After my blood stained my mother’s floor, she cried. She cried for days and days on end. She stopped taking calls, she stopped working, she stopped talking.

After my little brother found my body, he got silent. Dangerously silent. Friends no longer cheered him up, and video games were no longer an escape.

After my grandmother outlived her grandchild, she saved face. She lied to world and told everyone the family was moving on. Behind closed doors she resented the world that took someone so young from her.

After the bathroom floor was scrubbed free of what was once me, my dog spent days outside my bedroom door. Whining and clawing at the small gap between the wood and the carpet.

After my best friends heard the news, they all sobbed over each other. Strangers offered them condolences. But soon enough each of them lost the light behind their eyes.

After my name was chiseled in a stone, complete strangers stood over me. They cried for the person they wish they knew, or they person they wish they were kinder to.

After I died at my own hand, ripples ran through my community. Ripples that I didn’t even realize I had the power to create.


Perfect Woman

Beautiful. You’re simply stunning. From your perfect hair, to your flawless legs. Maybe you can see what I do; at least I hope you do. A beautiful, confident woman who makes my head spin. A woman with the power to rule the world and then some. A woman without fear to hold her back. 

On the other hand, maybe you don’t see what I do. I understand. Maybe you see someone who is cowardly; someone who is hidden in the depths of the closet. Understand simply that because you cannot love others openly, does not mean you are cowardly. In other words, understand simply that your family’s hate does not define you. 

When I see you, I see more than the product of others. I see a person who I desperately want to be around, and I desperately want to love. Then again, maybe you don’t see those things in me; one can only dare to dream when someone as perfect as you wanders into their life. 

While I watch, a spectator to your majesty, I can’t help but feel graced. Graced to witness it all, graced to love you, graced to even share a space with you. 


I can feel your love slipping through my fingers every time we talk. We go from inseparable to barely speaking in a matter of days. 

Do you only care when it’s convenient? When you need someone to talk to in class? Maybe I’m simply over-thinking; over-analyzing. Maybe that’s just it. Or maybe I’m right. And you’re just too nice to say it to my face. 


As I sit, pencil between my fingers, I encourage my hands to pick up right where they left off. It can’t possibly be that hard to draw – it had only been a year or so since my hands were expected to work creatively. When my hands finally pressed the soft graphite to the paper seated in my lap, my fingers twitched and swirled in all the wrong directions. I guess it could be hard for my digits to pick up where they had been left. 

As my fingers goofed off all around the page, I sighed with disappointment. Faces that were once familiar took hours to even sketch, curves that once felt so natural now twisted in all the wrong directions, and sharp points were dulled into sad lumps. Soon after looking at the mess my hands created, my fingers took to typing. Typing how to fix my useless hands, typing how to find those once familiar faces, typing how to reteach my hands to draw all over again. 

Dear Lovely Wife

Dear My Lovely Wife If You Even Exist,

At the age of 17, I can’t say I know who you are, or if I’ll ever get married, but I do know that – if you do exist – you’re probably smart. You’re probably funny. You’re probably far too organized for me. I know you’ll be the opposite of everything I am now.

I hope you’ll love me, and I hope you’ll be honest with me. I know I can be hard to handle at times, trust me, I know. And I know that my life can seem hectic. And I know that at times I disconnect. And I also know that I’m sorry, but I can only hope that you understand who I am.

I can only pray that you’ll love my flaws. Maybe you’ll be one of those girls that calls my odd tenancies “quirks” instead of seeing them as they rough patches they really are. Hopefully you’ll think it’s cute that my sleeping patterns are never inline with the sun. I just pray that you’ll be perfect in every way.

My past is rough, and I know it. Maybe yours will be too. But my pain will mix with yours, and if you love me, we’ll work through life as a team, not as codependents.

Again, at my young age I have no idea if you’ll ever read this letter, but we can all have fantasies and dreams.

I’m Sure I’ll Love You With All My Heart,

Your Future Spouse

A Young Man

I know you don’t see me as I’m intended to be seen. A young man. You see me as a woman. A girl. Confused by the world around me.

Normally I don’t mind this perception. Being viewed as a young woman has it’s advantages; I’m taken seriously intellectually, and people generally respect me. However, when I want to be seen as a man, your man, all you can do is joke.

How could you be attracted to the type of woman that I am? You’ve never loved a woman, and you never could. Sure, a woman, like me, makes a great friend, but not a partner.

I’m so sorry that you see me like a woman. And I’m even sorrier that you can’t see me as I am. Maybe soon another will appreciate me the way you never could.