prose

Iris is a good dog. When I was twenty, I paid some dude in a van ten bucks to adopt her. I wasn’t willing to ask questions about her background—the guy had an accidental puppy he was willing to practically give away and she had big, watery brown

I think I listened to Pink Floyd’s Time over a hundred times the week after my father died. I wanted to hold onto something. I wanted to keep him with me. It didn’t do much to make me happier; the song haunts with its foreboding introduction while the

Listen: everything I did was for humanity. But once I started, I couldn’t stop. The idea cluttered my house, transforming every room into a laboratory with vials of blood and thick blankets of paper torn from any coding manual I could get my hands on. I became a hostage

Before I started medication for my raging AuDHD (that’s a portmanteau of autism + ADHD), I was a mess. Not in the quirky, artistic, “girl-next-door in a sitcom” way, but in an actual, gross way. I had coffee cups that could have posed as petri dishes lining my

(The baby is my book.) I’ve grappled with this a lot lately, especially today. June 26, 2026 will mark 26th birthday and my earliest published work (done by a magazine called Teen Ink when I was in middle school, I believe) is only getting older. If you’re a

Let me tell you about a horrible, terrible, no-good blunder, involving yours truly and a story called Creation Myth. I spent months on this thing. Months. Felt like I had the whole world on the page. I thought I was saying something super interesting and profound about the body,

When I think of my father, I think of space (the final frontier). I believe most of what I have written in the past two years circles back around to him in some way, like his death has some sort of gravitational pull. I feel, sometimes, that if I orbit