I told the doctor
my heart felt like a flip phone
set to vibrate
in the back pocket of my jeans—
buzzing between spine
and tenth-grade desk,
shaking my bones
like a train no one saw coming—
except me.

I could feel my pulse
gathering its coat, like it had somewhere to be.
He said I was within diagnostic range.
He said I was presenting as stable.

I said I felt like a girl
screaming
inside a library.

They said:
What a beautiful metaphor.
I said:
It’s not a metaphor.
It’s a girl.
She’s in there.
She’s still screaming.

And they nodded,
said I seemed self-aware—
like that settles that.

They wrote “no cause for concern”
in my file.
The room was quiet.
The library was loud.

My heart is still vibrating.
I feel it—
right there, between spine and desk.

No one picks up.

Like a stream that meanders
Cantering music sweet
Caprice treads whimsical
Lightly on her feet.

Like the wind that doesn't know
Where to gently breeze
Caprice breathes here, then there
... the air touched 'n teased.

Like the midnight stars that twinkle 
Through the darkness peer
Caprice in a wink
Appears to disappear.

Like the morning sunlight
That hides, then lights up hills
Caprice scampers up and down
Never a moment still.

Like waves and ocean tides
That ebb, rise and flow
Caprice heaves night and day..
Between her joys and woes.

Like raindrops and the rainbow
That hold the other's hand
Caprice sighs and smiles
In but a single glance.        

I wonder... if you sense her
Her murmurs, feel her warm breath
Caprice... right behind you —
Though you haven't seen her yet.

I wasn’t crying.
I was hydrating my grief
from the inside out.

He said, “You’re not dramatic. Just detailed.”
I said, “You’re not cruel. Just consistent.”
We called that a compromise.
(or else a hostage negotiation.)

There’s glitter in my carpet
from a party I threw
to prove I wasn’t waiting on him.
I wore white.
Not bridal,
but still white enough
to make someone feel guilty.

I lit sparklers like sirens,
toasted survival.
Nobody clapped.

I collect apologies I don’t want,
write scripts for confrontations
that end in standing ovations,
then lose the footage
in a hardware crash
I secretly caused.

I take the stairs two at a time,
just to feel something chase me.
I text “I’m fine :)”
like it’s a safe word—
to keep the spiral
polite.

I rehearse the voicemail
he never left
like it’s Chekhov.
Like if I say it right,
the gun goes off
and I disappear
beautifully.

At the end of the dream,
he’s always wearing my hoodie—
saying something tender,
just slightly
too late.

And I wake up
with eyelashes on my wrists,
thinking—
Maybe I am the problem.
But God—
you should’ve seen the poems.

I died yesterday.
I will die today.
I've been dying
since I was born.

Every memory I have
lies six feet under me
a dead man lived them
not me.

Everything I've ever experienced
all the tooth ache,
heart ache,
even the smell of my arm pit
when I didn't shower
for a week.

Everyone I've interacted with
everyone I will interact with
has and will be talking
to a dead man
although I look forward
for tomorrow's black tea.

The person who just wrote this
is about to die
but don't you tear up now
because that person has changed
even if only
a little.

As we walked through the wood,
I found myself oddly stood,
Amidst my peers and fellow friends,
As we searched to find an end,
For we believed we could.

There was a fork in the road,
Two paths diverged, their end unknown.
My peers and friends took the right,
While I stood, paralyzed in fright,
Not knowing where to go.

As they walked down their trail,
I hoped and prayed that they’d prevail,
But feeling called to look around,
I focused on the ground,
And studied, and eventaully prevailed.

The one to the left,
Had been more unkempt.
The right was more ideal,
Even though they hurt their heels,
They charged forward without regret.

However, deep in my soul,
I felt called, the origin unknown,
To walk the path that no one dared,
Not necessarily because they were scared,
But because the right had been controlled.

So, gathering my wits,
I took a step, with no intention to quit,
And walked down the path to my left,
A warm feeling spreading in my chest,
A sense of pride, I must admit.

The road I travel on,
Not many dare to step upon,
But those who do are,
Chosen by the stars,
To walk the road I travel on.

I sometimes wonder if I could make a poem out of all the metaphors
that have been scrapped because of what surrounded them.
If I could make a clique,
where they’d join strong
and leave their pasts.
Create a new country of love,
for all the unique metaphors
that died because they didn’t know better.

“I want to scream but forgot how to talk”

“The fear I felt drained in my blood
and I now have it tattooed in my tears”

“Opportunities that slip off your fingers
like fish in the depths of a lake”

“my fears were dissolved
into tears”

…