The Last Time I Explained Myself

The Child They Couldn’t Claim

This is a poem about being the child who was edited out of the family album and who, after years of trying to shrink to fit, finally chooses to enlarge the frame until it is big enough to hold every unlovable, unacceptable, inconvenient piece of who they are. It speaks directly to anyone who has ever had to mother themselves because the people who were supposed to do it chose the story over the child.

The Inheritance I Refused

Emotional legacy passed down from family—specifically the toxic bundle of shame, control, conditional love, and fear of judgment—and choosing instead to nurture the one authentic, resilient part of the self that survived it.

The Last Time I Explained Myself

This is a poem of quiet emancipation — the moment someone stops auditioning for understanding and starts protecting their own peace. It's deeply relatable to anyone who's ever felt chronically over-responsible for other people's perceptions of them, and it's written in a restrained, almost confessional style that makes the relief at the end feel earned and real rather than dramatic or performative. In short: it's about the sacred relief of no longer explaining yourself to people who are committed to misunderstanding you.

The One Who Left the Table

about the long, often lonely work of choosing oneself when the first place you belonged could not (or would not) hold all of you — and about discovering that such a choice, far from being destructive, is the truest way to come home.

The Quiet Theft

The slow, silent erosion of hope through petty thefts of the common good — and one parent's quiet refusal to let the last light go out.