i haven’t updated this blog in over a year but just realized it is the third result when someone googles my name so hello here i am i am back and i am doing a new post, but let’s be real, i’m only doing this so that i have another social media platform to share my new book on.


so yes, i wrote this book, it is poetry and it is fiction and it is very nice to read. it is open for pre-orders now. you can click this sentence and it will take you to a nice site that will tell you even more information about it.

thank u ❤





Excerpt pt. 2 from Something Untitled

There’s something very romantic about books, old books especially. Broken spines, torn paper and watermarked pages—it’s all very relatable to one’s life, in a sense. Anna had a habit of spending hours after work at the bookstore and finding the most hideous and abused books, hidden amongst shelf after shelf after shelf. She would bring them back to her apartment and wedge them into her own bookshelf as it began to collect a new layer of dust in its new home.

She read the books of course, but the rate of buying books and reading them was terribly unbalanced. For every book she read, she bought 5 more, leading to an expansive collection of pages she’d never even touched. Coming home to shelves of books made her feel comforted and safe, as if their covers and stories could protect her from realizing the outside world wasn’t always such a nice place. After all, why bother pondering the real world when she had hundreds of happy endings right inside of her own home?  Because happy books suck.

Excerpt pt. 1 from Something Untitled

She swallowed hard and found that the back of her throat was thick with mucus and salt, remnants of her afternoon spill, one of her crying-bouts that seemed to be happening more and more often. Whether she always thought about friends, family, or handsome men was questionable—sometimes it was a gratuitously sad commercial on the television, an old man crossing the street, or year-old receipts for cups of coffee that set her off. This particular day, it had been a hole she found in the sleeve of her cardigan, near her left elbow, which made her eyes fill with tears. Every time she bent her arm, the hole grew bigger and more damaged, stretching into an oblong circle and ripping threads with every tiny movement. She wept for an hour before she wiped her nose and told herself to stop, Anna, you’re being insane. This is not a worthy moment to waste these types of emotions. Dead puppies, yes. Holey cardigans, no. Unrequited love—maybe.

Anna crossed the room to pry open the window by her bed—a bed much too large, why a lanky, single girl would ever need a queen sized bed is completely unbeknownst to her—and dry her face. She watched as a teenage girl crossed the street without looking both ways and wondered if her parents neglected her as a child, or if she had any parents at all. Surely they would have taught her better safety precautions. Anna was just about to pass the same kind of harsh judgment on two young boys with muddy shirts, most likely from playing ball in the park, but maybe they didn’t have parents either, when her phone rang from across the bedroom.

Don’t pick up
, she told herself angrily, you know who’s calling, what he’ll say and how you’ll feel when you hang up. …But maybe this could be the one, the conversation that will be different than the others. One more ring and the voicemail would pick up, and the conversation would never happened. Or it could be exactly what you expect it to be. She watched the boys with dirty shirts cross the street before she groaned outwardly, loud enough for them to turn and see her in the window, before she hurled herself across the room to answer the phone.



Trees don’t know when someone is crying.  They can’t tell if someone is hurting.  They can’t hear a girl’s sobs, they can’t feel her leaning against their trunks for support, and they definitely do not care if she ever feels better.

And still, they never leave.  Yes, this is because they are rooted firmly and most permanently into the hardened winter ground.  But still, they never leave.  So neither does she.

Unfailingly, she returns to the same covered part in the dense forest, to move from tree to tree and cry.  Simply, cry.

You would think that the trees would have grown accustomed to seeing her here, that they would begin to expect to see her walking in from the path that leads people away in a different direction.  But trees don’t remember, and they certainly don’t remember her.

Her cries are soft and pitiful, honest and beautiful.  Loud enough to draw attention from the nearest birds, but not harsh enough to make them fly away.

She cries for an hour at least, walking on top of the pine needles and broken twigs that mirror her broken spirit.  How sad can such a young girl be?

The smallest tree reaches out a low branch to her and offers a seat besides the wet earth.  The girl accepts, but only rests her tiny, folded arms on the wood.  Single tears fall at first, followed by drops that are much bigger and much sadder than the rain that slips away from heavy clouds.

She does not wipe them away, and the trees watch as she walks to another tree, one that has been carved in by others who have long ago forgotten about the life they once had.

The trees aren’t really watching, of course.  They are just silently growing and weathering the wind and rain.  Dying.

They will last, though.  They will last long enough for the girl to stop crying, until she is ready to wipe her face with a sleeve that is so wet and carrying so many tears already.  They will last, and they will wait.  She is never alone, because they are always waiting.