an open letter to the darkness fighters

I don't usually write things to explain a thing — I want this to speak for itself and be open ended, but I want to say I wrote this one with some friends in mind who I've known over the years who have fought thoughts that tell them life isn't worth it or they aren't. I personally haven't experienced everything I wrote about here, but my heart rivers out to those who have. This one is for them, but its for me and you too, because regardless of what your warring with up in the head, it's all the same battleground. Different faces, different demons, same warzones. We are warheads together, you and I. We are all, in some way, fighting invaders and voices that lie through their teeth. Its negativity that we're after here—darkness. Whether it's thinking your life isn't worth living, or obsessing over numbers on a scale, or talking yourself down until you can hardly hold yourself up, or whether it's something else, we're going to kick this thing. We're going to win. 

I read this in first Corinthians the other day and I don't think I could put it much better: be confident of one thing: no testing will come your way which has not been experienced by other human beings. [Chapter ten verse twelve]

We're in this thing together, alright? got your back. This one's for the darkness fighters. 


I won't talk because I want to listen and I can't do both at once. I want to listen even if you have nothing to say.

I'll sit on the floor beside you and we can watch the writing on the wall together. I'll listen while you tell me that you've heard it all before but then I'll tell you something you've never have heard before.

I know that after a while this world becomes a muted place; mouths move but nothing comes out. Reaching lungs find thin air on shelves they can barely reach. Nothing is ok. I'm sorry we told you that it was, I'm sorry we made you feel like you were insane, because we're all over here eating and regurgitating and eating our darkness but it's

not and

I'm sorry about all of that.

The red lines under your sleeves, the teeth marks on the backs of your hands, the mines you keep stepping on behind your forehead, the weapons,

It's not ok. I'm not going to tell you that it is. I'm just going to take your palms in mine and lift them high and read them aloud so you can know that your skin has a message for your head:


Those monsters living at the ends of your arms were made for life, not death, were made with claws to rip apart the dark and spill the contents of the thoughts that aren't ours out across the floor. They were made to make not take, because reading in between those lines all I see is


Death is for the dead and we were one of them once but now we've broken surface into something bigger. I'm not telling you to run from death I'm telling you that you already died, and so did I and maybe we should start using our fingers to pull the trigger on the ghosts inside that can't

scream as loud
as we can.

We scream louder but we remain silent in the presence of the apparitions that spray paint our inadequacies on the walls of our heads—

speak out loud to that empty room. yell.

I still have those threads you wove together and gave me, I still have them tucked in between the pages of my Bible. I still see you in the crowds with your elbow joints fighting to be seen through your skin, I still see you in the mirror. I wish I could tell you how much you are a meteorite in this night but my mouth is just moving and no words are coming out.

No I'll just keep reading those palms until you can read them yourself; until you can make out the words.


Every single line and every single beat and every single drop of blood and water and light that makes you up has the demons running for cover, the earth trembling under your feet. You are so much more than the bones you can see in the mirror. More than the knives and the sleepless nights and the scratches on your skin. more than the food you wouldn't let yourself eat. More than the judge that you try to be, and more than the punishments you pass on yourself. more than the sentences. You are not any of this. You are not the darkness, you

you are the beginning of the end of that darkness.

You are the dawn. You are the light. You and the mess you made and the tired brain inside your head are the northern lights.

So I won't talk. I won't tell you the things you've already heard.

I'll just give you back your hands and let them tell you a different story.



old ground

sitting in the Badlands,
thinking about that old ground that Jefferson and America-shapers walked.

Old ground, covered in blossoms,
old earth, touched and turned and worked and molded

by hands not unlike mine.
Hands that wanted ours to know that they are

Movers, shakers.


There's nothing quite like Charlottesville in spring. The earth is yawning and stretching and the streets are bleached and the people are happy. We explored Monticello and ate overcooked fries and french toast in a diner on main street. Then we went in Urban Outfitters and bought nothing. It was a good day. 

I'm literally sitting out here in the desert rn, so if you want to see desert pictures, and pictures that won't be as nice as Abbie's follow my instagram. Also, we passed a car on the highway the other day and the dog in the passenger seat was wearing sunglasses. Kid you not. 

One other thing you need to know is that Applebees serves sweet potato fires with some kind of a frosting dip and it is evil and beautiful and blasphemy from the dark side.

also, the love on the last post?? <3 you guys make my heart crazy. thank you.

I bet I can scream louder than you

For the nights when the voices come instead of sleep,
For the nights when your walls turn to rivers,

Remember one thing: you're bigger than they are.

They're there and they're loud, and they're screaming but they're not big. They just sound big because it's so empty in


They are echoes. They
are not you. You are not the demons and you don't belong to them, no, they

they belong to you

You are not how you feel at three am, in fact you are not your feelings. Your feelings are just the side effects of having a hurricane sitting above your shoulders. You feel their fingernails as they pass but that doesn't make you the marks it makes you


You're alive at three am and you're feeling this.

there's two of you in this duel and only one can win before the sun comes up and shows you that the ghosts are gone for now.

You know they hide during the day because they're cowards, right? When the sun shows its face and shows you yours in that broken mirror, they flee from the eye contact because they can't handle all that supernova inside there.


The demons are afraid of you. the ghosts are hiding in the closet because they're scared of you not because you're scared of them. You don't know they're on a leash and the end of that leash is in your hand but

they know.

yank it. Tie it. Don't let them tie you up at the wrists. don't let them run free in a place that doesn't belong to them, it's not a playground it's a


an executioner's block on which their blood will be shed because they don't own the burning bush behind your forehead, you do. Tell them to take off their shoes it's

sacred ground. In there.

you're not three am. you're just passing through. I'm just passing through. The place where our eyes burn and our chest hollows out and fills with all the things we never said, could have said, the things we never should have said, things we did, things we wish we had an eraser for, the dark places,

we don't live there

we're just passing through ok? Don't give out your name or your number, don't settle in because you're not staying here. You're going to breathe in and breathe out in that sacred skin and you're going to keep walking in the direction of the dawn. And you're going to remember that the sun is coming up to illuminate the shapes that make up your face and remind you that you are outer space wrapped up in flesh like a Christmas present. You are an IED. You are ripping apart at the seams with a world we don't know about,

a place only you can take us. show us.

You're bigger than them.

They can only hurt you if you tell them where the knives are. You don't belong to them. They're the invaders.  The debris in the hurricane is not the hurricane, it's just something it picked up from somewhere else.

you are not what happens in your hurricane at three am and you are not alone in that place however much you might feel like you are. we are there together and we are bigger than they are.

don't tell them where the knives are
turn on the light.


northwest florida

It's hard to put words to these, because this is it, really. Florida is so visual; so much color.

The city of Seaside is a wonder; it's constant patterns of surfing and Starbucks runs and food trucks and grocery shopping at night. Days are spent on the beach [as soon as the sun is tame enough not to burn Abbie, who is delicate porcelain] getting slammed in the breaks, or exploring [feat. eglin air force base museum] and evenings are sunsets and fires and eating food. Quite a few of the shots toward the top were taken while I was waiting for a grilled cheese. [Those machine-looking things? Are grilled cheese machines.]

I brought Abbie into a surf shop where I bought a Channel Islands snapback, and we drooled over Al Merrick boards together. And she also took surf lessons; I saw this chica get up and ride her first wave. I could have cried tears of pride.


what are your summer plans?? travel plans? vacation plans? Tell me the things.
Also, is it just me or does Abbie have a really sassy grocery store face???