Bisous, NOLA

fountain 2

Beneath a history of stars
we rest in secret
gardens enchanted
by our own darkness.

Tennessee for two
tipsy off the honeyed
heat of you.
The lady behind us
is a mood.

With each wistful breath
my back arches
like the deck of cards
shuffling between us.
Aces, we stay.
Kings, we get on that plane.

Cool Jazz
melting into the streets.
Bourbon dizzy
they say the livin’s easy
but only in small doses.

Each uneven step
becomes a literary
in my mind.

There is no Romeo
clutched to the balcony
instead Juliet’s sheath
haunts below each window
an opal of my own protection.

The moonlight leaps
around Saint Louis
casting a grand shadow
of the maker himself.
The glowing grin abreast
easily mistaken as the heart
of the French Quarter.

Behind the red door
we seek refuge from
a haze of humidity.
Familiar eyes explain
humility is
something you
have yet to learn.

With a swing of
call and response
where you lead
I follow down
alleys echoing
the king of soul.

Raspy vibrato
bellowing some day
I will bring myself back
bring it on home
to you.

Until we meet
again, bisous.


Lucky Number Seven

Photo by Kel Ward Photography


Hands, opening, hands

in the backseat, strumming on strings

of my heart and caressing the black ink

written on my skin, three words

not deep enough

to last because those hands

always found another.


Hands, familiar yet distant, hands

yearning for far more than I could give

holding up, up against the wall

out of breath from the nearness

too close, I lost

we lost, little hands

never to be known.


Hands, sweeping, hands

thought I needed


devoted hands

never should have been mine

to steal.


Hands, scarred, hands

friendship reaching

in the dark

aligned perfectly

together as illness

blanketed my body

saving me

from myself, pieces

only those hands

will ever know.


Hands, lifeless, hands

gripping in the night

pleading for a piece

of yesterday, that I

had never known

hands, mistaken for



Hands, regretful hands,

largely leaving in the night

silent hands.


Hands, bewildering, hands

grasping towards perfection

first striking and missing

hands, remorseful, hands

gently tracing my life line

vowing to be the last

closing gracefully

finally forever hands.



“And when the pastor asks the pews, for reasons he can’t marry you; I’ll keep my word and I’ll keep my seat. Let me tell you; You’re gonna live forever in me. I guarantee, just wait and see. You know it’s me.”

I get married in 18 days. This new beginning has been so abundantly clear to me the past year, that I had forgotten how excruciatingly beautiful (and necessary) endings can be. I had forgotten how important music was in my life. I had forgotten how much words mean to my soul. I had forgotten these things because I had to heal. I guess we all take our own sweet time.

When John Mayer released “You’re Gonna Live Forever in Me,” it stayed on repeat for days. When he played it live in concert in Portland, Oregon as a finale this past Saturday, it was the epitome of perfection.

So, I let go. 

25 Days Until #AmaroEverAfter

I am ecstatic that in 25 days I get to marry my best friend. There have been an abundance of adventures this past year and our relationship has been tested in many, many ways. I am lucky that I can say with absolute certainty that he is the right one for me.

I’ve been blessed with three bridal showers full of family and friends, as well as a bachelorette in Disneyland with my gphi sorority sisters! And I still have one more local bachelorette to go… I’m a very lucky girl.

Our first date was to The Great Gatsby movie back in 2013 and it just so happens to also be my favorite novel. So, we decided to have a Great Gatsby/Roaring 20’s themed wedding at a beautiful 1920’s venue called the Hotel deLuxe in downtown Portland, Oregon.

A little party never killed nobody, so get ready for the Summer of Gatsby! Cheers!


Photo Credit: 

I dream to wake and wake to dream; finding you in an old café somewhere on the coast of Rome, or in a more familiar sleep where the light of the setting sun hits your face with such gentle radiance. The salt air bringing me back; sand in between my toes, entranced by fingers on strings. Such magical moments, how they get lost in time. But as the sea comes back to shore, I feel your heart drifting in mine.

I believe there is a tie that binds us. I’ve tried to fight it for many years, thinking that holding on to your memory would cause me to never let another in. But with time, I’ve become more certain; that tie does not hold me to you, it has instead, allowed me to move forward. It has allowed me to love. To open my heart in ways that I never knew possible.

I feel you in every acoustic chord and check mate. In every deep, purple night. I feel you in the love I give and the love I have received. In every windy beach day and crackling fire. Still, rushing through my veins.

Because of you, I will love him more. I will love him fast and resilient, yet deliberate and gentle. A timeless love that will bury all scars with fresh skin.

Forever firsts, forever seventeen, forever forward. With you, but without. As the tide moves away from the shore.



“It was enough to trust that what I’d done was true. To understand its meaning without yet being able to say precisely what it was, like all those lines from The Dream of a Common Language that had run through my nights and days. To believe that I didn’t need to reach with my bare hands anymore. To know that seeing the fish beneath the surface of the water was enough. That it was everything. It was my life – like all lives, mysterious and irrevocable and sacred. So very close, so very present, so very belonging to me.
How wild it was, to let it be.” –Cheryl Strayed


I finished reading Wild at 35,000 feet above the Rockies; being inside the earth yet still able to gaze down upon it. There is something so calming about flying. Being able to be separate from your life for a few hours, as if your body is still on the ground and your soul is the only thing in the air. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about this particular feeling; the feeling of being free.

I believe I first experienced it when I was 21-years old driving from San Francisco to Los Angeles in my little Chrysler 300M. It was the first time I really remember ever truly being alone. As I drove past the grapevine and into the city around midnight I remember being mesmerized by the endless lights. I remember the cool breeze coming from the sun roof. I remember the stars fading as I drew closer and closer to the city. I remember shutting off the radio to just take it all in. I had come so far. I was so sick and so lost and completely beaten down. But I had made it; I was free.

I don’t think I knew at the time what I needed to be freed from. In fact, I don’t think I really knew what I needed to be free from until this very moment.

Free from airplane paper napkins filled with promises unfulfilled, free from the boy with the perfected James Dean lean, free from a friend that had turned into so much more; something so necessary, yet so fleeting, free from blue curtains and yellow rubber boots and a life I never should have wanted. Free from endless days spent in bed, heart monitors and advanced directives. Free from the last year of my life in which through much struggle I have learned not only how to forgive others, but also how to forgive myself. To let myself be free.

Every step I have taken has lead me here; to this moment. To where I am supposed to be, at 35,000 feet in the air, looking down upon a life I have created. A life that is unfinished. A life I cannot wait to continue living. Because I was able to wake up today, and let it be.

Published on Thought Catalog

I am honored to share that my piece, “I’m Dreaming Reality,” was published yesterday on Thought Catalog.

You can find it here:



It feels so good to be able to share this particular piece with the world, as it was an incredibly dark chapter of my life.

I urge anyone who is going through similar experiences to reach out to someone they trust and share their own story. PTSD is a subject that is taboo in our society and it must be brought to light.

Emergency Help Line:

Donate to Wounded Warrior Project here: