I live on an island miles from the mainland. An island of paradise, and inexplicable vibrancy.

Where the vines crawl upwards, soaking in the rain and the sun and the moon.

Their green leaves cast shadows holding kaleidoscopes of chlorophyll to the forest floor.

Where fungi grow, sustaining life with microscopic strength and fervor. Where rain pools on the forest floor creating micro ecosystems for life so fragile I dare not touch it.

The sounds of waves lapping on the shore, and the call of song birds in gray mornings provide peace in my solitude.

My island is warm, with a breeze that cools my sun kissed skin.

I have a boat on my island. Drift wood pulled and bent together haphazardly. A necessity to reach the mainland. Large enough only for myself.

My island has storms. Typhoons and cyclones that rip through the trees toppling them over. Uncontrollable, and filled with idiopathic rage.

I hide in the caves where nothing can be seen. My bones soak in the dampness.

My thoughts bounce off the walls, a mocking echo of my loneliness, until silence finally wraps itself across my home in a heavy blanket.

The storms bring waste from deep in the sea to my shores. I gather the brokenness in my hands alone. The redundancy cuts my fingers, and fills my arms.

The wrath of the clouds always smite too quickly for me to reach my boat in time to find shelter on the mainland.

An so, after every storm, I rebuild.

With my intentions floating on the sandy shore, I tell myself I will leave as I dig my feet deeper into the sand.



What is orange? 

It is excitable. Audacious. Offensive. 

Orange is found in the genesis of mania, bouncing through the sulci of a brain torn between two worlds. 

Orange is after anger as it bleeds from the remenents of a sunset. 

Orange is assertiveness and grit and motivation. 

Orange is also my insomnia. 

It is a new creature warming my body just enough to untangle me from my sheets.

 It carries me to the glow of a candle where I cannot tear myself from its flicker. 

It is the tea at 3:00am, and the repetitive piddling of my feet against hardwood. 

It is an enchantress, beckoning me towards a torpor, suspending itself between true convalescence and restlessness. 

It opens my ears to the wind at 4:00, the silence at 5:00, and the birds at 6:00. 

It sings to me until it has turned blue, and recedes back into the dark. 

It is an inextinguishable orb in the corner of my mind’s eye. Always waiting with open arms for my return. 

This little light of mine, the orange of my nights. My insomnia. 

Here: Overcoming Anxiety

My pen twists awkwardly between my fingers. It turns along white paper, sharp edges scratching, soft circles twirling. Meaning flows onto an otherwise blank canvas. My anxiety has rooted itself so deeply into my chest, my written word is clumsy. As my journals collect dust, my reverence for the beast inside me grows. My hyper-viligence lauded at her altar, so I pray. I pray fervently for it to leave, to give me peace, but I also pray for it to stay. For who will warn me of omens to come if I let her go? 

I press my palms together, and rock my body forward. My teeth splinter from the bullet I have loyally bitten for so long. I sit. Unmoving, my hands rub across my thighs, an incessant ritual to remove the sweat. My fingers reach for a faucet. I clean them once, twice, three times. Because I just ate, because I touched a dog, because it’s been awhile, because…

I have been frozen in fear, and moving in fear. I am bound to the acquiescence of my mind. I cling, but I want to let go. I hide, but I want to be brave. I am quiet, but I want to write. 

So here I am. My words are but whispers, but they are here. I am here. 



When I am not writing (which honestly has been often lately), I enjoy expressing my perception of the world through a visual medium. Photography has become a more consistent hobby in my life, and one that I wanted to share with my fellow readers here on WordPress. If you would like to see more images you can follow my Instagram @wherethemushroomsgrow


My Sister is not a Gift: An Open Letter to Christians

I love my sister, Misty. I love her dark wild hair and olive skin. I love the insatiable joy she has when we pillow fight, and the grin that plasters her face when I dance to music. I loved her when she entered the world in 1995, and I love her now. Her entire being is something invaluable to me, but she is not a gift. More specifically, her difficulties and her burdens are not gifts to me. 
Misty has Autism. The disorder that is bolded and underlined in headlines today, and presented as a scapegoat for tragedy. When we were children, I remember all the doctor’s visits, all the crying, all the screaming, and all the laughter. I remember my parents, toddlers themselves in the world of adulthood, scrambling in desperation to give Misty a good quality of life with what little information was available. As a unit, we tried to understand the complexities of Autism before Jenny McCarthy synthesized it into liquid, and stuck it in a syringe. More importantly though, I remember those telling me that Misty’s disability was gift. It was a gift that gave me strength, gave me courage, gave me patience. It was a platitude at was etched in letters written to me as a little girl, talked about in bible studies, and poured effortlessly out of people’s mouths with the coffee and donuts they had before a morning service. 
Misty lost her voice early on. It’s not a surprise to those who are in the Autistic community. It is something we understand, something we all learn to adapt to. Unfortunately, as Misty’s verbal communication waned, others’ voices became louder. A din that echoed in my thoughts, it fed the guilt that I was so lucky, and she, well, wasn’t. Christians told me God had a greater purpose for me. So I cried. I couldn’t give my sister my own voice as badly as I wanted to, and instead of saying, “it’s ok to be two different people,” or, “your sister finds happiness in her own way,” I was told her Autism was a gift to me.  They would tell me quietly, my hands sometimes folded into theirs, that these trials I was experiencing are teaching me something deeply valuable, and trading places would only keep me away from sharing the qualities I had acquired with others. 

This idea that my sister’s Autism is a gift to me is selfish. It is a reiteration of ableism, and of lack luster sympathy. Misty was not given Autism for my benefit. God did not cause her brain to change quickly so that I could learn to be virtuous. My sister is not a pawn in my life, or in anyone else’s. Misty is a human with her own thoughts and experiences. She has her own interests, her own emotions, and her own worldview. 
Christians, I beg you, please don’t put your personal beliefs on a platter, and present it to me as if my sister was a piece of God’s teaching curriculum. 
She is not a gift because she is Autistic. She is a gift because she is my sister. She is gift because she is one of my best friends. 



Breathe, my little peccadillo, breathe.

Your tenacity for life is stronger than your true purpose. 

I hold you pressed to my chest to protect you from those judging eyes. 

Don’t weep, little peccadillo, don’t weep. 

You are my creation, and my personal transgression I will keep you. 

No one knows of your existence, and your voice will not sound irrational as long as you stay close. 

Through the discord and the joy you will sit in my heart and the forefront of my mind.

My sweet peccadillo. 


The Devil is Beating his Wife

Clouds roll over the golden plains, fighting for their spot in the sky.

White hot, the sun beams with intensity down upon the drought ridden fields without mercy, while the cacophony of thunder rumbles on in the distance.

The air’s aroma is sweet and pure, hinting the showers that are about to commence. Sticky wind hums quietly as the humidity envelopes the atmosphere with tight constraint.

The sun undying above the earth makes room for itself as the clouds push through. Shining droplets begin to fall. You can hear the little children with scraped knees and dirty faces laughing outside, for this occurrence is not often.

The devil is beating his wife.