Poems

Glitter That Ate December [Wreath]There is always one last string of holiday nonsense that refuses to die, a single shimmering parasite of the season that survives every trash bag drag to the curb and every hungover sigh,You spot it on a Tuesday in January, when you’re just trying to cross the room with a mug […]

Glitter That Never Vacuums Out [Wreath]Every December you swear you’ll go minimal, say it with your whole tired chest; “this year, less is more, this year, we’re keeping it simple,” while your hand is already halfway into the box of tangled lights and weaponized sparkle like an addict reaching for that first crinkle,You stand over

Glass Ghosts In The Sink [Wreath]By the time the last ride-share taillights smear away down the icy street and the final half-hearted “text me when you get home” has already fallen into the yawning void where forgotten messages go to rot,The house exhales, shoulders slumping, walls damp with the condensation of too many voices, and

Glass Gossip On A Haunted Tree [Wraith]The tree looks innocent from the doorway, all store-bought glow and fake snow spray clinging to needles that were born in a factory and never saw actual rain,But step close enough to feel the heat from the tangled lights and you’ll hear it, the soft glass murmur, the ornaments

Giftwrap Witness Protection [Wreath]By ten in the morning the living room already looks like a paper storm hit—bows in the tree, ribbons strangling the lamp, a snowdrift of crumpled prints around the couch where the first wave of presents died loud and proud,Kids are knee-deep in cartoon Santas and glittery snowflakes, tearing through packaging like

Gingerbread City After Midnight [Wreath]It started the night the snow smelled faintly of sugar instead of car exhaust and cold pennies, the flakes hitting your cheeks with a softness that tasted wrong in the best possible way,You were walking home from yet another office party that wasn’t really a party, just fluorescent lighting with alcohol,

Ghosts In The Glass [Wraith]The bottle sighs when I twist the wire, that soft tiny hiss like a secret that wants out, that wants blood, that wants a witness for all the wreckage I carried through this year on my frayed, crooked back,Foil crumples in my fingers, a little metallic skin, and every wrinkle in

Ghosts Under The Tricolor [Wraith]July comes with heat that tastes like metal on the tongue and spilled wine on sidewalks,Tourists spill from buses clutching tiny plastic flags and lists of landmarks like cheat sheets for a test they didn’t study for but still expect to ace,The city pretends it’s lighthearted tonight, drapes itself in blue

First Sip, Second Chance Steam [Wreath]The city is hungover even if it never drank, streets wearing last night’s glitter in the gutters like mascara that quit halfway home,Sky pale and undecided, a washed-out bruise of ink and milk stretching over roofs that still remember fireworks ripping holes in their dome.Someone’s party hat tumbles down the

Footprints Where The Woods Remember [Wraith]Snow started like static on an old dead channel, soft white lies drifting down over parking lots and cul-de-sacs and all the other places that pretend they’re safe,and by the time I ducked past the last porch light and stepped off the plowed road, the world had gone so quiet