Queendoms come without keys you can carry.

i make choices and i live with them and i do what i do

i feel bad for anyone trying to twist the knife in me

because she was more magical than you and never even came to be

every time someone makes me feel something good, bad, in between- thank you

I file it away and use it on stage, on paper, into the mic, in the studio.

I use everything. It’s all around me.

sunshine thoughts 

foggy windows

my guard is up because I’m devilishly trying to stay angelic
and I drink each wave of pain and bottle it’s remnants as relics

you know I’m a person too

and you might not like something I wore or said or did or even decisions I’ve made and how I choose to live my life

but I’m a person too

and I feel rollercoaster highs and I smile with my friends and I make mistakes that I’m learning from and I have things I’m endlessly passionate about and foods I can’t stand and movies I can’t sit through and I feel pain and I over think and I bleed if you cut me, bruise if you hit me, cry at night when you bombard me with questions that pry tastelessly into the parts of my body that still feel stained with memorial service

keep throwing shade. my heart is fair and could use a break from the sun

Anonymous said: Tell us where you are on your spirit journey. Where has it taken you, where do you think it will take you?

My spirit is in a cocoon.

I am patiently evolving. I will see the bigger picture after knowing the beauty and pain of the up close.


Because you were only ever mere pixels
on my movie theatre screen of a life,
I have no choice but to envision you glamorously-

I imagine that your voice 
would hang neatly at the back of your throat,
a womanhood with a wardrobe of words
to outfit you
that you’d never outgrow.

I would have heard the giant wrinkles
in the fabric of your small disappointments-
I would have rejoiced with the steam
trembling over the cloth of all you’d conquer
on those weeknights 
over the phone
when you’d call me by my first name
and I’d love you like I was always young
and like mistakes were always sewn
with designer lessons in their tags
as we’d be in stitches
over the seamless laugh
we both inherited from the greatest
Russian doll preceding us.

I would have 
sacrificed my own elasticity
to hold you so tightly.

But when I fell with you,
I wintered you
and in our desperate attempt
to freeze our youth
we imagined we couldn’t feel the cold.

I was so naive

that even writing this
I feel more sister
than mother.

You will always be my memoir.
You will always be the page between
Part 1 and Part 2-

You will always be that last line in that first poem
that I stayed up late into the night to finish,
an Olympian of run on sentences whose lungs burned 
me into a steadily paced walk,
whose story began in imaginary ink that 
only me and the screens and the screams could read,
the last sentence in that poem I so badly wanted to finish but never g-

I need friends who will play building blocks with my bones and sculpt universes from my skin- 
until I let the good stuff balance out all the bad stuff I’ve let in


witch hazel thank you so much

god is a payphone. hard to find these days and if you do, there’s no dial tone. the trade off for some conversation is only a bit of change, but we can’t seem to scrounge that up unless it’s good news or an emergency. we want our emergency calls to be responded to at no cost. god is the operator. god is the 800 number. god is the address book. no where to be found.