for the girl who swore she’d never cry, and now cries like it’s a second job.for the girl who wanted to disappear, but keeps leaving claw marks on the exit. There are nights I rehearsethe vanishing act.Not with flair—no spotlight, no crescendo—justa quiet exitlike a sigh that never comes back. I make lists in my head:what hurts,what’s missing,what I’ve fucked up,what I’ll never fix.And all the peoplewho stopped calling,who promised and vanished,like...
She died in winter.Gray sky, bone-cold air,a corpse in a hospice bed that finally shut up. And I didn’t cry.Not a single tear, not a whimper,not the shaky breath of a daughterwho lost her mother—because I never had one. I had a warden, a dictator,a queen of cigarettes and venom,a goddamn ghost haunting my reflection.“You’ll never be good enough, you’ll never be whole.”A fist in a velvet glove,a slap in the face...
So, uh—Hi.I guess.Wait. No, I meant to say—Uh, actually, let me start over.Shit. Too late.I already fucked it up. And that’s the thing, right?Like, my mouth and my brain? They ain’t exactly best friends.They’re like two drunk dudes in a canoe,both paddling in opposite directions,yelling “BRO, JUST LET ME DO IT!”Meanwhile, I’m over here drowning in the silence. Like, people talk, right?They talk in this dance—smooth, easy,like they’ve been rehearsing since birth.And I...
The first time I saw you,you weren’t barking,weren’t howling, desperate, begging—you were waiting.Waiting like you already knew.Like you saw something in meno one else ever had. All the other dogs were chaos,but you—you stood on your hind legs,golden eyes burning bright,like a lantern cutting through the dark.“Hey! There you are! Took you long enough!” And that was it.I had never been chosen before.Not by family, not by blood.But you?You put your paws...
I’ve pinched the skin I live in, like maybe it would let goif I hated it enough.Newsflash:It didn’t.It stayed.Stretched and soft, wide and wrong—or so they taught me to think.I learned shame like a language.Fluent. Native.Whispered apologies in the dressing room light.Held my breath through every photo,like less of mewas more. They said,“You’d be so pretty if…”as if beauty were a scavenger hunt,and I just hadn’t foundthe right clues. But let me...
I left God on read.One last divine text:“u up?”No, I’m not. I’m tired.Tired of apologizing for the skin You painted me in,the bones You broke and blamed me for.Tired of kneeling with my face in the dirtwhile You sip wine from the chalice of my shameand call it communion. Tell me, how many timesdid I hold my breath through Sunday sermons,hoping the holy water would drown mebefore the preacher told memy love...
I’m mid-sentence in a story that takes time to tell. I’m still finding the words. The words that get stuck in my throat. The words that are clenched in my fists. I’m telling my story.Sometimes, syllable by syllable—finding strengthin every line. I tap the mic… It crackles like a heartbeat. “Is this thing on?” “Can you hear me?” “Can you feel me?” Sometimes I wonder if I’m shouting into the void—a vast,...
They whisper against me,a ghost-touch, a hush in the dark,woven in secrets, spun in silence,sliding smooth over every sharp edge. They cinch tight, hold me together,keep the world from slipping throughthe cracks in my armor—a veil between the rough and the raw. I step into them like a promise,like a spell woven with fine-threaded care,a lattice of longing, a net for the night,soft enough to soothe, strong enough to bind. They shimmer...
I came with the wrong instructions. Box said “boy,”But when I opened it up—Nothing fit right.Like a DIY nightmare from IKEA,Missing half the piecesAnd no Allen wrench in sight. So I built myself anyway.Some assembly required. Doctors called it a defect.Society called it a phase.My family called it a shame.And me?I called it Tuesday. See, I’ve been dodging misgenderingLike it’s dodgeball in middle school gym class—Which, by the way,Was the first time I prayed for deathBecause...
Oh, look at them— The ruling class in their bespoke suits,Lounging on thrones made of our unpaid overtime,Sipping champagne like it’s holy water,As if their greed is a sacrament.Blessed are the billionaires,For they shall inherit everything. But hey, we’ve got a different gospel.One with sharper edges. See, the guillotine isn’t just a tool;It’s a conversation starter.A little icebreaker for the out-of-touch,A friendly reminderThat you can’t hoard the whole bakeryAnd leave us fighting...
I’m April- a storyteller, space-holder, and believer in second acts. I help people navigate identity, change, and the courage it takes to be seen.
