Some Updates

Hello, readers, friends, etc.

This post is probably the hardest for me to write. Unfortunately, for health reasons, I’ve struggled this year posting weekly poems and after missing so many weeks in a row, I’ve decided to take a break from posting in order to focus on getting and staying healthy.

Poetry and writing are such important and effective coping mechanisms for me to deal with my world, and while posting has become difficult, I am still writing. I hope to share some of my work from these months come April during my National Poetry Month challenge, which turns six this year.

When I started this blog, it was a creative outlet for a college freshman who needed a voice. I can’t express how grateful I am and how happy it makes me that so much later, so many of you have read and connected to the poetry I write. Thank you for all the comments, the feedback, and even just the quick glance. I appreciate it so much.

Many wishes for the new year,



Week 18 – November


I wind my scarf around my neck.
The leaves blow into my arms as I walk to the subway.
It is cold again, and I am glad to feel each breath in my lungs.

I will let the trees remind me, it is time again to let go.

Week 17 – I Could Write About the Rain

I Could Write About the Rain

I could write about the rain.

I could write about wet umbrellas,
About the keys in my coat pocket,
The puddles around the bean boots on my feet.

I could write about how for the first time in a long time, I am learning to trust my muscles.

I could write how I am learning, again, to swim.


Week 16 – These Mixed-Up Pieces, Part II

These Mixed-Up Pieces, Part II

The flames don’t last forever,
I tell myself, stitch the sinews and put each piece of china back in place.
I am a mosaic of mixed up pieces,
Of scars and lines and my life,
Tattooed to my heart like the sun across the sky, my story smoothed by time and a thousand eyes reading, reading.

I am a painting, built from layers, scrubbed over and made clean to be built again.

I am a survivor.


Week 15 – Please, Stop Calling Me Beautiful

I don’t often preface my poems. This week, the hashtag, and really, movement, of #metoo came alive on Twitter and Facebook. It is very hard for me to speak about my experiences, that these things have happened to me. So I do what I do best, and I wrote about them.

I wrote this poem a week after I attended the American League Wild Card Game at Yankee Stadium with my dad. I love baseball, I love baseball with my father, and I was so excited to take him to see Aaron Judge hit a home run. This poem is the story of my trip home from Penn Station in the New York City subway system, after my dad and I had split, so he could go home to New Jersey, and I could go home to Brooklyn.

Please, enjoy. This one is so near and dear to my heart.

Please, Stop Calling Me Beautiful

Please, stop calling me beautiful.

It is 12:30am and I’ve just dropped my father off at NJ Transit,
My sweater still smells a little bit like ballpark and the chants of the Wild Card game still echo in my head.
I am ready to go home, anticipating work tomorrow,
I walk all the way back through the A train corridors to arrive at the local track.

You walk behind me, call me beautiful and I take my headphones out, you call me beautiful again and I smile, you follow me as I walk to the stairs and I wonder if I will ever find a corner I can hide in, but the subway is empty and again you call me beautiful.

You ask me why, you ask me, you say beautiful, why can’t we be friends.

I smile because now you give me no voice.

We can’t be friends because you act like it’s a favor as you tell me you’ll leave me alone, act like it’s a favor that I walk down the platform to a different car, sit still and straight for the trip home but also can’t sit still, knowing that going home from a baseball game can’t ever be as simple as it is for my father, for my brother, for my friend.

I can be told to get home safe, to text when I unlock my door,
I can be told to watch my purse and be aware of my surroundings,
Keep my headphones in and let the men slip around me like the taxis on the street.
I can be told to take trains early, to stick with crowds, to call an Uber, to do any of the many things women know from childhood,
A subway ride home from the Yankees game at midnight is a bad idea, a game of chance, a lottery.

I wonder when it will be the time you show me and don’t tell me that you think I’m beautiful, when you don’t give me a choice to run away.

I know I am beautiful.

Please, stop calling me beautiful.