A Question on Secrets


I am too young to be burdened down by the moments from the past that have bruised me. My tongue will no longer be still, it will dance with the truths that others chose to act in. I am not a burden, I am not a slut, I am not a soulmate to crush for a twisted version of love where only one comes alive while the other buries themselves to hide under the stacks of lies where relationships are hammers wanting to kill instead of building a place where integrity spills. I will be clean from your secrets you gave me.

A Question on Words

I took a writing class and feared writing afterwards. I read all my words in the voice of my professor, criticizing and throwing around the word ‘cliche’. Why did it seem as if that was the deadliest word to ever be said?

I posted an honest poem and feared sharing afterwards. I got a message from my past, reminding me of all the reasons they hated me. Why did it seem my past mistakes were worth hiding my growth for?

I drink too much at a wedding and lay dizzy in bed, it was the first time around all my childhood friends. I was anxious for weeks at what they may have said.  Why was I scared that they had seen that I had grown up?

Why do I fear words so much, why do they echo as if they were a religious chant, designed for blocking out demons when in reality they create more turmoil within?

When will words lose control, and when do I take that role?

A Question on Home


I have found
in all my travels,
in all my stability,
that feels like
a piece of home
worth planting;
Only parts
of a brickwork
blocking me
even further
from the
of my past
home is feeling,
but no,
home is not a feeling,
for feelings are fleeting;
Home instead
is a story
gathered by memories,
fought by disease,
won by the salt
that comes
from laughter
and pain
mixing together
to create
a new frame
only to be broken
but built once more.
Is home the constant
destruction of comfort
in order to realize
the comfort in chaos?

A Question on Echoes

Scan 10

It has taken two years for me to be able to sit through a church service without having to leave to compose myself from anxiety. Anxiety. Anxiety. That word is thrown around so much, it hardly has it’s own meaning anymore. By that word, I mean, a feeling that takes over my entire body where my head goes hot, my eyes blur, and my heart beats at an non-traditional pace. If someone were to hold my shaky hand during this, chances are there hand will turn as white as my face as I pick an object and focus all my attention on it in order to not scream. What would I scream? I have no idea. But I need to. Once my mind realizes I will not scream, it goes onto to the next thing it can think of: Crying. But back to my original statement, it has taken two years. At that time, someone spoke some words about me and to me that my brain decided to tattoo all over my identity. I breathed those words, I danced with them, I fell asleep chanting them, I woke up in a sweat because of them. I was convinced they were true. They aren’t, but that didn’t silence them. In my experience most people hurt by the church confuse God with the person who hurt them, most likely because that person confused themselves with God. How different my life would be if everyone, including myself, let humans be humans and God be God, whatever both those things mean. .


A Question on Faith

_MG_7853-1How am I to carry the weight of all these questions within my soul, and still go about calmly, as if the earth did not seem a great void of endless mystery? However, this mystery isn’t a particular kind of one, easily solved by a few hours of careful consideration and paperwork. No, this mystery goes beyond my own sight, and it is I in the midst of it all. This whole question involves God, family, love, theology, Christianity, religion, relationships, sin, millennials, technology, the internet, writing, beliefs, and everything else in life. I was recently told I was a “deep thinker” and that is why I struggle so much with what others around me seem to accept blindly. (Or, I should say, it appears blindly through my skeptic sight), but I believe I struggle because not only am I a deep thinker, but I am also an endless feeler. If I think about hell, the devil, sin, I feel all of those things. It can be unbearable at times. How does one study theology and not live in a constant state of fear? There surely is very little we can actually prove we are right on, am I do dedicate my life to that? Yes, I suppose I have already made my decision to believe in the God of the Bible, but I suppose now, but fear is, does God believe in me?

A Question on Mochas

IMG_1098I cripple myself, over situations and things someone else I envy could forget immediately after they happened. How can I order at this cafe, oh God, where is the line, is this the line, okay the barista smiled, everything is okay, wait what do I want, oh no, why am I shaking, there’s someone behind me, just order the first thing that comes to your head, get this over with, a mocha please. Always a mocha. Even if I didn’t want a mocha, it’s always a mocha. So I’ll wait patiently for my mocha, pretending to text someone just to avoid eye-contact with the barista but in reality I’m just refreshing some social media feed thinking breathe, just breathe, over and over and over again. Some think  I’m on my phone too much, that I can’t be present, but I’m too present, which is why I need my phone in my hand. Or anything in my hand. A book, a puzzle, a pencil, my boyfriend’s hand. Anything, anything to keep my mind quiet. If I didn’t have my phone, I would be crying after I ordered that mocha, because I stumbled over please and didn’t have my money out before I got there and so I had to stand there, alone, while the barista looked at me and I felt one thousand imaginary thoughts go from their head to my heart. None of that is happening, but I convince myself it is. When I want to feel, to write, to let myself cry, I go away from all those things, and poetry comes out. But I cannot let it flow constantly, the waves would drown me. But everyday, every visit, every caffeinated beverage, it is getting easier. Today I ordered an iced latte.

A Question on Age


It is very strange to grow up and see a friend gain a spouse while another gains depression. To see religion consume a life and anxiety another. I see tears over fictional boys and rips left by husbands turned strangers. A sister dreads a baby while a brother welcomes his. I am young, seen as fresh, yet I feel weathered and worn within. I am told to enjoy my youth: “You will want these days of simplicity back.” they exclaim with a certain type of sadness that only flashes in their eyes for a moment. If this is simplicity, how am I to hold, emotionally and physically, the torture that must come with age? Or should I say, the increasing torture, as the constant chaos residing in my heart and my mind keeps me awake at night yet hinders me from rising each morning. Whatever this is, I feel it in my veins, as if it is spreading throughout my body. I crave peace, yet I fear speaking things out loud. I am not composed when I speak the hurts I live with, and it is not that I am embarrassed, I just do not wish to bother anyone with my tears. People often don’t take them seriously, and I am very serious about fixing myself, as well as finding those who feel the same and showing that even if the chaos reminds, you are stronger than the pain that lines within. I know this because despite my chaos, I am still here.