Miniscule Murder

Pulling weeds per my mom’s request.
The patches of grass had bravely grew through driveway cracks and made the cement look a little too grey for my parent’s liking.
I’m out of a job.
My mom offered to pay me.
I’m pulling weeds,
Squatting barefoot next to tiny green forests I pull bare handed.
Between my fingers I squeeze towards the roots, twist, and pull.
Dirt comes with, dusting the driveway.
This pull and toss game happens a few times.
I get to a plant that’s a little harder to pull.
I twist twice.
Not as much dirt disperses this time but what I saw underneath made me stop my plant plucking.
Hundreds of them.
To me, the chaos was little.
It was dirt that would blow away over night
But I’m afraid I might have made those ant’s lives a lot harder.
I might have turned their night from casual to overtime.
I squatted closer,
A gaping hole where a plant used to be rooted no sits between slabs of hard concrete.
I wonder what’s underneath it all and I look closer.
At first I thought they were rebuilding, bringing dirt chunks into their home to stack the walls tall again.
But I looked again…
The ants were carrying the dirt outwards,
Not replacing.
They were hurrying like I had buried their family.
I watched an ant climb straight up the side with a rock at least six times it’s size.
I saw the ant shake when the weight of the rock got caught on a twig,
But he kept shaking,
And shaking,
Like I shook the dirt off the roots of each plant I picked.
Like I shook the plant from it’s spot.
And I realized,
I am not just pulling weeds.
I am complicating things for many more than myself.
I could be a mass murderer and not even know it.
Those ants will be working all night.
I would help them if I could but I’m afraid I wouldn’t fit.
I’m much too big and I can’t speak their language.
There’s more grass at the end of the driveway I need to pull before my parent’s get home.



I Am Mountain Tops

I have strong moments
And I have weak moments.
Strong like building shelves
And weak like fractured twine.
My spine holds me erect
But my head sometimes hold my gaze down.
I have strong moments
Like when laughter pours from my lips.
Or when I make left-overs into a four course meal.
I have weak moments
Like when my eyes are too sad to cry.
Or when I can’t find a lighter.
So yeah, I can be strong.
But I’m still weak enough to know what growing feels like.
My heart has shin splints.
My body has aches in every place my bones meet.
My feet are charcoaled ash.
My hands are forgotten love letters.
My hope is forever looking forward.
My past is always pulling me back.
I have strong moments
And I have weak moments.
Sometimes the moments meet one another.
The strong greets the week with a scrunched brow and solid hand shake.
The weak me curls like a fist trying to be a rock.
I am mountain tops;
Strong, but I have weak spots.



That’s a semi-blurry picture of my cat, Phoenix, and my best frand’s cat, Kitty, in the background. It was taken immediately after Phoenix returned from an outdoor adventure that lasted a day or two. The adventure was not planned, but she made it home safe (dirty) and sound. This is her not more than five minutes after her return to the indoors:


I think it’s safe to say she had some fun.


My parents have a lot of clocks.
The tic-tocking is evidence that time is moving even though I’m laying still.
I’ve been belly down on the carpet for a while now,
Staring my dog in the face.
She’s sleeping.
In the middle of the front entry way.
She can’t be bothered by me.
I’m bothered by her not wanting to cuddle.
Sometimes, all I want is to cuddle.
To the left of me a clock from the living room ticks.
Behind me, one from the kitchen.
They aren’t in synchrony, so I don’t know which one to believe.
Kind of like when there’s one story told from two points of view.
One of them has to be embellishing something.
Like one of those clocks has to be racing.
I wonder what would make time speed.
Is she afraid of red lights?
Does she hold the calves of olympic runners in her palms?
When does she eat dinner?
There’s a clock in front of me, although it’s not tocking like the rest.
This clock glows blue.
It’s resting under the TV that rarely gets turned on by me.
I haven’t quite figured out how to skip all the commercials in my life.
These clocks won’t let me forget that the show is not stopping.
There’s so much tick-tocking here.
More than I’ve ever heard before.
Unless I’ve been in a clock museum and I’ve forgotten…
But I don’t think anyone could forget that much tick-tocking.
Not even me.
Although, I’m not that great with details.
And people often think I’m a better listener than I really am.
I used to listen to the clock in my bedroom as it sang tunes like birds on the hour.
My favorite was the soft coo-ing of the mourning dove that rang at 7 o’clock.
The clocks my parents have now aren’t as soothing as that.
The tocks and the ticks make me anxious.
Like I’m supposed to have somewhere to be.
Or I’m supposed to have people around me.
But I don’t have either.
I’ve told the clocks to stop pressuring me but they continue to tick.
They must listen like I do.


The vision of RMV camp gates welcoming me has been present in my mind for a while now. All year I looked forward to feeling that magic again, longing to be surrounded by new people, old friends, and campers. In the middle of the Rocky Mountains, one can certainly get lost. And that is exactly what I had to do.

My friend, Hannah, joined me as we drove west. Colorado was our final destination, but we had many stops planned in between. Since I’ve taken the (un)pleasant drive through Iowa and Nebraska before, we decided to take route that’s a little farther north. After driving through Indiana, Illinois, and Wisconsin, we hit Minnesota, where we made a comfortable bed out of my mom’s minivan I was borrowing for the trip. It was more spacious than we both had anticipated and we slept well. Back on the road in the morning, we headed to South Dakota. The Badlands were calling our name. I had been there the year prior, driving through with my family, but this time it was different. We camped at a remote campsite, 12 miles down a dirt road in Badlands National Park. The bison were visible and the coyote’s howls made us aware they were near. An early morning the next day and we were on the road again. We stopped at Wall Drug, and also stopped by Mount Rushmore.

It was friday afternoon and I was eager to reach camp. We made it to Colorado just in time for rush hour, and as soon as we made it through Denver it was smooth flying up the mountain. Hannah and I were greeted by our friend Bianca, and some of the year-round staff at camp. The camp director made a fabulous dinner on the grill and we enjoyed a quiet night in the mountains. The next morning we ate breakfast at The Happy Cooker, and what happened next was not anything that anyone had planned.

Thursday night, in the Badlands, Hannah and I were sitting on the ground, listening to some park rangers speak about how people used to hunt bison back in the day. Reaching up, I plucked a bug out of my hair. Now, having dreadlocs, I expect things to get caught in them, for bugs to mistake them for a home, so I flicked the bug aside and didn’t think anything of it. After all, we were sitting in the grass at a camp site in the middle of a park. Saturday morning, during breaking, reaching up and scratching my head, I plucked out yet another bug. Oddly enough, it was the same kind of bug I found two nights before!

Grossly enough, my friends got on the ‘ole google machine and found that, indeed, I had head lice. We were sitting in the car during the discovery. I had to get out. My stomach curled, my mouth started to water, and all of a sudden I could feel creepy crawly bugs making a home out of my head.

Now, a normal reaction would probably be to think, “Hmm, I need to get rid of these bugs.” My reaction? “I MIGHT HAVE TO SHAVE MY DREADS OFF.”

Seriously, that was my main concern. Multiple friends of mine had lice in the past, and they cleaned theirs up with no problem. After another google search about killing lice in a dread head, we ran to the corner store and bought two containers of rubbing alcohol. We went back to camp and drenched my head in the alcohol, leaving it sit for at least a half hour. Even though it was hard to not think about the bugs crawling around my scalp, we went about our day as planned. We drove down to Denver and met up with some friends, hung out in their courtyard, and celebrated in the Denver Pride festivities.

Sunday morning came around and I knew camp wasn’t going to allow me to be around campers. Head lice, after all, are very contagious through physical contact. It wasn’t until that night that I was told my fate. For ten days I had to stay off of camp. Apparently that is the incubation period for the baby lice eggs, and they needed to make sure I was not only free of bugs, but free of the nits as well. Feeling lost at that moment was an understatement. As everyone at camp got ready for bed, I drove aimlessly up the mountain. It was already getting dark, and the camp sites I passed looked hard to navigate without light. Turning around, I decided on turning the van into a bed once more.

I had a couple nights of figuring out where to sleep. Thankfully, I knew some people down in Denver who were semi-okay with my lice head keeping them company. Continually, I did treatments on my head. The nurses at camp soaked my head in canola oil to suffocate any bugs that were left. I lathered my head with vinegar as well. My dreads had never felt more…weird. With little hope of ever getting rid of them, I cried at the thought of being bald. Chopping off the last year of my life with one swift cut just to rid myself of these disgusting creatures living on my head, feeding off my blood. Needless to say, I was thoroughly grossed out.

After a few days of being a nomad, the camp director called me. He mentioned shaving my head, to which I kindly declined. Then he gave me an option I had already considered many times during my solo adventures up and down the mountain; drive home.

With a head full of bugs, eyes full of tears, and a stomach tied in knots, I called my mom to tell her the news. Camp offered to give me 200 dollars and send me on my way. They couldn’t risk an infestation, and I couldn’t afford to just hang around Colorado until these lice were gone. Without hesitation, my mom told me she would fly out to Denver and drive back home with me. That night was the only night I rented a hotel room. That night left me feeling stale.

It was now wednesday and officially my last day in those mountains. Managing to sneak my way into the back entrance of camp, I said goodbye to a few friends, closed the van doors, and went on my way.

All the suspense that led up to it, all of the excitement about camp slowly disappeared. My stay there was, to say the least, anticampmactic. After such an incredible experience last year at RMV camp, I genuinely looked forward to another summer spent there. My hopes for the summer were very high, and they still are, they’re just a tad different now. Instead of receiving a camper sunday morning, participating in all-camps throughout the week, and eating dinner in a dining hall, I sleep in sunday mornings as late as I want, I participate in whatever activities happen to come my way, and I eat dinner whenever my stomach starts to grumble.

Although I am so sad to not be at camp, I am thankful for the time that is now available for me to find a place to live next year, collect all of my shit, and hang out with people I was weary of leaving behind for a whole summer. So my summer didn’t turn out as planned. Now my summer can be filled with small adventures, close friends, and getting my life together (or at least attempting to…).

Taken on my last day in Colorado

Taken on my last day in Colorado