Never let anyone mock you for your harmless little hobbies. If it brings you joy and hurts no one, protect it. The people who mock small happiness usually don’t have any.

February birthed me crooked, spat me out into the cold with my ribs showing, a little creature blinking at the naked trees as if they were practicing resurrection just for me. I learned early how to grow in inhospitable weather, how to rehearse being green with shy teeth

Being human is learning that you can start over at any age, on any Tuesday.

Poetry is ancient technology. It predates empires, algorithms, and currencies. It exists because the human soul has always needed somewhere to put its wonder, terror, grief, and love. When everything else becomes transactional, poetry remains a place where meaning is allowed to

Even the moon drags whole oceans toward her. Even the snake curls its cold body toward heat. I want someone to touch me like that, to stack my bones into something holy, to vulgarize the skittish animal in me, the one that startles at kindness and still leans toward

So many people abandon their own potential before they even try, because it sounds hard. But everything fulfilling is hard. Every skill, every calling, every version of yourself you’re proud of comes with resistance. Difficulty isn’t the signal to stop. What I’ve learned is that

There’s a version of me I haven’t met yet, and she’s going to be so grateful I didn’t give up. She’s the one with a spine like a willow and a heart that still believes in morning, the one who lets the sun rest warm on her shoulders and blesses the rain the way old women

When I accidentally overshare and briefly consider not being a person anymore.

You keep being born in strange directions, I love every birth of whatever‑you‑are. Each version of you slipping out of the day’s womb, crying its first thin animal sound, like a wet, blinking miracle, carrying a different weather in its mouth. You bring each one to my feet.

From pew to poo. Incredible.

I carry a skinless heart, bright as a peeled peach, soft as August rot. People call it sadness, but it’s older than that, a kind of ancestral humidity that fogs the ribs and teaches the body to speak in drips. I was a poet before I had a tongue. Before I knew the names of

What if everything works out?

He held me like a Sunday secret, cupped in that warm, calloused bark men mistake for mercy. I was a thumb‑sized bird, all tremble and chirp, singing my foolish little heart straight into his palm. The heat around him carried a sweetness with teeth, and beneath throbbed an

re: Baby I’m yours (Breakbot) 🐍

They don’t make whimsy like this anymore. Bring back this kind of magic✨

You rag and bone oracle of almost-you, sweet tongued in a lover’s skin, you. I keep finding your fingerprints on the future, smudged like a prophecy that never learned to stand upright. You speak in half truths and heat sick promises, the kind that bloom only in the dark and

The world is still doing gentle things when no one is watching.

Snow is a reminder to cook something warm, read something slow, write something true, and remember we’re human.

My daughter looked at me and told me she loves me for millions and millions of worlds. I don’t think I’ll ever find a clearer explanation for the meaning of life or our purpose than that.