Lyme disease turns the body into a house that cannot sleep. As exhaustion rots into something stranger, the infection becomes a presence in the walls: unseen, restless, and rearranging the locks from inside.

Across a shelf crowded with little bottles, a woman searches for the version of herself medicine keeps promising to restore. Using Wonderland’s potions, mushrooms, and Caterpillar logic, the poem traces side effects, failed treatment, and the exhaustion of being asked to keep changing while no one seems to listen to who she already is.

In a world that keeps moving the threshold, a woman learns to mistake shrinking for progress and self-erasure for transformation. Through Wonderland’s bottles, keyholes, and changing proportions, the poem examines the cruel promise that life will become easier if only the body becomes small enough.

Found Pages • 7/6/2025
A poem about the way love can alter perception, making ordinary light, silence, color, and time feel newly alive. It captures the moment when loving someone seems to soften the entire world, before you know how quickly that world can change.

Found Pages • 7/5/2025
Written three months into a relationship, this poem lives inside the gravity of new love: touch, possibility, vulnerability, and the belief that two people might be moving toward something lasting. In hindsight, it reads as a snapshot taken just before the trajectory changed.

Found Pages • 7/7/2025
A love poem about distance, devotion, and finding someone in the night sky when you can’t reach them in person. Written in the strange, hopeful space where longing still feels temporary and love feels bright enough to guide the way home.

Found Pages • 7/4/2025
A quiet meditation on missing someone without letting absence swallow the relationship whole. This poem holds onto the small things, laughter, memory, anticipation, as a way of surviving the space between one moment together and the next.

Found Pages • 7/5/2025
A poem about the early certainty of love, when three months can feel both impossibly new and strangely familiar. It captures the tenderness of believing you have only begun to discover someone.

At the edge of a carefully tended world, a woman watches beauty, breeding, and silence work together to conceal what should have been named. The poem uses Wonderland’s garden to examine class adjacency, Catholic shame, and the cost of growing up as the wrong kind of flower in a family that prized appearances above tenderness.

A tick leaves behind something far larger than its bite: a body gone strange, hostile, and impossible to trust. The poem descends into the grotesque aftermath of Lyme disease, where pain flickers room to room and the body becomes a haunted place still trying to name what entered it.

At the edge of a crowded tea table, a woman searches for the hidden rules that never seem to apply kindly to her. The poem uses Wonderland to render the ache of masking, overstimulation, and being made to feel out of place in rooms that insist there is no room at all.

Not fate. Not flowers. Just one clean motion and a whole nervous system folding in the passenger seat. A poem about how quickly competence can turn into lust.

Little green army men around the bed: a perimeter, a punchline, a prayer. A poem about trying to protect yourself from the person you invited in anyway.

A birthday poem that reads like a confession, a reckoning, and a dare to keep going. It gathers the quiet devastations of one life and turns them into something precise, unsentimental, and painfully alive.

A literary mouth-off dressed in Oz imagery: this poem moves through yellow roads, false kingdoms, and poppy fields to ask what courage means when silence has already chosen its side.

A nurse who has spent years holding the line for everyone else is forced to confront the limits of devotion. A sharp poem about helplessness, procedure, and the awful fluency of continuing after your life has split open.

A deep-sea bloom is torn open by the first thing powerful enough to reach its depth. What remains is a poem of bloodied water, black coral, and the brutal afterlife of misrecognition.

She disappears into dark water, and desire follows close behind. Set in moonlight and undertow, this poem drifts into the charged space where surrender starts to feel like instinct.

A lush, erotic meditation on contact and transformation, where kelp and silk entwine into a darker, more intimate form of beauty. What emerges is not innocence but aftermath.

A recursive poem of longing and self-interrogation, where memory and emotional exhaustion collapse into the ache of missing someone who once felt safe.