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.

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.

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.

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 lush, unsettling meditation on desire and transformation, where beauty is altered by contact and rendered into something stranger, more physical, and impossible to name.

A geologically unstable essay about Iceland, repression, and falling for someone who feels like a natural disaster with excellent communication skills.