My anxious attachment will kill me one day.

And I could blame my father, my trauma,

but it is only the fault of my own weakness.

I’m such a fool for the thought of love – full of desperate, useless hope.

I cling to feelings of extreme because everything, anything else,

feels secondary to the ache of wanting.

Cursed with the blessing
to break the chain
of generational trauma,
of generational pain.

My son will never know
the threat of hell
or eternal damnation at the hand of His name.

He will never be forced
to sit quietly
in an stiff, odd smelling pew,
singing songs of praise
to a fictional man.

Memorizing rules and lessons
from a book
that’s used so often as a weapon
to condemn.

Cherry-picking laws
for thee,
but not for them.

He will never know the fear,
the increasing build of anxiety
surging through his body
after the screams begin –

“Get in your room
and wait for me there.
I better not hear a thing
from you until then!”

He will never feel the pain,
the humiliation
of being thrown over my knee,
bare bottom exposed,
tears pouring from his face,
pleading for forgiveness-

“I’m sorry.
I’ll never do it again.”

That shock from the belt
hitting a fingertip
as he tries to protect
his rear end’s soft tenderness.

And then the soreness of his seat
for the next week.

Nor will he ever feel
the rage of my anger,
Or the neglect of throwing him
into his room,
slamming the door
as I scream for silence.

Isolation
for hours,
days at a time,
all because my grown up emotions
feel too big.

Sobs turned silent,
while his eyes burn red,
each new tear
a fresh sting.

Screaming into the pillow
because no one hears his pain.
Self-soothing
until his body finally falls –
exhausted,
depleted of everything.

A peaceful nap.
A moment of calm.
Until he wakes and it begins again.

My son will never know
the pain
of needing the love
that never came.

Have you noticed how teenage boys
and some men –

especially the ones with Peter Pan syndrome –
think pussy is the pinnacle,
the peak of existence,

yet never learn how to speak
to the ones who own them.

And they’ll throw rocks
at women who bed multiple men.

While the ones who are actually pussy
are terrified of creating anything
that resembles a foundation.

But that isn’t a fair comparison.

Because a pussy has more strength
than those childish men.

Disrespecting their mothers
while believing the portal of life
should simply be handed to them.

They want the pleasure
without the woman problems.

The prize without the bitch.

The portal without ever understanding
what it took to create it.

The Florida summer heatwaves always
end in thunderstorms –

born from something quiet and beautiful,
ripening slowly toward ruin.

Bite into it before it spoils.
Beautiful things are already beginning to decay.

Desire is a fruit
best eaten with bare hands.

So I press the bruise.
I twist the knife.

There is something dangerous about wanting.

And I nurse a hunger
that cannot be satiated,

because I wanted you to know.

And I wonder,

Do all the critters I’ve helped along the way
sing my praises to Mother Gaia,
or whisper to the universe
of the grace I gave?

And do my yard birds tweet out reviews
of the bird seed I leave,
the sanitation of their bird bath,
and the quality of seed?

And my murder of crows,
now up to six –
do they send caws of approval
to their brethren hidden where?

And my gang of baby squirrels,
always chasing each other’s tails,
do they gossip to each other
about the peanuts I’ve left there?

Ah, but then again,
I don’t really care.

I’m just happy
they feel safe enough
to stay near.

I once had the perfect lover.

We’d meet every two weeks, barely speaking in between. He drove an ostentatious yellow Corvette. A helicopter pilot, serving in the Army. Huge biceps, strong lips. He had mommy issues, but a wit that could keep me company.

We both knew we weren’t compatible for anything beyond lust, pleasure, desire – a carnal disease.

We’d meet for dinner, catch up, flirt and tease. A caress and a kiss here, an inappropriate hidden touch there. Then we’d race back to his place in that awful, loud yellow car. His hand separating my knees.

His house was just as huge and ostentatious, but it had my dream backyard: a pool overlooking the lake, a hammock swinging beneath the trees.

We christened every inch of it, on multiple evenings.

I think he married some tiny, fit blonde thing. I think maybe they had a kid or are expecting to be. I’m not sure.

But I should call him.

The pediatrician’s office waiting room.

Clinically white walls.

Twenty-two chairs, seven adults, nine children,
two babies, one TV.

Then there’s my son and me.

We enter, sit down in the corner quietly.
He sits in my lap,
anxious at the thought he may need a vax.

About our plans, we chit-chat,
about yesterday evening,
how he’s excited for school,
and how proud I am.

Then I feel eyes hot on my shoulder,
a glare from across the room.

Did our whispered conversation have the audacity to disturb?

I look around, and I notice a pattern.

Not a face looking forward.

Even the kids are shoved into tablets,
each individual obsessed with their screen,
their digital distractions filled with tiny hits of dopamine.

How dare I connect with my child.
Such a thought, obscene.

I wonder what these grown-ups look like to the only other screen-free ones in the room –

the fucking babies.

We must look like aliens to them,
a weird species with small rectangles connected to our limbs.

How fucking sad.

No one knows how to be bored anymore.

We all reach for a screen.

And I can’t judge too harshly, because I, too, fall victim to the escape addiction,
with my tiny handheld computer of infinite knowledge.

I just wish we’d all fucking break free.

My most favorite colors don’t live in the rainbow.

They live in evening sunlight through a glass of sweet tea,
the bluish purple shimmer of freshly fallen snow,
Cherenkov radiation blue,
the magical grey of the Spanish moss laying across the branches of the oak tree,
the sparkle of the reflection of the sun on the waves,
the warm glow from fireflies blinking in a humid summer field at dusk,
the pale pink, purple underside of a thundercloud at sunset,
the nostalgic glow of multicolored incandescent Christmas lights,
the worn yellow of old library pages,
the opal colors trapped inside a soap bubble.

And my favorite, above all  –

the orange of the sun shining through my son’s ears when he was once so small.

The moon has never expected me to remain whole for long.

It understands phases, cycles, transformation.

And beneath this Buck Moon, find me half wild, fingertips pushing against the current, singing silly little songs of anguish filled with tongue-rot romance and wet-bread devotion.

I will no longer apologize for the quiet space my soul requires.

You can never optimize my rage, reduce me to another algorithmic archetype, while artificial intelligence steals literature and our rivers, streams, and fresh waters are drained.

Some days I could sleep all day, dream away the pain.

Are my emotions storms to survive, or merely turbulent seasons of change?

The beat drops.
So do I.

I know I’m not entirely insane.

I wonder,
if I were never to reach out again,
how many doors would slowly close?

And if i were to reach out on a terrible day,
how many more would slam?

And should I disappear without a trace,
never murmuring a word of where I am…

Who would even notice?
Who would give a damn?

I wonder,
do I fear the seal of those doors,
or rather the feeling that I’ll endure behind them?

Abandonment – when my emotions win.
Seclusion – when my anxiety won’t stop again.
Loneliness  – I have only one true friend.
Clarity – I never actually needed them.

When one door closes,
another one opens…
But what about 20 of them?

And well, Mom and Dad – you’ll be ashamed to know that I’ve never stopped crying.

I’m a mother now.

I have grown and birthed a child – from a seed to a human.

And I have learned many things, but the lesson that lingers, the one that hurts the most, is realizing how easy I should have been to love.

Because my son – he is just like me.

Just like I was, before I was told:

You’re too emotional, too distracted, too loud, too hyper, too misbehaved, too messy, too nosy, too bossy, too much.

I see his curiosity. His love for life. His hunger to learn.

I see his mistakes, his messes, his accidents – each an opportunity to teach – not to shame, not to berate, and never to become irate.

And I can’t help but wonder who I might have become if even one grown up had offered me that same grace.

Instead of seeing a child who was “always too much, a problem child… a burden.” I wish just one of them had seen a child who simply needed to be loved.

I have salt in my tears,
seafoam in my veins,
sand-colored skin, speckled
with fragments of tiny shells,
eyes that shift through shades of blue,
an insatiable need to be free.
I understand
the language of the sea.

A mid-June summer day,
and evening finally arrives.
Your skin is still damp
from swimming in the pool all day.

Sun-kissed and cooled
by the caress of a gentle breeze,
dinner is enjoyed outside
in the golden light of dusk.

Corn on the cob, hot dogs,
and ripe, juicy watermelon-
no utensils, only your hands,
while swatting away the pesky flies.

The cicadas scream,
and the crickets and owls join in.
An ice cream truck’s jingle drifts in the distance,
each voice singing its own natural hymn.

What a wonderful evening-
to feel grateful simply to live,
as though it’s summer and I’m twelve again,
in a season filled with memories and friends.

I love the spaces that make me feel small-

Forests where ancient trees tower,
cities where skyscrapers swallow the sun,
ocean shores stretching into eternity,
the vast darkness between the stars,
the mountains where waterfalls become streams.

Each humbling. Each speaking a different truth.

Together they remind me –
the world is far greater than my worries,
my ambitions, and even my own brief existence.

In their grandness, I find perspective,
and in feeling small, I continue my growth.

Even in the empty rooms of my heart,
you will find me dancing.
Bones calcify, and broken clocks stop time,
but the fallacy of crying pretty
becomes factual when tonight’s tears fall.

Blue eyes, dark nights
carry me through the necessary pain.
As these roots tear through my skin,
there is a tenderness in these endings.
In the quietness of my twisted heart,
where even the darkness is friendly.

So I seek out another shadow
and follow this path worn soft with sorrow,
until I fall to my knees,
underneath the umbrella of blooming trees.

I wish I could be 18 again,
so I could never fall in love with him,
never go to that college,
and never confide in that person.

I’d run away sooner,
never, ever support him,
avoid that friendship,
and again, dont fall in love with him.

I’d warn myself of some poor choices
and the permanent impact they make,
I’d forgive my mother sooner
and tell my father to fuck off.

I’d never take that one job
and I’d stay with that friend longer,
I’d visit my people more often,
be more present in each moment.

I’d learn how to love myself sooner,
read more and gain knowledge,
I’d travel everywhere I could,
and hope I never experience this reverie.

Wildflowers by the highways
When sun rays escape through the clouds
The smell of old books
A freshly packed bowl
Sheets fresh from the dryer
A handwritten love letter
Rain drops on hot pavement
A big band orchestra vinyl

A Blue Moon in Sagittarius –
a rare celestial invitation
to zoom out, embrace adventure,
and see life from a wider horizon.

Shed limiting beliefs.
Pursue authenticity.
Step boldly toward the destinations
calling your name.

My truth is my compass.
I aim high.
I trust the path as it unfolds.
I release what no longer aligns
with my highest vision.

Expansion and adventure are my birthright.
My wild spirit is free and untamed.
The arrow of my intention flies true.

Once in a blue moon,
the universe reminds me
just how far I am meant to go.

Like the moon pulling the tide,
or rain nourishing wildflowers.

Like a star carrying a wish,
or roots reaching for their branches.

Like wind dancing with the chimes,
and each sunrise asking for another chance-

The way music awakens memory,
the way coffee invites conversation.

The way candlelight casts a shadow,
and poets sing of heartache.

The way dandelions cradle desire,
and mountains answer with echoes.

Like lovers through a slow dance,
or a garden asking only for patience.

Like nights heavy with secrets,
and lips whispering confessions.

Like love and vulnerability,
distance and devotion.

Like a heart stubbornly full of hope –
and my certain undoing,
Some things seem destined for one another.

Screens, screens, screens.
My tiny handheld screen,
the midsized screen for work,
the larger screen for escape.

Screens in the cars,
in the bars,
at the nail salon,
the coffee shop,
the brewery,
and in the children’s hands-
neck pain and eye strain
before they’re really humans.

Screens for meetings,
screens for menus,
screens for every fucking thing.

Screens, screens, screens,
while somewhere beneath the static,
I scream, scream, scream.

Fifty men, one inbox.
The same lame pickup lines,
the same awkward attempts
to conversate.

Few understand my wit.
Fewer understand my sarcasm.
None reach my depth.
None notice how quietly I drown.

Few would care.
Fewer would stay
once the surface breaks.

Fifty men, one inbox.
One woman constantly desired,
yet somehow
still never truly seen.

I’ll always love the way
ocean waves
caress the shore,
and Spanish moss
drapes lazily from the branches.

The way tree roots
greet the river,
and the river
embraces the bank.

The sun hangs high in the sky
while the heavens
reach gently for the earth.

And the way soft lips
meet soft skin,
reminding me
that I am only human.

I know I can be a little bit dramatic,
but my heart is in the right place.
And my life’s been a bit traumatic,
so I’m a little awkward, a little out of place.

But I’m passionate, and my love runs deep.
My emotions often take the wheel.
I cry, I sob, I weep.

Vulnerability, trust,
only wanting to feel seen.
Abandonment, lust,
always seeking dopamine.

I’m an overthinker
and a dreamer,
and my imagination is quite impressive,
so without spoken words,
my thoughts become aggressive.

A defense mechanism, if you will.

And sometimes I just don’t know
when the fuck to chill.

We sit on the floor listening to vinyl for hours until your head ends up in my lap and you’re opening up about all your inner wounds as I scratch your head until you fall asleep.

Something beautiful is coming,
something real, and rich – I can feel it.
A manifestation, or maybe just a wish,
but this time, I refuse to doubt,
I’ll let my optimism win.

Because there’s a memory fading,
even as I desperately reach,
There’s a human-shaped hole
in the center of my heart,
despite how carefully I keep myself guarded.

Now, late spring has arrived,
and I think of all the fresh fruit
eaten standing over the sink,
the reflection in the mirror,
everything but the skin.

I think of those emotionally liminal spaces
where you still seem to live.
And all the apologies I never sent,
because vulnerability feels like torture
when placed in your hands.

But alas, the sun is shining,
my skin – soft, warm and tanned.
My freckles are happy, life’s a beach,
because every dream meant for me
is going to bloom within reach.

Why won’t you just say it?
Speak it – softly, loudly, however it may be,
so that I may finally walk free.

Because my relentless hopefulness
is both a power and a curse.

My mind screams
what my heart already knows,
and still,
I would crawl through flames
just to reach you.

So spare my aching heart.
Place the truth in my hands.
For I am so painfully aware,
and yet still, I yearn.

Ruin me with honesty
so I can finally break free
from the curse
of my desire for someone
who only enjoys being wanted.

My importance to you is minuscule.
You think of me in rare passing
while I battle the gravity
of your existence
day and night.

To you, I am dust
collecting in the corner,
a tarnished penny
abandoned in the street.

You lie through your teeth,
expressing desire for my presence,
and still, you let me fall victim
to your deceit
over and over.

So just whisper the truth.
Tell me how I am nothing to you
but emotional convenience –
kept close enough to ache,
but never close enough
to matter.

Oh yeah, this is ✨️36✨️

I normally try to write some poetic recap of my learnings from another year earth side, but I’m just so tired. So here’s my top 3 in raw language:

Becoming a parent is by far the most difficult, yet rewarding experience I have ever endured. Not because of my child or his behaviors, but because I’m having to relearn everything I know. I have to face every emotional trigger, every little piece of unresolved trauma, every big feeling consciously and carefully now. I AM the model for how my son will navigate through life therefore it is MY responsibility to heal, to continue to grow and to protect his peace. He should never feel the rain from my storm. ☔️

It really is the damn phones (ironically as I type this on mine for people on the internet to read). While I do appreciate the benefits – connections, community, unity, information, my literal career – there’s a time and place. We’ve become dependent on our rectangular hand portals and missing out on a whole lot of peace. Scheduled time offline is not a luxury, but an absolute necessity. We’re meant to be naked collecting berries, tf is Microsoft Teams?!

Appreciate everything. Or at least try to. Life is hard, and can be REALLY shitty at times. You can either embrace it as an annoying lesson or you can waste more energy with anger towards it. Your energy is sacred and scarce – protect it carefully. 💖🫶

So yeah. That’s it for now.

TL;DR: Here’s to another rotation around the sun filled with lessons, blessings and so many memories.

Another rotation around the sun,
another year of life begun.

I keep outliving versions of me
I once swore I couldn’t.

More lessons learned,
more memories made.

I used to pray for easier days –
now I just ask to be stronger.

Another candle,
another quiet chance
to begin again
without asking permission
from my past.

From the blue jay to the dragonfly,
to the palms swaying in the breeze,
from the squirrels to the hibiscus,
to the wise old oak tree.

From the clouds to the sunshine,
to the wind flirting with the leaves,
swimming and daydreaming,
ignoring responsibilities –

these are a few of my favorite things.

Another birthday quickly approaches,
another rotation around the sun –
a year of reflection,
lessons and mistakes
that cannot be undone.

Every year,
I believe this will be my last,
and yet here I remain
to see another pass.
Unsure if I survive out of spite,
desperation, stubbornness,
strength or quiet fright.

But another year older,
another year survived.
Maybe this will be the one
where I don’t just endure –
but finally,
truly,
thrive.