What is the truth? As so often happens following a world crisis, people are emerging from their dazed, COVID-19 paralyses asking questions and touting discoveries, potential revelations, and shocking conspiracy theories. Maybe you’ve seen the same conspiracy theories circulating the inter-web that I have. Perhaps they’ve caused you to ask…

Our plane creaked, squealed and thudded to a stop at San Francisco International Airport and I felt a corresponding thud internally — an emotion of sadness. Europe — my home for the past seven weeks — was just a shiny memory and hundreds of pictures on my phone now. For…

Baby, now we got bad blood, and we used to be mad love… Swifties (the name Taylor Swift fans affectionately gave themselves) know this line as the chorus to Taylor Swift’s 2014 single, Bad Blood. What followed that single (besides a sold-out tour with millennials, moms, grandmas and a few…

Maybe instead of jumping over the days I should sit in them Maybe if I knew my lover’s last day I would crawl in between the moments linger in the brush of his hands study his salt-and-pepper hair and giggle at his funny underwear dance Maybe instead of running from this closeness I’d made a home in it; letting his breath tumble into mine as we smile-kiss.

I was fourteen-years-old when I first started writing about wanting to kill myself. While I was too terrified to talk about it for the shame that I was certain would follow, I wasn’t inhibited in the slightest as I turned to my best friend, my trusty old journal. While most teenage girls were writing love notes to their crushes or drawing designs of their ideal prom dress, I was researching how to hang myself and which medications can kill you the quickest.