Binary: No Gray Area

In this world, there are only two categories

and everything falls into one of them.

An action is good or bad.

There is no it depends.

There are no explanations.

It just is.


In this world, we gender inanimate objects.

Girly drinks.

Manly beer.

Girl toys, like dolls.

Boy toys, like blocks.

Cooking. Cars. Clothes.

Blue. Pink.

No crossing lines.


In this world, we fear the undefinable.

We have to categorize.

We have to make it make sense.

We have to teach stability, teach fear of change.

We have to base our opinions on the little pieces we see,

these half truths because we don’t like being wrong.


It’s hard to be wrong.

It’s hard to be open minded, to put in the effort to change our thoughts.

Isn’t it safer to return to our hometowns and be told we’re right?

There’s nothing to fear.

There’s nothing to change.

In this world, we are always right.

In this world, we only listen when we agree.


Did you like this poem? Leave a comment or continue reading. This next poem is about oppression and being free to be yourself.

When the Truth Has a Steep Price

The first shot of cinnamon whiskey stung

but Leila chased it with another one.

Gotta get there faster,

make this awkwardness go away.

It wasn’t about feeling comfortable,

not really.


She wanted to lose her fears,

to say what she couldn’t and do

what she wouldn’t.

If the world was slow to change,

she would have to change faster.


The cinnamon whiskey burned

but the next shot, the fourth or fifth,

felt better.

She felt better.

Everything was better.

She winked at that someone across the room.

That girl didn’t notice.

But not noticing is better,

hiding is better,

than rejection.

Inside the Anxious College Mind

No time.

No time.

No time.


I pop pizza bites in the microwave

and call it dinner.





No time. No time.

No time.


Everyone else skips.

But grades.

But passing.

No time. No time.


Everyone else procrastinates.

No time. No time. No time.


It’s dinner.

I already ate.

Everyone else is deciding on food.

No time No time No time No time No time No time No time No time No time.

Open the Cages

Blue wings beat against the

glass bars

until they shatter.

What is the price of freedom?


What if they lock you up again?

What if they force you to hide?


You’re allowed to exist.

You don’t need their permission.

You aren’t hurting them.


Why should you hide

just because they don’t want to see people like you?

They’re the one with the problem.


Ivory bars encase the privileged sparrow.

It stays in its world,

the only world it knows,

and it hates those who change it,

who challenge it.

It teaches its babies the same.

One angle.

One way to think.

And the babies accept it,

why venture far?


Birds are meant to fly.

Open the cages.

Let them learn.

Let us all be free.

Grief for the Living

I want to drive to the end of nowhere with you,

down memory lane where we will see


who we used to be.

Do you remember

how young we were,

when we could conquer the world,

when nothing could defeat us?

Is that trust still there?

Could we get together

and go back?


Would we recognize each other

if not by face?

Are we the same at the core?

Are those girls gone?


We could stand in the same place,

the same house,

feel our ghosts,

but feel nothing.

Do you think of me?

Do you feel nothing?

What Frost Does to Dying Girls

The dirt, brown thorns peel off the stem

of the flower,

the red rose bud drooping in the

gathering cold.

The bush didn’t last long.

Neither will we.


Inside our brick house, the fireplace dims.

My sisters gather closer to it.

I’m the strong sister.

I’m the one who does without.


My sisters believe our parents will come back

for us.

They left to get help.

The nearest settlement is fifty miles.

If they made it,

they won’t make it back.


“We need to gather more food.” I say this everyday.

“When can we rest?” the youngest sister (fifteen) asks.

“When winter wins.”

The girls listen to me, for now.

We move easily in the frigid air, for now.

There’s four warm bodies trying to fight the cold, for now.


You hold the tip of the stick over

the flame and wait for the marshmallow to

melt with pain.

Next light a candle and lick your

fingers before they pass over the wick.

Did you feel it?

Did it burn?

I know you own many books

on the Salem witches and their bonfires.

You read them when no one’s home.

You press cigarettes to your arm when you think

you’re alone.

I asked you once if you thought

that you were a witch.

You thought I was a child.

You started closing your blinds. And maybe that’s better.

When you went missing, it was like you were already gone.


I feel her reading over

my shoulder.

Her hands rest on top

of my head.

She likes touching.


She reaches around me and scrolls


My confession reflects in her eyes.

Her bubblegum lips form


It doesn’t matter what they say. Her voice


Lull me to sleep, Miss Lullaby.

Price of Happy

She only listens to sad songs.

They matter.

They mean things.


She doesn’t realize how much she doesn’t smile,

doesn’t laugh.

People call her boring.

Happy bores her.


Only the lowest lows allow the highest highs.

So she feels everything,

takes in all of the pain

and holds it.

Only when she breaks can she hit the manic stage.

Pink Cocaine

Absence is harder to notice,

the words not said,

the face unseen among so many.


How do the cogs work

in the machine?

Always spinning.


My name will never cross lips.

Not when being with her is cocaine.

Ingest her and she fills you.

She fills your life, making every moment beautiful.

She plays with your hair, does your make-up, makes you feel special.


The clock still ticks

when the face breaks.

Always spinning.


Thin girl wears your clothes

and repeats your words back to you.

You’re her doll.

And you want it.