Sometimes I write poetry. . . . . . . I can talk to you all day about real love Real love is that thing you feel in the pit of your stomach It’s that rush of blood Away from my extremities Straight to your heart And your genitals . …

There’s no way I can write this and not sound unbalanced or at the very least desperate. Every attempt I’ve made to begin stops short before any real progress is made. Even now, I am choosing my words carefully, desiring to sound eloquent but not fake, straight forward but not…

I had a conversation with my thirteen-year-old self the other day She smiled politely, but I could tell She had questions Thirteen-year-old me is not a very good liar “Okay,” I said, “What do you think?” …

Please note: I’m a playwright. Read the following as if it were an epic monologue delivered at the climax of a drama or as if it was a rambling soliloquy of truth delivered by a Shakespearean fool who is wiser than you give them credit for rather than a well-thought-out…

I did the thing, guys. I did the thing that I tell all of my friends (especially those battling mental illness) not to do. I scrolled on Facebook. We’ve all been there: check the notifications, nothing exciting, something at the top catches your eye (“Cats who can rollerblade?! Show me!”)…

People don’t write songs about situations like mine. I’ve tried very hard to find comfort in records like “Don’t Start Now” by Dua Lipa or “Ignore Me” by Betty Who, but, at the end of the day, I am in a completely different world than these narrators. “Don’t Start Now”…

Dear Dad, This Saturday is your and Mom’s anniversary, and I’m not sure why that’s hitting me harder than any of the other holidays. More than Father’s Day (which was terribly hard). More than your birthday. I suppose the old cliche is true that death puts things into perspective. I…