Stand By The Soda Machine

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Darling we have been killing brain cells for way too long, blowing clouds of feelings unfiltered and so raw yet we still find ourselves blinded by the concept of better days and a reality in which we are less likely to end up burning out like cigarettes or worse we face the inevitable completely sober. Continue reading

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World Mental Health Day/ A Poem

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We’re holding on as tightly as we can.
Fingers gripping on to feeble articles of meaning,
Trying to ground ourselves within this mess of this spinning globe we call The Earth. Continue reading

Eighteen Years Old (There’s Still A Lot I Don’t Know)

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I’m eighteen years old and there are things that I feel like I know more than anyone ever could, like how much the color yellow infuriates me and how I can never get tired of my mother’s voice, my friends are the closest I’ve ever had to a home and my father’s temper is almost as understandable as the Rubik’s Cube on my bedroom floor that I never could learn to solve. Continue reading

I Built A Home Between Airplane Rides Across The World

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By the age of thirteen I had been in six different schools, staying in each for up to three years at the most. It wasn’t because I was bullied or because I couldn’t make any friends but it was rather because my family just moved around a lot. Along with every school that changed so did the house we lived in and the street I had grown familiar to or the neighbors that were always nice. Continue reading

I Fear The Concept Of Non-existence

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I was listening to Shelly Kagan talk about death on a podcast. He said, “How can non-existence be a bad thing if I’m not there to experience it”.

I’ve always had a very complicated, entangled relationship with the idea of “non-existence” the whole general concept of it makes me shudder but at the same time it’s almost an anomaly in itself something that’s inviting, and seemingly decorated by the curiosity that lingers in my mind at the mention of this word. Continue reading

My Eighth Grade French Teacher

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My eighth grade French teacher smoked cigarettes out back near the football field every morning. Heaving in heavy breaths he’d cough like his throat was on fire, fumes in his lungs. He drank like the skies inside his eyes had fallen, clouds of silver smoke on his lashes would linger until they looked more like fragile tears wiped by trembling thumbs before brought into account by the twenty students who wanted more than anything to leave the classroom they were stuck in.

Continue reading