I’m sorry it’s been so long 

I’m sitting on my new couch, about to watch Glee,

maybe nap, who knows,

and I am at peace and I’m comfortable and my feet aren’t cold.

I know God’s got my life under control.

I’m blessed to understand that being alone is an okay thing,

that this time I am alone,

and I’m still happy.

I’m blessed to be able to realize this is what it feels like to actually be happy.


Getting Over & Growth

First off, thank you to everyone who reads this blog, this shabby poetry. Who reads through my healing and coping and the change in my perspective as I take on life in a new way.

I’m writing this post to say, I’m not sure what type of content my poetry or my prose will be about. I’m not in love. I’m not in lust. I’m not angry. (I’m mainly tired lol).

Right now, I’m at a place in my life where the only relationships I want to have are with God and myself: they need the most and greatest love from me. It is freeing to say there is no one even in my periphery of who I might cling to or possibly use as a coping mechanism like I’ve done with others in times past.

If anything, this has been and will continue to be a time of growth. Thank you for all that have stood by and through it. Thank you for accepting me and the changes. Thank you for listening to my story and coming along for the journey this far.

It means more than you’ll ever know,



Love like ocean:
overused simile,
feeling of falling in
too deep,
and not being afraid
of it.

Under the surface
and still able to

water like bed
holds lovers close,
floating hearts
in treasured chests.

into skin and touch
and arms once more.
never again to be lost
with other fish
in the sea.
Never wanting again
for another

Today, I don’t want to write about you

or us
or what was,
and I think that might be progress.
I think the fact that I never wanted to slander
only wanted to tell my truth
and keeping pushing,
only wanted to heal,
so I could be okay
with what this life means for me now,
I think that’s a sign of getting over you.

Learning life still goes on,
life still has much to offer,
and it has nothing to do with you.

The Eulogy of the Dead “Me”s

Without saying it,
I know;
it is the last time I will talk to you.
Our conversation:
the last branch that will bow
to each other’s will.
A goodbye,
but not a “sorry”,
on either side.

I am dead to you.

And yet,
the thing that makes this entirely unfair
is that until it happened
I did not let the “her”
you killed be dead to me.

Let this end with
the submissive me,
the one who was internally cringing.
Let this end with the girl
who memorized your face on the train,
instead of blurting, “I’m sorry.”
Let this be the girl who holds her body like
Let this be the girl
that you made feel unpretty.
Let this be her
that wasn’t her,
or her,
or that one chick with the nice ass in the mall,
and let her cry ugly.

I am dead to you.
And that’s okay,
because, in truth, “she”
was never,
nor someone I want to be ever,


I miss you a little extra
and I let it get the best of me.

I try writing out
these messages,
but they come off as poetry.
I unblock you from all social media
and your number from my phone.
I don’t let my fear of getting yelled at
conquer me.

I preference everything I say about you with
“He is really is a good person”
because you really could be,
you really are.

I don’t hate you,
instead I miss my best friend,
and I’m seeing now that for a while
those are not the same person.
Just like I’m not.

I know sometimes people change
or everything remains the same
and you grow to the point where nothing
really stays,
and you blame your mistakes
your mourning
on something else instead of
simple facts like:

I miss you.
But that’s not enough.


Lately, I’ve been walking through memory.
I have a boy,
who’s toying
with the idea of FaceTiming me.
I creep upstairs
lit by the glow of a phone screen,
and each shadow closes in.

I’m beginning to wonder
if I let the feel of you
seep into my skin.
I’m tip-toeing around rooms
and looking at spots on carpet
where your body once laid.

I’m letting the past get the best of me.

I’m thinking of different places on my couch
where I kissed him
or he held me
and you’re like a stain
that won’t get out of that damn carpet.

Eyes closed,
my chin on your chest,
you’ve been 22 for about 20 minutes
and I won’t let you leave.

It wouldn’t be the last time you stepped into my house,
but it’d be a memory where your girlfriend
and your mom weren’t the first to reach you—

and three years later,
I’m trying not to,
I’m telling myself I’m in mourning,
in healing,
waiting on a plan,
and not re-considering
the idea,
the promising heartbreak,
the never coming to fruition
possibility of