(A poem adapted into a piece of flash fiction for a Creative Writing workshop) Grief: a universal language, and yet when spoken, nobody...

When you teach a girl that all she is good for is pleasing and playing sweet and nice, she grows into a woman who has not spent one day...

Most days, I rot away in my room, nestled under ash-stained bed sheets like a hibernating dormouse. Picture the giant insect lying on its...

A poem (or stream of erratic consciousness) about my inevitable decline (or doom) and the many, many, many things (or contradictions)...