Falling in love was… everything.
It was like that feeling you get the night before a big field trip, where everything is buzzing and exciting and you just can’t fall asleep, no matter how tightly you shut your eyes.
Falling in love was like the sun on your face that one summer at the neighborhood pool, your best friend jumping into the deep end right beside you, with no fear or care in the world.
Falling in love was like watching the stars, lying on the grass in your backyard, waxing poetic to whoever would listen.
Falling in love was turning to your side, the phantom blades of grass sticking to your skin, itching the backs of your knees, and whispering to your best friend that you couldn’t imagine a life without him.
Falling in love was the awkward first kiss on the dock behind your house, all fumbling hands and clashing teeth, and tangled tongues.
Falling in love is the nostalgia that presses you down and chokes your breath when you think about it.
Falling in love was the silence over the phone when he said he had a girlfriend; it was the silent wracking sobs that stole your ability to speak.
Falling in love was letting go. Letting go of the summers spent chasing fireflies and each other and the feeling of being happy. Letting go of the conversations spent trying to divine the true meaning of life. Letting go of your high school selves that knew too much and not enough.
Falling in love was the last sunset of the summer before you left, and it never really felt the same after that.
Apr 20
Apr 20, 2026 at 11:05 PM UTC
It’s 4am and all I can think about is the way we used to laugh together, like nothing bad could ever change anything that we were.
I called you best friend; I called you wife; I called you my other half. Where one was, so was the other and everything was right.
What did I do wrong?
I protected you the fiercest I knew how, held you up when the world pushed you down, held your hand through nights spent crying, talked you through panic attacks.
What do I do to get you back? What do I do to change what’s been broken?
What did I do wrong?
Mar 17
Mar 17, 2026 at 4:04 AM UTC
I am so tired of the static of radio silence.
It fuzzes
And flickers behind my eyelids
It makes my eyelashes twitch uncomfortably,
As I wait for the inevitable
SHWAAAAA
Of feedback.
Of the tv static of channels nonexistent,
At least, in our timeline.
You never know just how heavy radio silence is until you struggle to pick up the phone..
Oct 10, 2025
Oct 10, 2025 at 3:15 AM UTC
What is there to say at 3:40 in the morning,
Other than,
“I wish I could fall asleep.”
Feb 11, 2025
Feb 11, 2025 at 3:40 AM UTC
Where are we going?
I… I’m not sure. Home, I guess?
Where even is home? Your parents’ house? Your friend’s?
…No.
Then where?
I’m sorry.
For what?
For not being able to answer your question. For not being enough?
…
For being me and not someone else.
…
******?
Yeah?
I love you.
…
For what it’s worth, you’re my home.
…
I think you might be mine as well.
Jan 29, 2025
Jan 29, 2025 at 10:57 PM UTC
My mother always ends a phone conversation with ‘I love you.’
And she says that it is because you never know
When someone will be taken from you,
and I think that is true.
But her “I love you’s” have different levels;
One said in exasperation to my brothers
when they’re being particularly much
One said quietly to my sisters
as they drift slowly into their dreamscapes
and as she’s closing their door
One said matter-of-factly to me
when I am having a conversation with her.
It always takes me by surprise, and I know that it shouldn’t, but it does because the last level of her “I love you” is reserved for my father.
It is said, almost as an afterthought at the end of their phone conversations, said with frustration and almost resigned to her lot in life.
“— love you.”
The spot for the “I” is a glaring void of things left unsaid
It has given me a new greatest fear that I will grow so complacent in my relationship, in my life, that I too will end phone conversations with “—love you.”
Jul 26, 2023
Jul 26, 2023 at 1:06 PM UTC
Be all my sins remembered,
Like all of our sins before.
The sins of my flawed father,
That I, the eldest daughter bore
Be all my sins remembered
Rather than all of my good deeds
My sins are signs of my humanity
They’re signs of my shameless needs
Be all my sins remembered
Let her name forever be twined with mine
I have tasted heaven on earth
I am hers to the end of the line
Jul 8, 2023
Jul 8, 2023 at 12:03 AM UTC
When he comes home, I go into panic mode,
The walls in my brain closing in,
The bile in my throat rising,
My teeth sweating in anticipation of what is to come
When he comes home,
I hope to god that I pass beneath the radar,
Nothing more than a sigh on the breeze,
Nothing more than a ripple in a pond
Nothing for him to notice
When he comes home, I make myself as small as I can,
Hoping that he’ll ignore me like he has all these years,
But knowing that it’s a futile attempt,
Like trying to avoid the burning sun
When he comes home,
The nausea roils in my gut,
Reminding me that I am nothing,
That I will never be anything more than what he paints me to be
When he comes home,
I am reduced to “yes sir” and “no sir,”
To eyes that are glued to the ceiling or floors,
To fidgeting hands and twisting fingers
To nothing more than a decoration to stand in the corner
When he comes home,
I try to retreat to my room,
I try to give him the space that he seems to need,
I try to leave him be and let him sleep,
But nothing seems to work, and he yells all the same
When he comes home,
My home becomes nothing more than a battlefield,
One that I cannot escape,
One that there is no running from,
One from which the injuries are only seen in the trauma that is left behind
When he comes home,
My life becomes nothing more than a play,
A tragedy in which no one survives,
A performance that I am supposed to know,
But stage fright has taken over and the lines mean nothing to me now
And I am frozen, hoping for the curtains to fall to cover my fear
When he comes home,
I quietly
Exit
Stage left.
Jun 17, 2023
Jun 17, 2023 at 9:15 PM UTC
In all of my twenty years of life,
I have been many things.
A daughter
A sister
A friend
A lover
But now, I am no longer my father’s little girl.
My father doesn’t talk to me anymore;
He says that I don’t look him in the eyes,
And he is right, but not for the reason he believes
I am afraid to look him in the eyes
Because I don’t want to see myself reflected in them,
Proof of my failure to separate myself from him,
Proof that I am him and always will be him
I do not want to become my father,
Stuck in a marriage with no love left
Or love that is there
Only because it is supposed to be
I do not want to become my father,
Constantly on the verge of tiredness,
And whether that tiredness is directed at
His family or his life, I shall never know
Because I do not want to become my father
All sharp words and angry edges,
Keeping everyone around him on their toes,
Keeping my head on a swivel to not upset him
I do not want to be my father.
I do not want to make my children feel
as though they will never measure up to
Impossible standards, set way too high
I do not want to be my father,
Telling my daughter that she’s eating too much
And not looking at me enough,
Guilt-tripping her into half-hearted apologies,
Said with tears trembling in her eyes
I do not want to be my father.
I do not want my children to be frightened of me,
Dreading the thought of my arrival home
Waiting in fear of my reaction to something they’ve done
I do not want to be my father.
My home will be a gentle home,
Peaceful and quiet,
With no rage-filled shouting matches
I do not want to be my father,
Wondering where he went wrong with his daughter,
That she would stand in front of him, angry tears on her cheeks,
Screaming at him that she wishes that she were dead
I do not want to be my father.
Struggling to catch up with the times,
Grudgingly supportive of the daughter that is different,
The daughter that loves men and women,
But only because he has to be
I do not want to be my father
But I wish that sometimes,
I could be his little girl again,
Back when everything was ok
And it still felt like he loved me
I do not want to be my father,
But sometimes,
It feels as though
I will never be anything more
Jun 9, 2023
Jun 9, 2023 at 10:44 PM UTC
She is my comfort in my storm,
The breath in my lungs
The soul in every poem that I write
When her hands are on my body
And her lips are on my neck
Her name is the prayer on my tongue
May 15, 2023
May 15, 2023 at 11:40 PM UTC