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Creative storyteller with passion for art & connection. Portland, Oregon.

heartbroken for gaza at naptime.

her hands cradle her child's head,

or at least that's what it looks like from the picture.

the same gentle curves my own hands take when I hold my son,

when he's soft and heavy in my arms.

by the size, shape, and perceived weight of the bag she's cradling,

her small child is in there

covered head to toe in a white cloth,

somehow still spotless despite the rubble and devastation around her.

she wails, head upturned to the sky,


her hands cradle her child's head the same way i do,

when he's soft and heavy in my arms.

i'm lucky, my son is sleeping in my warm bed, and will walk into my office any minute,

ready to go downstairs and eat a snack.

i haven't lost him because an occupying force wants the land we live on,

the land that feeds my son.

i can only imagine the heartbreak,

but i share her rage.

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moths to a flame.

they say for women we forget some of our deepest pain and that must be true because it feels like i have amnesia when it comes to you never remembering the recurring heartbreak until it's impending, d

let me nestle in the space under your collarbones

i'd crawl underneath your skin, nestle in the space underneath your collarbone or snugly between your ribs watching your heart beat hoping to understand you better i'd see the world through your eyes

love at 20.

closer pull me in closer crush me with the weight of your expectations my expectations the roles we're supposed to play but forget that now pull me in fall faster deeper let me feel the fullness of yo


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