the more i find that i am infinitely alone in my head.