In the delirium of pain, a speaker discovers that there is something almost luxurious about suffering that does not lie. Bitter, surreal, and acid-tongued, the poem drifts through fever, betrayal, and the humiliating relief of a wound with no hidden agenda.

When the body becomes easier to understand than the heart, even infection can start to feel merciful. This poem uses Lyme disease as a darkly comic point of contrast, exposing the absurdity of preferring physical illness to the chaos of intimate harm.

A well-read woman is a dangerous thing to want. This poem is for the ones with recall, restraint, and the good sense not to spoil the ending.

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.