Between the Monkey Bars

 A poem for my not-so-wee-anymore wee one. Little Brown Feet   “Little brown feet.” Your lips curve like a crescent moon when I say it, ...

Depression doesn't always "look" like depression. In the Shower My wrist mimics the motion of the rounded metal valve as I spi...

Alone on a Sunday Morning   I stand at the kitchen sink, peeling boiled eggs, fingertips grasping at the hardened opaque membrane. Cracked s...

I have a somewhat embarrassing confession to make: I didn’t know the details of what happened to George Floyd until about four days af...

I remember my first crush. We were in first grade, and his name was Chris. He had freckles and curly brown hair that was always in slight ...

*taps mic, or—more literally—computer keyboard* “Hello? This thing on? Anyone here?” Greetings to whatever straggling followers I ...

And I No Longer Like the Word “Recovery” Disclaimer: It’s been a long time since I’ve formally written anything, so I’m admittedly (an...