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Growing up, I never felt like I had much family. My parents moved my sisters and I from our hometown of Sycamore, Illinois to a suburb of San Diego a few months before I turned two — too young to recognize the monumental change, but young enough to feel like California was the only home…

Cracks in the asphalt  Filled with what looks like black glue Cover the streets  All the way to town.  Crowded tree-lined streets with  Strangely designed ancient homes. Some are green or purple, Others have ornate gates, But they all have emerald lawns  The oily black stripes  Hold the gray asphalt together  Assaulted winter after winter …

I think they pick up the garbage On Fridays Because by Wednesday  Bloated, bulging bags line the street.  By Thursday, the sidewalks are decreased To one-way traffic  Made narrow by towers of it.  But by Friday,  They’re relieved.  This week,  Christmas trees join the junk on the curb  Dying and laid on their sides  Sucked…

I was misunderstood from a young age. I remember staring up at my parents, begging and pleading, quite clearly, I thought, but all they heard was babble. All anyone ever heard was babble. I eventually stopped trying and resorted to silence. People were afraid of me, I suppose. When the hysteria began, I tried to…

Every sunrise marks a new day, But only some begin a new year. It’s a day like any other Made significant by fresh calendars, Resolutions bound to go unmet, Empty bottles, Smeared mascara, Sore hips from sleeping on a floor That isn’t your’s. This year, There will be no parties, Or strangers, Champagne corks, Shared…

Utter Silence  So quiet  It makes noise  A ringing static You can hear  Fizz through the air  Tickling your eardrums  Giving you that feeling  That something is missing Cancer Something so statuesque in the form  Beauty beyond time  Beauty in essence Yet something filthies the frame Like a tea-stained letter  Tainted  Bones are gray and…

I can’t hear the rain hit the ground from my apartment; we’re too far away. Six floors doesn’t feel like much until you ride the elevator on your daily commute. We live on the top floor — the buildings are shorter in Harlem. Older, too. When I stand on my fire escape, I’m invisible to…

One of the reasons I find life so painful is that, when boiled down, it’s just a series of little messes and pains. Cat puke on the carpet, an overflowed bathtub, stubbed toes, spilt milk. And yeah, there’s no use crying over it, any of this, but reality chips away at me with a chisel…

We do our silly little jobs, run our silly little errands, live our silly little lives. When does it end? Aflame, grinding away till all that remains is ash at our feet. I should quit my job and file for unemployment. Might as well enjoy the twenty-odd years we may or may not have left. …