This Is the Body You Gave Me? is a poetic meltdown in the face of biology, evolution, and a single, mildly breezy poplar tree. It’s for everyone whose immune system reacts to spring like it’s a personal attack, who’s ever wondered how humanity made it this far when their body taps out at air. This poem asks the big questions—like “Was I a divine typo?” and “Why can’t I inhale near nature without crying?”—and answers them with sarcasm, self-pity, and several fistfuls of Kleenex. Evolution had one job. And this is the body it gave us.

Benadryl and Existentialism is what happens when seasonal allergies collide with a spiral into the meaninglessness of existence. This poem is for anyone who’s ever taken an antihistamine and then forgotten what year it is, who’s cried because their eyeballs itched like emotional baggage, and who’s sneezed so violently they briefly met their ancestors. It's allergy season, and nothing is real. This poem probably won’t help—but at least you’ll laugh while your immune system files another unnecessary report.

Slimy is a poem about digital trespassing, about the knowing of being watched by someone who’s long since lost the right to be anywhere near you. It’s about the violation of presence—when someone who hurt you keeps showing up, clicking through your life like it belongs to them, pretending it’s harmless. This poem is rage bottled and uncorked, a reckoning for the ones who confuse stalking with curiosity and control with love. It’s for anyone who’s ever felt the slime of an unwanted gaze on something they built with their whole heart.

My Immune System Has Notes is a love letter to every hayfever sufferer whose body treats spring like a personal attack. It’s for the folks who can’t open a window without declaring a medical emergency, who sneeze fourteen times before breakfast, and who live in fear of freshly mown lawns. This poem is part comedy, part tantrum, and 100% accurate in its depiction of the immune system as a hyperdramatic intern with a God complex. If you’ve ever cried because a daisy looked at you wrong, this one’s for you.

Piggy Banks and Pocket Squares is a poem about love given freely—and the grief of realizing it was never truly held with care. It reflects on small, tender moments from the past—a childhood gift, a quiet promise, a symbol carried halfway across the world—and how those memories shatter in the face of betrayal. This is a poem about rewriting what someone meant to you, not because you want to, but because their actions leave you no choice. It’s about the sorrow of remembering someone who no longer exists the way you thought they did—and the quiet devastation of letting go.

My Grief On Fire is a poem about the unbearable heartbreak of losing someone who is still alive—someone who caused irreparable harm and never once truly owned it. It speaks to the devastation of loving someone who broke trust again and again, all while pretending to be the one wounded. This poem is about facing the unforgivable, grieving the version of them you once believed in, and drawing a final line not out of anger, but out of necessity. It is a sorrowful severing, a burn that won’t stop aching, and the hardest truth of all: that some people would rather destroy than change.

Furby Street is a nostalgic love letter to a time that can never be repeated but will never be forgotten. It’s a celebration of the strange magic that happens in student houses—the friendships built through perogies, late-night TV, and shared weather complaints in -52°C wind. This poem remembers a wild little house in Winnipeg where laughter echoed louder than the furnace, where groceries came from The Bay, and where the French government unknowingly funded a vodka bottle collection. It’s about being young, freezing, fearless, and full of dreams, and it’s also about the ache of knowing that moment is gone—that we’re older now, scattered, changed. But for a while, we had Furby Street. And we’ll carry it with us, always.

I Wish I Could Talk To You About Billy Idol is a poem about the strange grief that comes with losing someone who is still alive—someone who meant everything once, and who chose harm over love. It’s about the memories that linger, the songs that still catch you off guard, and the heartbreak of knowing the door must stay closed even when you ache to open it. Inspired by the return of Billy Idol and the first time I ever heard his voice, this piece holds space for love that couldn’t survive the truth—and for the kind of sadness that doesn’t fade, only settles deeper.

A Poor Man’s is a poem about imitation without understanding—about what it feels like to be mimicked by someone who neither knows your truth nor honours your struggle. It's a quiet, cutting reflection on envy, projection, and the way some people attempt to wear your identity like a costume, failing to see that essence can’t be borrowed. This poem doesn’t name names, but it knows exactly who it’s speaking to—and says what needs to be said without ever raising its voice.

This poem is a reflection on how hate, once nurtured, becomes its own kind of religion—blinding its followers even as it consumes them. It speaks to the people who would rather see the world burn than acknowledge their own part in its suffering, those who mistake destruction for conviction and rage for righteousness. In a time when kindness is branded as weakness and division is a political currency, this piece offers a quiet reckoning—a reminder of what’s lost when people choose fury over healing, and how easily a future full of hope can be set ablaze by the hands meant to build it.

This Is Not About Life was written in response to the growing wave of legislation in the United States that is systematically dismantling women's rights. With the fall of Roe v. Wade, abortion bans have swept across states like Texas, Florida, and Louisiana—some criminalizing care as early as six weeks, others outlawing abortion entirely, even in cases of rape or incest. Louisiana has classified FDA-approved abortion pills as controlled substances, while Missouri has attempted to bar women from leaving the state to seek care. Access to birth control is being quietly rolled back, sex education gutted, and pharmacists granted the right to refuse medication. At the same time, child marriage remains legal in many states, and books that teach girls about their bodies, safety, and survival are being pulled from classrooms. In this political climate, women are not just unsupported—they are being erased. This poem speaks directly to that truth.🖤

We Used to Have a Tape is a Mother’s Day poem about memory, grief, and the quiet kind of love that lives in the background noise of a life once shared. It’s about the small, sacred moments—a cassette recording, a denim jumpsuit, shortbread and elastic games in the park—that build a mother-daughter bond no narrative can erase. It’s also about the heartbreak of watching others try to rewrite that history, to reduce it to silence, to deny what was real. This poem holds space for all of it: the tenderness, the sorrow, the betrayal—and the unshakable truth that love like this doesn’t disappear, even when the world insists it must.

The Rights They Rage For is a poem about the violent hypocrisy at the heart of American politics—a system where the right to harm is sacred, but the right to heal is negotiable. It confronts a culture that defends guns, hate speech, and cruelty with unwavering passion, while dismissing healthcare, safety, and dignity as luxuries. This is a piece for everyone who has been told their survival costs too much, that their existence is up for debate, that their rights are conditional while others’ bigotry is protected. It is a reckoning. And it is long overdue.🖤

They Let Them Shoot You is a poem about the violent, heartbreaking reality of living in a country where guns are protected more fiercely than people. It weaves together the tragedies of Columbine, the Oklahoma City bombing, and Waco to trace the lineage of rage, extremism, and American myth-making that continues to cost lives. This is a piece about what it means to survive in a system that doesn’t care if you live—and punishes you if you do. It is a poem about grief, abandonment, and the unbearable truth: that in a country obsessed with guns, your survival is not the miracle—they think it's the compromise.🖤

The King of Nothing is a poem about betrayal in its most insidious form—the kind that hides behind silence and self-righteousness, cloaked in delusion and denial. It speaks to the heartbreak of once believing in someone, loving them fiercely, only to discover that they are not who they claimed to be. This piece is a reckoning wrapped in poetry—a farewell to the illusion, a rejection of the harm, and a reclaiming of power from someone who demanded everything and gave nothing. It is not a scream, but a still, clear voice saying: we see you now.💚

I Didn’t Know You Were Horrible is a poem about the quiet devastation of discovering that someone you once adored—someone you believed in with all your heart—is not who you thought they were. It’s about the ache of misplaced faith, the grief that comes not from death, but from disappointment, and the slow, unraveling realization that love doesn’t make someone good. This poem is for anyone who built a pedestal out of hope, only to watch it crumble under the weight of the truth. It’s personal, painful, and meant to say what cannot be said out loud.💚

Imagine Being You is a quiet reckoning wrapped in metaphor—a poem about the kind of person who builds their self-image on lies, who paints themselves as noble while standing on the wreckage they’ve caused. It speaks to the delusion of those who harm and still believe they are heroes, who bring suffering but call it sacrifice. This is a portrait of denial cloaked in self-righteousness, a study of someone who has left damage in every direction but still believes they are owed admiration. It is not a confession—it is a mirror held up to a man who will never look into it.💚

Radical Softness is a poem about the quiet rebellion of caring in a world that too often prizes cruelty. In a culture where empathy is dismissed as weakness and hatred is rewarded with applause, choosing to remain kind—to hold space, to offer help, to love fiercely and without condition—becomes an act of resistance. This poem is for the ones who still show up with open hands, even when the world tells them to close their fists. It’s a reminder that softness is not fragility—it’s courage.💚

The Permission Slip is a political poem about the danger of leaders who do not lift people higher, but instead give them permission to embrace their ugliest instincts. It speaks to a culture where cruelty is celebrated, where hatred is reframed as patriotism, and where bullying is justified under the guise of strength. This poem does not name names—but its meaning is unmistakable to those willing to look. It is a sorrowful reckoning with what happens when power chooses to inflame, rather than heal, and when a nation begins to mistake darkness for glory.💚

Bigger Than Themselves is a poem born from the heartbreak of watching how easily people will cling to hatred, even when it comes at the cost of their own well-being. It reflects the sorrow of our current political climate—a world where division is nurtured, rage is celebrated, and self-destruction is chosen over compassion. This poem is a lament for what could be, for the better future we keep setting fire to in the name of fear. It is a sorrowful witness to the way hate consumes not only its targets, but its bearers, leaving behind nothing but smoke where hope might have lived.💚

Ashes of the Blood-Bound is a poem of mourning for a bond that never became what it should have been. It is a viking funeral for a connection forged by blood but never strengthened by love. Inspired by the sorrow of saying goodbye not to a person, but to the dream of what they could have been, this poem honours the painful act of releasing what was never truly mine to hold. It is a tribute to the battles fought for a place that was never offered, and to the strength it takes to let go—not with anger, but with a kind of sacred sorrow and finality.💚

This poem, Viking Funeral, was inspired by my Day 30 journaling prompt, where I reflected on the grief of letting go. It dives deeper into a sorrow I have carried for too long—the mourning of a love I was born into, but never truly received. This poem was born from the ashes of that grief: the longing, the double binds, the desperate hope to belong, and the painful realization that I was fighting for a place in a heart that had already shut me out. The Viking funeral imagery threads throughout the piece, symbolizing the final and sacred act of releasing what was never mine to keep. This is my farewell—a sorrowful, beautiful tribute to the love I wished for, but must now set aflame and watch drift away on the tide.💚

1995 was headphones on the school bus, mascara smudged in the bathroom mirror, and lyrics scribbled in the margins of our notebooks like spells. It was rage and heartbreak and rebellion wrapped in distortion and melody. This poem is for the ones who came of age with Jagged Little Pill in their discmans, who found their reflections in The Bends and Not A Pretty Girl, who turned up Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness just to feel something sharp and real. It was a year that gave us voices for what we were afraid to say out loud—and for some of us, it was the first time we felt seen. 💚

1994 was a mixtape made of shadow and sound. A year that felt like smoke curling from the edges of something holy and breaking. This poem is a tribute to the albums that stitched themselves into our souls—The Downward Spiral, Dummy, No Need To Argue—the kind of records that didn’t just play, they lingered. It was the year we learned how to grieve through melody, how to carry a loss we couldn’t explain, how to make room for silence where someone’s voice used to be. This poem remembers that ache. And it remembers the music that made survival sound almost beautiful. 💚

1993 was a year that didn’t shout—but it echoed. It was soft around the edges but heavy in the chest, a year defined not just by headlines, but by the music we played too loud in our bedrooms and the feelings we didn’t yet have names for. This poem is for the ones who remember. The ones who wore flannel like a shield and scribbled verses in margins. The ones who fell in love with heartbreak songs and carried the weight of a world that was just starting to feel broken. It was the year August and Everything After came out. And somehow, even now, it still feels like everything started there. 💚

There is a moment when a woman stops trying to be believed and simply begins to be. This poem is for that moment. For the breath that sharpens into resolve. For the quiet rage that never needed to scream to be real. It’s A Reclamation. A Rising. A Soft, Steady Roar is not about vengeance—it’s about return. It’s about rising from the ashes not with fury, but with clarity. This is what it sounds like when a woman reclaims her voice, her truth, her body, her name—and does it without asking for permission. She doesn’t need your validation. She never did. 💚