I hope you don’t read this
I hope you don’t read this. I hope this email doesn’t find you. I hope you’ve shrugged off the big blue weight of December and you’re busy loving the people you love, too busy to contemplate the end of 2024 with a poet you discovered online.
But if you’re like me—contemplating endlessly—here is a new poem. In 2025, I want to let go of perfectionism. I want to be messy, to always surrender to beauty, to see and be seen. What do you want?
Happy holidays (from Eva too). I cannot thank you enough for being part of 2024—I published my chapbook, shared lots of poems here on Substack and IG, worked with
at her writing table, Gather, started doing monthly editing for my paid Substack subscribers, and won the Jack McCarthy Book Prize with Write Bloody Publishing for my collection coming out March 2025. Every word you read, every share and comment, makes this possible. Thank you forever.
Very lovely. Reminded me of Frank O'Hara in a way.
"Clean is just another word for lonely." I heart the fuck out of this. I heart the ever-living-daylights of the fuck out of this.