Short Story — We’re driving 40 miles per hour on the Pacific Coast Highway. I’m sitting in the passenger seat with my window rolled down. The ocean air slips into our car and overcomes the scent of 90s leather. My hair gets tossed behind me like ribbons. …

Short Story — You stick your plastic spoon into your thick yellow soup. It’s hot. I can see the steam coming from it as it meets the cool air around us. You stir it a little, and I think about how they didn’t give you a spoon last time. When we arrived home…

Personal Essay — “Seagull,” I say as the silver outline flies far above our heads; the heat of the afternoon lays over our bodies like hot water. “We aren’t near the beach. What’s a seagull doing here?” I add. “I don’t see it,” you say; I look up, and just like that, it’s gone. And under this warm afternoon, time slips, slows, and bends. The silence that follows makes me drowsy and blurs my sense of self into the car seat. Into the air that smells of asphalt. Into the bright gloss of vehicles that are parked near us.

Personal Essay — “I don’t know how to say it,” I half-murmur and half-stutter inside my 2004 Toyota Corolla that isn’t actually mine, just another thing I borrowed from others. “It’s just — this is going to sound horrible. I just get attached to people, you know?” From our windshield, my boyfriend and…

Poem — My head struggles to think of anything longer than ten words. Like the celery in my fridge, it went bad. Sadly, I can’t replace it. Originally written on March 8, 2020 Published in The Winter Door (page 26) on March 15, 2023

Prose Poetry — Stories that became short stories that became bite-sized notes that became poem-shaped sentences that became loose words with punctuations; a scripted “I can’t write anymore” now kept close for when someone remembers to ask, “whatever happened with that writing thing you did?” All I know now is that good things end too soon, emptiness lingers the longest, and talent goes quick like the years we forget to count.

Have you tried sleeping eight hours a day? Have you tried eating three times a day? Have you tried maintaining a routine? Have you tried a new occupation? Have you tried volunteering? Have you tried exercising more? Have you tried warm showers? Have you tried supplements? Have you tried sunlight? Have you tried journaling? Have you tried mindfulness? Have you tried changing your thoughts? Have you tried crying less? Have you tried moving on? Have you tried trusting people? Have you tried antidepressants? Have you tried making lists?

Personal Essay — A chairlift machine slowly carries Karina and me from one side of the amusement park to the other. The night sky, with its salty breath, nibbles our ankles. “Haven’t you felt weird being here?” I ask Karina as our two-person seat creeks and hums to its own rhythm. “Like, I miss home, and being here makes me sad.” “Not really,” Karina answers, our feet hovering far above the ground. “I like the freedom here.”

Prose Poetry — I’ve dreamt of my teeth falling out as early as I could say my own name. Scattering like coins on a sidewalk. Chin painted red. No one ever helps. Maybe, this is the body’s way of remembering itself. The toothless infants we used to be. A time where we didn’t carry danger in our mouths. And if this were true, then I wouldn’t be so different from my body. Returning to a past over and over again. Hardly recognizing the present because the present often feels modest — the way that home won’t feel like home until you miss it for the very first time.