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.

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.

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 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 raw narrative about the aftermath of emotional damage, where body shame, silence, and mental distress become the record of what a relationship took.

A raw, conflicted trauma narrative that examines the pull of loving someone volatile, where devotion feels like protection and danger becomes indistinguishable from safety.

A raw, unflinching trauma narrative that captures the isolation of bipolar depression, exposing the distance between offered support and true presence, and the brutal persistence required to stay alive.

A sharp, unflinching trauma narrative that examines lovebombing as a form of psychological conditioning, tracing how intensity becomes addiction and how its aftermath distorts the way love is recognized.

A searing trauma narrative that uses fire as a metaphor for loving someone unraveling, capturing the disorientation, manipulation, and aftermath of escaping a relationship that consumed everything.

A fierce, intimate essay that explores bipolar disorder through the lens of caregiving, tracing the tension between high-functioning professionalism and private collapse.

A sharper, more feral remix of Hey Nurse!, this poem reclaims the nurse beneath the echo, naming burnout, grief, and rage with its teeth still in.

A darkly satirical poem in which nursing documentation becomes the container for death, family devastation, and the impossible administrative fiction of “stable.”