A dream that shouldn’t have to be a dream (and what we can build right now) If you removed the budget caps. If you lifted the policies...

High school was starting, and I was a mess. All I could think about back then was finding a soulmate. I met my first real girlfriend, let's call her Squeak, and I loved her endlessly, regardless of her actions. I was convinced she was cheating on me, and decades later I would learn that maybe it was true. I also found out that two people, my first “friends,” were paying her on a dare to date me. She broke my heart, and that heartbreak led me straight to my first psych ward st

Strange days are here again. Seven years. That was the line I carried like armor. Seven years sober. Seven years of saying “no,” of...

The words are out in the open now. Not whispered in think tank reports, not hidden in policy drafts, not implied between lines of speeches — spoken plainly, with applause in the halls of Quantico. The new banner is raised: defense is dead. Defense is no longer. War has taken its place. We are told peace is not the mission. War is. We are told pacifism is not caution. It is “naive and dangerous.” We are told lethality is not a grim necessity but a calling card. And we are

Some poems arrive as fragments, but others arrive as seasons. This one came in three. At the last section, is a blog post separate but connected, showing what love means to me beyond the fire and storm. The first season was longing — To Be Wanted Back. It was the porch light, the lighthouse, the bus seat left open. It was me saying: here is what wanting me looks like, here is what love should look like in return. It was hunger and grief without a funeral. The ache of being t

I have thought of sealing the cave, letting the torches gutter, burying myself under stone and silence. I have thought of hoarding...

I wrote before about wanting to be wanted back. Tonight I write from the other side of that want— the place where the porch light still...

It was never going to take long. The gunfire was still echoing, the grief still raw, and already the script was waiting. Not from the fringes this time, not from anonymous accounts stitching lies together in the dark corners of the internet, but from the podium of the White House itself. A statement polished to a blade: blame named, enemy chosen, cause declared. “Unhinged crusade.” That’s the phrase they use. Not grief, not inquiry, not even hesitation—just crusade. As if cri

It starts quietly, like so much else in this country now. An order slips across the wires, sudden and absolute: every general, every admiral, every senior commander above a certain rank must be in Virginia. Not a request. A command. Rearrange your missions, reroute your flights, leave your posts. The world will wait. And they come. Hundreds of them. Veterans of old wars, survivors of deployments that stretched decades, men and women who have buried soldiers under too many fla

I have carried this feeling my whole life— a wet coat across the chest, a tightness that doesn’t loosen, grief without a funeral. I have...

It keeps happening. We’ve seen another shooting. This time, two ICE detainees are critically injured, with one dead, in Dallas. And already, the same war machine is turning: press conferences, buzzwords, declarations of war. A shell casing marked “ANTI-ICE” becomes the proof of an ideology. A name. A face. A photo. A post. That’s all it takes. The script is ready. But dig even slightly beneath the surface and it slips. As Ken Klippenstein has uncovered , Joshua Jahn, the shoo

They’re not curing autism. They’re trying to erase it. The Trump administration just took a dangerous step: they’ve officially endorsed...

We didn’t talk much that morning. Just sat there, watching the sun catch the road like it had a secret to tell. It’s funny—when I was younger, I used to believe that love meant finding “The One.” My soulmate. My twin flame. Chalk it up to Disney movies, maybe, or just being a kid who wanted to feel safe and chosen. Even in elementary school, that was the daydream running through my head. Not “what do you want to be when you grow up?” but “who’s going to sit beside me forever?

The Trump administration has now confirmed the worst of the rumors. In a sweeping set of announcements, they have officially endorsed the...

Some stories don’t end in triumph. Some don’t end in reconciliation. Some just end in silence, and the decision to stop carrying someone else’s weight. This is one of those stories. For fifteen years, I loved someone. Not passively, not distantly. Romantically, fiercely, foolishly at times. He was the first man I ever had feelings for, and I believed, again and again, that if I just held on long enough — if I carried both of us long enough — he’d find his way back to the boy

I still remember the boy who spoke in storyboards and starlight, who built worlds from wonder and dreamed of saving them. I don’t know if...

I used to think we were walking the same road, two travelers carrying the same weight, seeing the same cracks in the world. It felt less...

I thought love might be enough— twenty years of reaching, twenty years of believing that if anyone could break through the mirrors, it...

Those words sit on my chest like a wet coat. They are not dramatic for me; they are accurate. Not because a stranger told me so once, but because I keep proving it to myself — in the small, honest places where I can’t hide. In the ways I’ve spoken (too loud, too blunt), in the ways I’ve lashed out when sleep and food and safety ran thin, in the ledger I keep of all the times I failed to be the person I promised I’d be. I am not trying to be poetic about it. I am trying to be

This isn’t a celebration post. It’s a grieving one. For everyone who’s lost in silence while the spotlight only shines on power. Not every death means the same thing. Some are tragedies. Some are signs of a deeper sickness in the system. Some are the inevitable result of a machine that thrives on cruelty. And while we’re all supposed to treat them as equal—mourn them the same, respond the same—the truth is: context matters. Power matters. And who gets heard in death says a lo