my writing

some of my short stories and poetry. for more visit my lit blog, Diary of a Literature Addict.


Lola was a lonely soul. She sat on the bed in her peachy-pink princess room and surrounded herself with dolls and toys and imaginary fairy-friends. She sipped pretend loneliness-dissolving potions from plastic teacups at her Lola-sized tea table. She wished on stars and eyelashes and dandelions for someone, anyone. Lola’s mother took her to the mall and bought her clothes and toys, but no matter how many sparkly princess dresses and Baby Mine talking dolls that Lola piled on her four-poster bed, the sad sinking feeling in her heart remained.

When Lola started school, she sat by herself at lunch. She pulled her hair into pigtails tied with glitter ribbons and wore her favorite princess dresses, but the other little girls did not pay her any attention. They sat one in front of the other at lunch and braided each other’s hair as they munched their carrot sticks. They talked about their favorite shows on TV and which boys they thought were cutest and which teachers were coolest. Lola was never invited. She sat under the pecan trees in the school yard and nibbled daintily on her chicken salad finger sandwiches, pinkies out, just as her mother had taught her.

At night, Lola cried and hugged her stuffed monkey close to her heart. When she was tall enough to reach the sink faucet without a stool, she decided to change. Away went the frilly glitter dresses, packed tight into shiny-slick plastic tubs and shoved in the back of the closet. Off came her buttercup Rapunzel braids, chop chop chop. Lola's mother took her to a fancy salon where she sat on a throne and was called “Miss.” It seems that Lola wasn’t the best cosmetologist in her mother’s opinion. At school, a group of girls noticed Lola’s new haircut and name-brand jeans and invited her to join their group. She was happy to have friends, but she always felt small and unimportant with them. She was always at the back of the braiding line at lunch, and always the first to give up her chicken salad finger sandwiches for another girl to nibble. Lola thought that maybe if she was skinny, the other girls would like her more.

At night, Lola did not sleep. When she was tall enough to reach the pickle jar on the top shelf of the refrigerator, she didn’t even realize it. She never opened the refrigerator anymore. She never opened her mouth at all. Sometimes she wished she could just never open her eyes either. Sleep was an escape, one that came infrequently and fleetingly like smoke in your mouth. Lola knew because once she stole her mother’s cigarettes, just to try. Her friends no longer sat one in front of the other in a braiding line at lunch. Instead they sat at a big round table in the cafeteria. They leaned forward when they talked so that their cleavage peeked out from their half-unbuttoned Polos. Lola didn’t have any cleavage, just a thin layer of peach-fuzz over her paper-thin skin. Her friends kissed boys behind the pecan trees in the school yard. They played truth or dare by lamplight on their four-poster beds during slumber parties. Once Lola was dared to skinny-dip in the neighbor’s pool. As she slipped out of her clothes, the other girls whispered words as sharp as her protruding hip bones.

At night, Lola took out her razor blade. When she was tall enough to reach the chains that hung from the light fixtures, she finger-painted on the walls with glistening red and cowered in the corner of her peachy-pink princess room. Her mother found her lying on the floor. She cleaned Lola’s cuts herself, because going to the hospital might start rumors. Lola’s mother took her daughter to see a woman. The woman cleared her throat too much and sucked on breath mints and asked Lola about her feelings. Lola curled up on the couch across from the woman and picked lint off the throw pillows. She did not speak. The woman gave Lola’s mother a slip of paper with scribbles on it. The next day Lola’s mother slid an orange maraca bottle into her daughter’s hand. Lola checked the bottle for calories. She took two little blue rattle pills a day. They made her feel numb and empty, like she’d been scraped out with an ice cream scoop until her insides were pink and shiny. Lola hated the clue maraca pills. They made her sleepy, made her stomach hurt and her head pound. Worst of all, they made her hungry. They turned her into a little piggy, chew chew swallow. So Lola took her pills like a good little girl, but she secretly tucked them under her tongue and spit them into the toilet. She drew crimson pinstripes in her skin where no one could see.

At night, Lola’s dreams were black, blank. When she was tall enough to stand on a chair and reach the ceiling, she pulled out the now-dusty plastic tub of princess dresses from long ago. She pulled her hair into pigtails and tied them with glitter ribbons. She surrounded herself with her old dolls and toys and imaginary fairy-friends. She picked out her favorite princess dress and put it on; it was small, but now Lola was smaller. Then she stood tall for the last time in her peachy-pink princess room, and Lola and her lonely soul finally flew above the rest.

I Am (Exploding)

I am exploding, tearing at the seams
With sweet hope and melancholy steeped in dreams

I move with aching urgency to the swaying beat and wail of strangeness and charm
I hear seductive voices of invisible demons, slippery in my mortal grasp
I see worlds of kaleidoscope color, spinning with faces and flowing from my pencil tip
I want to understand myself

I am exploding, tearing at the seams
With sweet hope and melancholy steeped in dreams

I feel as though my whole body is humming with bolts of eccentric lightning
I create a secret place, its walls splashed with molten emotion
and sprinkled with fairy dust
I wish I could open my eyes and turn my reality into something electric
I try to understand myself

I am exploding, tearing at the seams
With sweet hope and melancholy steeped in dreams

I touch soft fabric in my hands, a slick and silky river of wonder and possibility
I cry when loneliness colors my thoughts with droplets of toxic gray
I know I have fire in me, but fear coats my insides with sticky hesitation
I need to understand myself

I am exploding, tearing at the seams
With sweet hope and melancholy steeped in dreams.


One warm day in the middle of the spring, deep in the forest, you find a clearing. And in the center of that clearing, a tiny cluster of bright buttercups is about to bloom. As you watch the dainty petals open ever so slowly, a strange phenomenon occurs. Suddenly, all of your senses are filled with the tiniest and sweetest hints of yellow. You breathe in, and yellow fills your lungs. Yellow dances through the trees and giggles in your ear, its soft buttercup breath tickling your skin. You close your eyes and you can taste the yellow, warm and buttery on your tongue. Your eyes open and dance with sunshine sparkle as you take in the gorgeous sensation, and your whole body is momentarily singing with yellow. But as the little flowers’ sweet petals soften to a stop, the feeling is gone. You are no longer lost in your yellow world. The forest is silent.

This sensation is quite rare, but you can still find little tiny yellow moments in your life, if you try. As the golden sun glows on your face in the summer, you may hear yellow giggle softly in your ear. As you pass the auburn leaves in the fall and the soft autumn breeze sighs around you, you might feel the tickle of buttercup breath on your skin, just for a moment. When you feel the warmth of the flames from the fireplace in the cold and dark winter, perhaps you’ll taste sweet buttery yellow in the hot air. But only in the spring, in the middle of the forest, in a clearing as the buttercups bloom, will your body sing with the joyful choruses of yellow.

Perhaps you don’t think of yellow as a feeling or phenomenon. You might say, “Yellow is just a color, and nothing more!” Sir, I’m afraid you couldn’t be more wrong. Yellow is a dance. Yellow is a song. Yellow is a sweet and sensory taste on your tongue. Yellow is a world of its own. Of course yellow glows bright in our eyes. We see it every day – in our clothes, on street signs, in the sunlight dappled across the windowsill at noon. But unless you truly feel the power of yellow as the buttercups bloom, you will never understand yellow’s true essence. So I urge you to find a clearing in the middle of a forest on a warm spring day and look for your own cluster of bright buttercups just about to bloom. Then, at that moment, you may experience yellow too.

Overhead Ocean

Veins of pulsing pink
And vengeful orange
Shoot through the sky
Crowning the mountains
Caressing the trees
Until every being in the forest
Turns to watch

The world becomes liquid
At the sight
Of the fiery ocean
Hovering just above our heads
Just out of reach…

And even the tiniest scampers
And the heaviest lopes
Grow legato marks
Over their heads

But as the scene
Melts into darkness
The crickets strike up
The moment is lost.


  1. I love the way you write..! especially in Lola; very sentimental

  2. I love your writing. It's so vivid, really beautiful (especially Overhead Ocean). I wondered whether you would like to submit something to my online magazine Inky ( I take submissions for fiction, poetry and other cool writers stuff and publish them giving full credit to the author. It's just my little online space for aspiring writers to write and read amazing things, and I'm constantly on the lookout for great writers to contribute! You can submit anything, there's more info here:
    I hope you consider it, you're a great writer!
    Flo x

    1. absolutely, i'd love to be in your magazine! i'll definitely check it out! thanks so much, i'm quite flattered :)


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