This selection, chosen by Guest Editor Claudia Santos, is from Affidavit by Starr Davis (Hanging Loose Press 2026).
Content Warning: domestic violence
EXHIBIT LIST OF SUPPORTING EVIDENCE
Exhibit A1 – Police record my body never made ’cause bodies like mine don’t call the police
Exhibit A2 – Palimpsest memories stored in my blood overwritten by the movant’s narcissism
Exhibit A3 – My bruised forearm in response to me congratulating a friend on Twitter
Exhibit A4 – My reddened neck in response to asking to phone my family members
Exhibit A5 – The hidden biochemical governance of the undeparted postpartum
Exhibit A6 – Police Report I dreamed up in response to a call I thought of but never made
Exhibit A7 – Unforeseen text message to my mama which contains an erased plea for help ’cause I knew better than to go down there with that boy I ain’t know that well anyways
Exhibit A8 – The audio recording I never recorded ’cause he said he wouldn’t do it again
Exhibit A9 – A recording of dirge saying he would kill me and take the baby if I thought of leaving
Exhibit A10 – The oneiromancy of my pregnancy
Exhibit A11 – Police record my body never made
Exhibit A12 – Police record my body never made
Exhibit A13 – Police record my body never made
Exhibit A14 – Police record my body never made
Exhibit A15 – Police record my body never made
Exhibit A16 – Police record my body never made
Exhibit A17 – Police record my body never made
Exhibit A18 – Police record my body never made
Exhibit A19 – Police record my body never made
Exhibit A20 – Police record my body never made
Starr Davis (she/her) is a poet and essayist whose work has appeared in The Kenyon Review, Academy of American Poet’s Poem-a-Day, and The Rumpus. She was the 2024 Writing Freedom Fellow with Haymarket Books and the Mellon Foundation.
Claudia Santos (she/her) is a Mexican reader and writer. She received the PECDA Colima 2024 writing grant for her non-fiction work and was a Sophia-FILCO Young Writers 2025 finalist for her poetry work. She is currently pursuing an MA in Children’s Literature as a EMJM scholarship recipient.
This selection, chosen by Guest Editor Claudia Santos, is from Affidavit by Starr Davis (Hanging Loose Press 2026).
I COME FROM
after Tina Chang
I come from pants pockets, rolled socks, wired bra strap: the dusky places poor people hide their money. A crown royal bag full of quarters and pennies to put in collection plates on Sunday.
From double-dutch and deadbeats, an ashtray of cinders, an empty pill bottle. Every corner of juice saved in the carton as if we might need that slice of sugar on our tongues if a tornado hit.
As if, that gulp might give us strength, the way a hit gives my mother enough power to be a god, a mother, a warrior, a man, a piece of bread from her lips, if we ever go hungry. I come from that too, the indifference of food and drug, the
Crackling of a pipe or a joint, the smacking from lips and flesh. In the cheapest places, I learned people are the most expensive drug you could buy… I come from those cheap places: crack houses, corner stores, church. The ones that cry the loudest with tambourines beaten bloodied by sandpaper palms. I come from the crevasse between thumb and index finger, of the dryness collected there. I come from that succulent. From plastic plants, plastic furniture. From preserved pain, preserved love.
I come from the screech of a screen door, the chime of handcuffs, the flicks of fire. I remember the first time I sold my body. I was a pamphlet unfolded, only to be unfolded again. I come from that; worn pages of bibles no one reads.
The travailing of crows on wires. The aged chicken grease in cupboards. The sounds of a woman faking an orgasm. Or worse, faking her own death. In her own bed. The dim ceiling lights that turns us orange. Darkness. The oily water from my sisters’ bath. I come from that: Seconds.
Hand-me-downs. Thrifting through pantries, through boxes of toys at yard sales. I come from the reselling of things: slavery. My body is waiting for me, in a backroom somewhere at somebody cousin house,
maybe its interest has gone up. Maybe it grew wings. Got out. And maybe it hasn’t. Maybe it settled. And has become one of those slaves that falls in love with its master: bondage.
I come from that too.
Starr Davis (she/her) is a poet and essayist whose work has appeared in The Kenyon Review, Academy of American Poet’s Poem-a-Day, and The Rumpus. She was the 2024 Writing Freedom Fellow with Haymarket Books and the Mellon Foundation.
Claudia Santos (she/her) is a Mexican reader and writer. She received the PECDA Colima 2024 writing grant for her non-fiction work and was a Sophia-FILCO Young Writers 2025 finalist for her poetry work. She is currently pursuing an MA in Children’s Literature as a EMJM scholarship recipient.
Sandra Doller’s Not Now Now (Rescue Press, 2025) is a powerful interrogation of motherhood, autonomy, and growing older in a country rooted in patriarchy and violence. By playing with the nonsensical, the incongruous, and the strange, Doller’s work interrogates the self and attempts an honest answer about our sobering reality. Although all the poems are untitled, the collection is divided into three sections: “Not,” “Now,” and “Now,” tracing a compelling arc on coming to terms with adulthood.
In the first section “Not,” often unpunctuated poems bleed into one another as Doller explores the frenzied contradictions of daily life. Her work is intentionally, unreservedly indulgent, focusing on the complications of authority and (in)dependence. In particular, the rhetorical weight of the “I” looms in each poem. In one instance, Doller’s speaker reflects, “he doesn’t use the word I / at all, just We and They / occasionally You but never / Himself never inserted as if / that’s a kind of absence / when in fact it’s the worst / kind of present tense / takeover as if he is not even / in his own likeness” (41). At the same time, Doller’s speaker turns to another unknown figure, “You and your dirty / I” (27). Through wielding both accusation and praise, Doller challenges the idea of a “tainted” or shameful self. No one is wholly innocent, or naive, or even honest with themselves, but perhaps the so-called dirtiness as we grow older—the accumulated disappointments, sorrows, regrets—does not need to be harbored in secret shame.
It is also in “Not” that Doller lays the groundwork for a vision of a distorted quotidian, interrupting what the reader may assume to be “normal.” Suspending disbelief, Doller’s speaker describes instead: “When women speak with / their mouths full of soap…Their mouths wide / whale for the credit / card insert a flag here” (38). The credit card, blurred into a flag, with a presumed place inside a woman’s body, is a true mark of the American violence that Doller attempts to grapple with. More subtly, the poem’s speaker also points out, “Erasure of girl / is a tricky little / business I’ve been / at for a few / centuries now…Puffed / sleeves and push / ups everything is / elevated. Make it / higher and high / like bangs” (42). Through the poem’s progression, Doller creates a heightening anxiety and tension that reflects the truly century-long project of controlling bodies—gender, sexuality, sex. How is girlhood defined? And then policed? What kind of adulthood can emerge from and in conjunction with this?
In “Now,” the collection’s second section, Doller’s dense series of prose poems pulls the reader into its very center of tension. The images are equally distorted as before, but the distortion settles into clarity now, where a landscape of often white, middle-class, suburban American domesticity emerges. It is in this space that Doller shoots questions with more striking precision than ever. “Does your belief depend on me to open it,” the poem’s speaker asks, to “crack that nut like a slow-moving rat on the line, does it” (72). In cutting bluntness, Doller dares the reader to face most what they want to the least. What loss had to occur and continues to occur in order for your current life to take place? In another poem: “How many years did a woman live here before me,” and “once you move in there is no moving anymore” (53). Doller makes it clear that in her poems, we are not walking around in wonder or confusion anymore. We are asking questions; we are conversing; we are creating our own answers. Despite the sinister threat of inaction and stagnancy, a form of agency and pushing forward is still possible. “I am a moving crisis in Washington and the kids know it,” Doller’s speaker declares, “watch me watch you corrupt the process” (76).
Finally, in the last section, also titled “Now,” Doller closes the collection on a note that is neither melancholic nor optimistic, but uncompromising and sincere. In one of the poems, the speaker confesses, “I have / been afraid so / afraid before. / I am sore / for the men / inside their empty / puffy suits. I have / never coughed like / that or moved my neck / so little” (109). Through this tender and vulnerable admission, the speaker acknowledges their world for what it is and has been, but now the space opens up to change. Language must be intentional, broken apart, changed—which is why Doller writes, “We foil / ourselves like cartoon / bandits. America are you / listening, lingering, are you / so old you can’t just can’t anymore” (102). Instead of saying “are you so old you just can’t anymore,” the poem refuses the oft-used excuse of fatigue and tradition.
Not Now Now is a stunning collection that grapples with how precarious our existences are. Even in our conversations with each other, just one letter can determine the sentence’s meaning, “the way one letter from word ‘now’ to ‘not’ changes everything: your breakfast is now ready, your breakfast is not ready” (Doller 55). There is fragility and ambiguity to most problems, but the reader learns through these poems that they must confront these experiences head-on. As Doller writes, “Let the times you flinch be / the times you’re really in it” (39).
Ruoyu Wang is a writer from Seattle. Their poems appear in Sine Theta Magazine, COUNTERCLOCK, and The Shore, and have been recognized by YoungArts, The Adroit Journal, and Narrative Magazine, among others. Currently, they serve as the Founding Director of the SUNHOUSE Summer Writing Mentorship and study Critical Race and Political Economy at Mount Holyoke College. They love linguistics, postcards, live music, and jasmine milk tea.
This selection, chosen by Guest Editor Claudia Santos, is from Affidavit by Starr Davis (Hanging Loose Press 2026).
Content Warning: domestic violence
AFFIDAVIT II
A sworn statement:
I, a resident of succulent places both mental and physical, came and appeared, eschatological as a woman pastored by papayas & Pendergrass records & predators both flesh and spirit, under penalty and personal knowledge, that few or all ecclesiastical things are correct:
THE—imperial—rule of my hips conjured a dream that could not be undreamt; all the men in my life have been mostly theory less Bible; niggas that I could love on accident and leave on purpose however, this one: a consequence of the unhealed in hotel rooms after tangerine suns bleed graceless, took my dream hostage for a night choked my last sweetest memory until I couldn’t taste any remnants of the most fabricated joy I could say I’ve witnessed, he is by a law, the nigga my mama never warned me about because he is the niggas we are born making excuses for; days before I delivered this dream of mine I thought of calling the police but he said me and my little dream would be dead before they found us and so, the drafted petition for domestic violence still etched in my bones is opaque;
THE MOVANT, who is mostly flesh not spirit, is not within the best interest of any dream(s) of mine
Starr Davis (she/her) is a poet and essayist whose work has appeared in The Kenyon Review, Academy of American Poet’s Poem-a-Day, and The Rumpus. She was the 2024 Writing Freedom Fellow with Haymarket Books and the Mellon Foundation.
Claudia Santos (she/her) is a Mexican reader and writer. She received the PECDA Colima 2024 writing grant for her non-fiction work and was a Sophia-FILCO Young Writers 2025 finalist for her poetry work. She is currently pursuing an MA in Children’s Literature as a EMJM scholarship recipient.
The Sundress Academy for the Arts is excited to present “Writing Without Words: On Gesture,” a workshop led by Stacey Balkun on Wednesday, May 13th from 6:00-7:30 PM EST. This event will be held over Zoom. Participants can access the event at tiny.utk.edu/sundress (password: SAFTA). Please note that we are now setting up registrations in advance of the workshop. Register for this event here.
As writers, our medium is words: written or spoken; mumbled or sung. We share language with other genres—like music and theatre—but what other tools do these media have in conjunction with words, and how can we learn from them? In this generative workshop, we will expand our understanding of our art form and craft our own poetry or short prose pieces that are driven by more-than-words.
Drawing inspiration from instrumental songs, mime acts, and experimental poetry, we will devote the majority of our session to studying gesture: a vital tool for every art form. We will consider artistic examples ranging from the band Daikaiju to the painter Kay Sage as we engage in conversation and participate in low-stakes, wordless activities designed to spark our imaginations, before quietly writing with the guidance of a prompt, with an opportunity to share.
While there is no fee to participate in this workshop, those who are able and appreciative may make donations directly to Stacey Balkun via Venmo or Paypal at staceymbalkun@gmail.com
Stacey Balkun is the author of Sweetbitter and co-editor of Fiolet & Wing. Her creative and critical work has appeared in Attached to the Living World, Best New Poets, Mississippi Review, and several other volumes. Stacey holds a PhD in Literature from the University of Mississippi, Oxford, where she was awarded the Holdich Scholar Award, and an MFA in Poetry from Fresno State. She has been granted fellowships and grants from the Modern Language Association, PEN America, and the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation in support of her writing. Stacey teaches online for The Poetry Barn and the University of New Orleans.
The Sundress Academy for the Arts is excited to present Poetry Xfit hosted by Layla Lenhardt. This generative workshop event will take place on Sunday, May 31st, from 2 to 4 pm EST via Zoom. Join us at the link tiny.utk.edu/sundress with the password “safta”.
Poetry Xfit isn’t about throwing tires or heavy ropes, but the idea of confusing our muscles is the same. You will receive ideas, guidelines, and more as part of this generative workshop series in order to complete three poems in two hours. A new set of prompts will be provided after the writers have written collaboratively for thirty minutes. The goal is to create material that can be later modified and transformed into artwork rather than producing flawless final versions. The event is open to prose authors as well!
The theme for May’s Poetry Xfit is “Travel.” You may be writing in your home or other confined space, but here is an invitation to let your mind wander and visit places beyond the room you’re in. Join us as we meander through the spaces, times, and locations we have been to or want to explore through writing.
Layla Lenhardt is an American poet currently based out of Indianapolis. She is the author of “Mother Tongue” (Main Street Rag 2023). She earned her undergrad from Washington & Jefferson college and has an MFA in progress at IU. Professionally, she is a gemologist.
This selection, chosen by Guest Editor Claudia Santos, is from Affidavit by Starr Davis (Hanging Loose Press 2026).
ZOOM COURT
and even though it is virtual, i still cringe
the first time seeing my abuser’s face since i left him 5 months ago
he is suing me for our pound a flesh, a baby i never thought i would have
he is wearing the shirt i bought him for our maternity photoshoot.
he is confident. i am not.
he knows this. so, i already know i have lost.
i am miles away from him sitting in an apartment with pink walls. i hate pink.
but it made the whole house feel like a nursery
secret: i wanted the house to swaddle me
halfway across the country in the middle of the winter with a newborn
back to the women who know me by my scent
court isn’t a new word for us.
my mama says, “back in my day, a man would just let you leave.”
she is speaking of my father.
when i tell them i have been served and must attend, not in- person but via zoom court on video, they all laugh and ask me if i am joking. in- person
“this will be over in 5 minutes,” a lawyer assures me.
i place a sticky-note over his face on my laptop screen.
the gallery grid keeps shifting as people leave the virtual courtroom as cases are dismissed. this will be me soon, i think to myself.
my little human is with someone safe, somewhere away from me and our nursery home.
the lawyer encourages me that i am doing this for her.
five months postpartum, i am still squishy around my abdomen and wet around the nipple.
courts usually rule in favor of mothers, all kinds of people tell me.
he is younger than me, my abuser.
just a boy, my grandmother likes to remind me.
what would the difference be, if i were dealing with a man?
a white woman judge confirms sex is just a construct.
she places my body and all things belonging under the jurisdiction of a purple moon.
the sticky- note falls off.
i see myself on the screen, crying beside him.
Starr Davis (she/her) is a poet and essayist whose work has appeared in The Kenyon Review, Academy of American Poet’s Poem-a-Day, and The Rumpus. She was the 2024 Writing Freedom Fellow with Haymarket Books and the Mellon Foundation.
Claudia Santos (she/her) is a Mexican reader and writer. She received the PECDA Colima 2024 writing grant for her non-fiction work and was a Sophia-FILCO Young Writers 2025 finalist for her poetry work. She is currently pursuing an MA in Children’s Literature as a EMJM scholarship recipient.
I grew up in the South. I’m sure you can imagine how that experience went for a young, autistic, trans man. My only escape was reading and my only form of expression was writing. Despite the love and acceptance I got from my mom, I struggled to form attachments to anyone other than fictional characters. By high school, I felt like my entire personality was a facade, an amalgamation of the people around me and the traits deemed “acceptable” by society. I couldn’t openly express myself and that repression started getting me into trouble.
My mind wandered and I found myself struggling to focus in class, too worried about what might happen if I ever dropped the mask. I stopped reading and writing. My grades plummeted and many of my teachers said I’d be lucky to graduate high school. They were almost right. I’d just barely finished the first three years of high school, passing classes by the skin of my teeth. Spring semester of my senior year, I was already flunking two classes. That was when COVID hit. All of the senior teachers bumped everyone’s grades up to passing and promised they wouldn’t go back down. They told us if we wanted better grades, we could attend Zoom classes during lockdown to improve them. I, however, was so burnt out by that point that the thought of doing so gave me panic attacks. Graduation rolled around and I was in the bottom of my class. I still graduated though!
After high school, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. Everyone told me to “go to college” and “get a degree” and “do something meaningful with my life.” But I’d barely made it through high school and I couldn’t stand the thought of putting myself through that again. I worked a handful of dead-end jobs, got some tattoos, skated through life doing almost nothing. In 2021, I decided to apply to Cosmetology School. It was fun. It gave me something productive to fill my endless days. That experience made me fall in love with learning again.
I moved out of Oklahoma and up to Virginia with my parents in 2024 and started community college. I fell in love with writing again. I started writing more poetry, getting published in The Bloomin’ Onion and Wingless Dreamer. I graduated from community college in a year and transferred to a university, from which I will graduate at the end of 2026. My biggest dream in life is to write something that would make high school me feel seen and safe.
Greyson Finch (he/him) is a poet from Oklahoma. Throughout his life, he’s struggled with his mental health and childhood trauma while also growing up queer in the South. He uses that to write pieces that speak to the soul. Pieces that people like him can read to know they’re not alone. He’s been published in The Bloomin’ Onion and Wingless Dreamer. He can be found on twitter at @Greyson_Finch77 and Instagram at @greysonfinchwrites
This selection, chosen by Guest Editor Claudia Santos, is from Affidavit by Starr Davis (Hanging Loose Press 2026).
AFFIDAVIT I
I CONFIRM I have never known any fathers. I do not know this one. Our union, like permission when it is not given, or communion when it is not blessed, was the closest I had come to trusting. The man I called father had fathered me from prison. His apostolic letters ministered to a place inside me that was animal, and wild. When you are Black you want to know what kind of slave your ancestors became. Conquerors or complacent. Killers or just killed. He told me nothing, just a few lines to a story, like a page torn out from an old book. Once he was released, no longer my pastor on paper, he gave me his eyes and then a number he never answered. He has never fathered again. We remain in good counsel as good friends, both of us being so experienced at abandonment the common bread we break is stale.
THUS, my child knows no father, the way in which my inner child knows no authority, the way in which the petitioner knows no love, the way in which the dead know no place, or a slave knows no name, or these eyes know no stars, or my spirit knows no truth outside the sun or moon being constant and everything else everchanging. And like Ishmael, who had never known his father outside of rose milk and his single mother’s prayer, my child will too, come to know an inheritance that only comes with a fatherless blessing.
I CERTIFY the last text received from the petitioner was in blood. The last child support payment was enough for a glass of wine. The last father I had was a false prophet. I am afraid of a second coming.
Starr Davis (she/her) is a poet and essayist whose work has appeared in The Kenyon Review, Academy of American Poet’s Poem-a-Day, and The Rumpus. She was the 2024 Writing Freedom Fellow with Haymarket Books and the Mellon Foundation.
Claudia Santos (she/her) is a Mexican reader and writer. She received the PECDA Colima 2024 writing grant for her non-fiction work and was a Sophia-FILCO Young Writers 2025 finalist for her poetry work. She is currently pursuing an MA in Children’s Literature as a EMJM scholarship recipient.
When looking to get out of your head, most people do drugs. Smoking, drinking, whatever the preferred method, substances are a surefire way to escape the impending doom of our reality. As I don’t do drugs or drink–on principle, because of my autoimmune diseases, and because it simply doesn’t get me out of my head–I turn to books. I found this escape at an early age, and just like a drug, I became addicted quickly. I was a user. Still am. But I like to justify my vice with the fact that it’s not a vice at all. Sure maybe the desire to escape reality through fiction does not come from the healthiest most grounded version of Abby that probably exists somewhere. But, hey, who’s going to stop me from reading? With this in mind, I tend to gravitate towards the furthest from reality fiction that I can get my hands on. And quite frankly, sometimes the “worse” it is, the better! By “worse” I don’t necessarily mean poorly written. I more so mean a “zero brain power necessary” type of book. Anyway, how could you find a good book from a bad one if you have nothing to compare it to? Now I must clarify, this brainless descriptor is in no way an insult to the books or authors. In fact, I am using this description to show that as silly as a book may be, reading is reading and there is always value in that.
Thus, I thought very long and hard about what books I should tell people are my favorite, as this reflects directly who I am, perhaps what I stand for, at least what I think about. Maybe I am overthinking it. Maybe most people don’t think twice about their coworker’s latest read. The world isn’t a vile judgmental dark place, and I, of course, have never thought less about someone from their reading choice! I’m lying. I have and will continue to judge people whose favorite authors are the worst person you’ve ever heard of. I definitely don’t encourage consuming books from unethical, immoral, or plain horrible people. Doing your research is incredibly important and consuming a “zero brain power” book doesn’t mean leaving all your standards at the first turn of the cover page.
So here are some of my favorites. Books I have thought nothing of while reading, thought about everything years after reading, and books that now have permanent places on my skin. My favorite go to when I’m looking to entertain my maladaptive-daydreaming-tendencies is The Once Upon a Broken Heart series. Somehow I have left the actual first book back at my Mom’s, so pictured is the third and final book, also my favorite, that I have reread an embarrassing amount of times. I usually pick this up first thing after a particularly long semester when I’m ready to pretend I’m a girl discovering romantasy for the first time. It’s magical, it’s got vampires, it’s got a female hero who embraces being feminine with a slow burn enemies to lovers. What more could middle school Abby ask for?
On the gothic side of the romantasy genre, my shameless indulgence of the brainless book persuasion led me to The Shepherd King duology– a must read. I splurged on the gorgeous special edition hardcovers and seriously would pay to read this for the first time again. Another enemies to lovers (we have a theme here), the story follows Elspeth, a young woman who finds herself working with the royals she has been trying to avoid to rid their kingdom of a mysterious dark magic that is taking over their world. Navigating a deadly fog and staying under the noses of the royals she loathes, she not only is trying to save her loved ones, but also herself from the ever present Nightmare, an entity that lives in her head. This series is not as “zero brain power” as others, but it serves no higher purpose than being fun.
Indulging in your guilty pleasures is a necessary part of enjoying reading, but so is reading for a new perspective. No one should be pompous about their academic reads, but we all should have them. It’s all about finding the balance. I’m a libra so that’s basically my entire thing. Therefore, I can’t go on about “useless” books without talking about one incredibly useful, and deeply emotional read. I could go on about The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros for a very long time. Her story telling through vignettes has inspired me more than several other books combined. Exploring coming of age, poverty, and desiring to be anywhere but where you are through a Chicana girl growing up in lower class Chicago, Cisneros captivates every emotion you could ever feel. This book spoke to my own childhood in a way I could never quite articulate myself. I will forever be thankful for that.
In the category of books I haven’t stopped thinking about, My Year of Rest and Relaxation had to make an appearance. I wouldn’t describe this book as one I really enjoyed reading. I think it’s hard to enjoy a book so deeply rooted in the exploration of grief. Yet I can’t seem to put it out of my mind that there’s a piece of me in these unlikeable characters. I felt the grief of the main character as though it was my own, and I think it helped me reflect on the parts of myself I would rather ignore. My Year of Rest and Relaxation is not just a book to me, but a personal state of existence I have been in and successfully gotten myself out of. I recommend to anyone who has experienced life altering sadness, especially the selfish kind. We all should be selfish sometimes, and then we must come out of it.
I could not discuss my favorite books without mentioning my favorite author of all time, Kate DiCamillo. She is a children’s author, but to me, her prose is poetry the way symbolism ebbs and flows. Depth seeps from the pages, and I already plan to tattoo more of the characters from her books in the future. I have The Tiger Rising girl riding a tiger on my arm and have a spot on my knee dedicated to Edward Tulane. A brief summary cannot captivate how much her work means to me. It started when my Mom would read us these books to fall asleep and I would rest to the sound of her voice filled with these words. I hope someday I can have the effect on others that these stories have on me.
The list of books on my TBR is ever growing and far outnumbers the list of books I have actually read. Thus my bookshelf at my current place is tiny and full of mainly what I have yet to read, not a collection of all of the ones I own. Despite its limited space, I have places for all of these books there. Even the “zero brain power ones”. Especially those ones. Everyone should read something useless, because no book ever really is. Therefore I say, do not do drugs! Read instead!
Abigail Palmer (she/her) is a current English student at the University of Tennessee. Born in the north but raised in the south, she has always had a place in the in-between of things. In between reader and writer, student and teacher, chronically ill and healthy–she is seeking to defy such labels to become whoever, wherever, however she desires to be. That currently looks like a preschool teacher, beloved (of course) daughter, adored (obviously) girlfriend, up-and-coming cat mom, and a forever nominee of the “Super Opinionated” award. If she’s not incessantly analyzing every piece of media she consumes, she’s probably intellectualizing her feelings while making ultra specific playlists that no one can relate to but her! You can find her on Instagram @zer0cooll.
