in the hour before a show,
every dressing room looks like a
thrift store gone to hell
Hamilton and Six are blasting from
someone's cheap speaker
it's new show, but never a new playlist;
why fix what isn't broken?
tables are covered in DIY props, the
fruits of a tech crew's labor, and
itchy mic tape is stuck to your back. no one dares to complain
despite the fact that the mics seem to only pick up
the sound of a sneeze backstage.

in the minutes before a show,
a spotlight points to the center of velvet curtains
hiding the chaos of hurriedly
rehearsed lines, useless
pep talks and an overcaffeinated stage manager
Preshow rituals, shaking limbs like a ragdoll
one two three four five six seven eight!
big energy an jumps, whoops, laughter, hugs
wishes for broken legs and remembered lines
tired parents and annoyed siblings filling plastic seats

in the seconds before a show, there is a 

pause.

For just one second, the audience, the cast, and
      you
are silent. There is not a hair of movement, not from
      the audience
or the cast, or the crew. there is only a moment of 
      anticipation
for the story they are about to see, and
      the stage
it will be etched on,
      forever.

The moment will pass, and the show will go on
but there will never be a moment of performance
quite like the thrill of the preparation
right before a production.

They told me to tell
a trusted adult,
but no mature mind
wouldn't find me at fault.

To say "trusted adult"
is to build a fantasy,
in which i can turn to someone
who won't sigh at me.

you assume that there's someone
who will stand with me at the brink,
and talk me back from the thoughts
I've trained myself to think.

To have a "trusted adult"...
what fun that would be!
If only there were a person,
willing to see

that even when wrong
in the way that I act,
I've still got the chance
to bring myself back.

So before telling your teens
to give up their secrets,
determine first if you're someone
they'd trust to keep it.

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on my way through tokyo i found
a flower shop, with two elder women
holding bouquets of yellow buds, squished
between a thin alley for a garage and
a thin yet tall gray building
much like myself at the time.

i found it quite lovely that even in
a metropolis like tokyo, on their way to an 
overpriced tourist trap, one may stumble
upon the simple pleasure of a soon dead flower.

it took mere moments to clear the distance between
acknowledgement and inevitable dismissal
as most seemingly irrelivant things do, and yet
weeks after the encounter i remember still
the soft squish of my rubber Crocs against paved roads
and those two elder women and their flowers.

i felt at the time a small desire to buy myself
a stem, and perhaps one for those around me
as well, but alas, tourism awaited,
and one does not travel the distances we have
for mundane things like flower shops in tokyo.

the email says you
regret to inform me

your regret
is so vast that you
ctrl + c
ctrl + v
templated regret to every person you see

we regret to inform you...
oh yes, it must be true
that while i crossed my fingers
for the chance to start anew.

you cried in your 
6 x 6 cubicle
so overcome with regret
that your inevitable rejection
would make me upset

the team is dimmed with grief
at the prospect of letting me know
that every high and low
resulted in a remorseful no .

"we regret to inform you"
don't lie to my face,
because I knew there was no chance
in the first place.

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i love you too.
the words, while tender
leave a sour taste
on my skeptic tongue

for why do your professed affections
rely solely on my own?
why the too?

if i did not love you
and my mind shuddered when
our eyes met

would you still nurse
the ache in your bleeding heart
as i nurse my own devotion?

i would love you
regardless of reciprocation
i would love you
if you hated me

the yearning in my soul
is wild and real
and has absolutely nothing to do
with how you feel for me

don't you dare say
you love me too
as a subpar acknowledgement
of what i feel for you

love me with the risk
love me with the fear
put yourself on the line
and your pride to the side,

because i love you
i don't love you too.

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Yesterday I had the book launch for my debut poetry novel, The Halfway Heart, at my local YMCA. I invited a bunch of friends and some family, and some wanderers found their way into the community room as well. I read some of my poems, talked about them, answered questions, signed books and took photos. It was much more successful than i feared (we all have the inner terror of speaking to an empty room).

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My book is out in the world. It exists. You can buy it (please buy it lol).

I have had this dream of writing a book almost since I knew how to read. I literally have a poem in my book about wanting to write a book (40). I tried and failed at achieving this goal so many times, more than is healthy for someone my age, and this time it actually worked. I wrote my book. I finished it. People went to the event, people have bought and are buying the book actively.

So why am I not jumping for joy? Why am I still unsatisfied?

Well, here’s why.

If any of you have watched Hamilton (if you haven’t, stop everything and go watch), you will be familiar with Alexander Hamilton’s “Non-Stop” philosophy: he is never satisfied, can never write enough, will never be done. He took on projects that translate to the lives’ work of others, but would he take a moment to recognize what he’d done? No. He plowed on like he would never and could never write enough. I think I’m going through something similar.

I went through this when I won both a Gold and Silver Key at the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. Even though i had just achieved something huge and unexpected, the first thing I did as an award-winning poet was search up more competitions to submit to. Because there’s always more.

More Substack posts, more books, more awards, more and more poems. In the life of a writer, I believe your writing dies when you kill it (or you go first). As soon as you determine “this is good, I’d done” then that’s it. You can never be bigger than you allow yourself to be.

So, I do not regret my Non-Stop ambition. I am an award-winning, published teen poet and I’m going to add a lot more to that. I’m going to fast and too far to stop now.

Just you wait.

(btw, i know there are some fellow teen writers who subscribe to me, so if you want a post just for writing tips, lemme know in the comments)

get the halfway heart

She gifted me books.

Not eyeliner, not blush,
nothing impressive to my crush,
not diamonds, not gold,
but books. And they were old.

A gift card would suffice,
it held the same price.
Instead she took the risk
of gifting stories i may have missed.

The Secret History by Donna Tartt,
The Art of Living by William Hart,
books of poetry and love and endless war,
legends of all the rich and poor.

I've had lots of friends,
gotten lots of gifts
but none knew me well enough
to gift me this.

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I hate to break it to you, but
nobody's coming.

you and I, darling dearest
we’ve got nobody to hold

our bro
	ken words
and shredded souls.

you and I, my friend, we’ve got
nobody to heal

the cuts and bruises that
we forgave others for.

ain’t no one coming, lover, to
tell you that it’s alright

to tuck you in at night
and plug in your nightlight.

no one’s coming to save us, babe
its just you and me.

there’s no one here to save us from our
rotten past and soiled future

so you drink your wine
and I’ll play my guitar

because no one’s here to save us
none.

Hi everyone! Hope you liked that quick read ;)

So, by now everyone knows that my first poetry collection is coming out June 27th, 2026, which is two weeks exactly from when this post goes out! I’m very excited :)

If you’d like to be super cool and awesome by preordering, use the button below:

preorder here

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it's over!
I know, right?

goes by so fast.
yup.

yes. it did.

it went by so fast
too fast
so fast
and i know

that if this was fast
the next will be faster
and if this hurts
the next will hurt more

scientifically, my body is full
of blood and organs and oxygen
by really
there's a black hole in my heart
expanding
expanding
e x p a n d i n g

and it's swallowed me
so now I am falling
standing up.

and everyone's crying
and my heart is too
but my brain can't seem to comprehend
that i'll never see these people
again.

it hasn't fully hit me
that i won't be seeing you
across the hall
in the next desk over
at lunch
on the bus

it hasn't fully hit me
this is my last class
with my favorite teacher
with my funniest teacher
with my strictest teacher
 
i don't want to go.

I'm not ready yet.

and i
will never be ready to leave this chapter
(it wasn't even the best one.)

man,
i hated this
but dear god
i loved it too

and i'll miss you.

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there’s no rest for the wicked
so I won’t sleep tonight
there’s no rest for the wicked
so I can’t hide in fright

hamilton was non-stop
so I my fire stops for naught
hamilton was non-stop
so for passion, I have fought

odysseus led six hundred men
so I can lead us to the end
odysseus led six hundred men
so I have learned to be a friend

these characters have fought
valiant battles on stage
so I too will fight
with an actor’s rage

Hey guys! Sorry for going MIA again 😭😭😭. Giving you an early post this time to make up for it'.

Quick updates!

My poetry collection, The Halfway Heart, is coming out on Saturday, June 27th, 2026! You can preorder it here.

As a little treat for this book release, I’m giving you all a chance to get sneak peeks of poems from the collection! Let me know if that sounds like something you’d want to do :)

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preorder

That doesn’t stop me from trying my hardest to fit my head and arms through, pulling desperately at the pink fabric that will probably be a more effective washcloth in its next life.

No, I think, shaking myself mentally. There will be no second life. I’m going to fit into this one just like I always do.

There’s a knock on my door. “Julia? Everything okay in there? The bus leaves in twenty minutes, and you haven’t even had breakfast.” It’s Olivia, my dad’s new fiancée. The woman he’s decided can replace my mother. I don’t hate him for it, or even her for it. It’s no one’s fault except Mom’s, and yet, I’m angry with her the least.

“I’ll be there in a minute!” I call out, as one or the arm holes makes the telltale riiiiiip sound. No no no…

I scramble to get the shirt off to at least salvage it, but the movement only causes a complete tear down the side. It looks like a sideways jacket as I hold it up in front of me, chest heaving as frustrated tears slide down my cheeks.

This shirt is torn, and it reminds me that so is my heart.

I still remember when Mom got it for me. I was eight, and we were at the state fair. I was gripping her hand as I pointed so excitedly to it. Mom! Can I get this pleeaaase?

I had started crying when she refused, until she huffed a Fine and obliged, even though it was twice my size and looked more like a short dress. She was rolling her eyes as she tossed it at my grinning wide-toothed face.

I remember it vividly because it was the only time she ever got me anything I didn’t need. I was beaming the entire day as she dragged me around, even when she sat me down on a bench and ran off some man I had never seen before to do who-knows-what. A week later, I could hear my parents’ voices screaming at the bottom of a staircase before the door slammed, with me and Dad on one side and Mom on the other.

I had wanted her to love me so badly. Still do. And this shirt - this stupid strip of pink fabric - was the only physical proof I had that maybe she did. Whenever my brain wandered into the maybe it’s good that she’s gone territory, I pulled the shirt on and reminded myself that there had to be something motherly in her, otherwise why would she get me this?

But now the shirt is torn, and there’s no more hiding the fact the that simply isn’t true.

I feel arms go around me as Olivia’s soothing voice fills the bathrooms, feel her soft hands smooth down my hair and sobs rack my body.

Olivia probably thinks I’m crying because of the shirt, but the thought keeping the tears flowing is that my mother will never love me, no matter how much I hope for it, look for it, beg on my knees for it. No matter how much I love her or how many of her crappy shirts I wear.

But the thought that stops the tears is that some people will, regardless if I do any of those things.

Olivia swipes the tears from my cheeks as my bus rolls past my window. After a few moments, I finally speak.

“I need a new shirt.”

Hey guyyys!
Guess what? My book is available for preorder here!!

More info coming soon!

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Preorder my book

I used to paint pictures every day,
but that was until i saw a Monet.
Upon seeing the glory, I threw my brush away,
for what is the point if mine aren’t as pretty today?

I loved to play my violin, so
I visited the concert hall to hear a show.
Upon returning home, I snapped my bow,
for what is the point if I can’t sound as good solo?

In me stirred a desire to write
so I read how other authors made stories take flight
Upon reading one page, my words were lost to the night,
for what is the point if my sentences don't feel as right?

I loved many things, but abandoned them all the same.
For what is the point, I would think with shame.
I lived my life in longing and incredibly tame.
For what is the point if my art isn’t the same?

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Not from anything dangerous, per se, but scary nonetheless. He turned back to see his older brother, Oliver, sprinting behind him, and felt a little jot of pride that he was still ahead of him even with much shorter legs. (Little did he know that his brother was slowing down for him.) His brother saw the smug look and decided at that moment to pick up speed, just to prove he could. The smile dropped from Leo’s face instantly, and he refocused on trying to get away.

They were running through the tall corn stalks of their late grandfather’s farm. It was a picturesque place, and the perfect maze for a game of tag. Eventually, they had been running through the corn for ages, and being the responsible older brother he was, Oliver called to Leo.

“Okay, time out! Mom’s going to be mad if we go this far!”

Leo heard, but being the reckless younger brother he was, saw this as the perfect opportunity to get ahead and put more distance between him and Oliver. Oliver had no choice but to follow him; God knows what his mother would do to him if he returned home without his brother.

After a bit longer, Oliver abruptly stopped, which led his brother to run into him full speed. They toppled but were not injured; young boys are durable in that way.

“Why’d you stop so suddenly?” Oliver wheezed

“Look.” Leo pointed just ahead of them, to a clearing.

If you can even call it a clearing. It was like a magical portal in every aspect (except for the magic, of course). Bright red and yellow leaves were scattered around in large piles, and the sun filtered through the dense foliage to look like golden beams from Heaven into the grass. There were small flowers scattered around, and the sound of a creak bubbled in the distance if you listened carefully.

Oliver had finally gotten his bearings and was immediately wary of the space. Responsable older brother, remember? “Leo, no. We need to go back before Mom starts looking.”

Leo, yet again, ignored both his older brother and his better judgement, and hurried into the clearing. Oliver, yet again, had no choice but to follow him and pray to any god that would listen for his mother to stay asleep. (She was a truly terrifying woman with a more terrifying love for her sons.) They played in the leaves for a while, laughing at the way the leaves would seem to jump and flutter softly back down on them, until their mother woke up and dragged them back to the farmhouse by their ears and with a long lecture, mostly directed at Oliver.

Afterard, Oliver was thoroughly annoyed with Leo, and told him that they would never go back to the clearing again. This rule was broken almost immediately when Leo was found with those same leaves flying around him the next day.

Eventually, their mother gave up trying to make them stay inside, and asked that they at least tell her when they were going.

So, the seasons went by, the boys got older and taller, but every time they were at the farm the boys would still make their way there in one way or another. It was their refuge, their hideout, their quiet spot when life was anything but.

Eventually, the boys had to grow up, had to sell the farm, had to say goodbye. But I think they still have their clearing in their hearts, somewhere, and still retreat there when they need it.

I suppose we all have these clearings. Maybe in a bookstore, maybe at a beach or even the corners of our bedrooms. But no matter what the clearings are, they share the same clear purpose, that purpose being to remind us for a moment that we are all simply children pretending to be grown, hiding from the mother of responsibility, jumping in golden leaves of wonder.

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There are
m o n s t e r s
under my bed, and
in my head, and
behind my smile

Mother says
monsters don’t exist, but
every night
I feel them crawl
across my skin.

They are like
ants or
spiders or
beetles, hissing and tsking
“not enough not enough not enough”

The scariest part of my monsters
is not how they crawl
is not how they hiss
is not even what they say
it is how sometimes i believe
they are right.

I’ve known her almost my entire life. We became best friends in elementary school, when my best friends took the liberty to point out everything wrong with me, whether it was true or not. My friend was so kind to help me become better, fix everything that made me wrong. Since then, we’ve been inseparable; she keeps me in check, keeps me realistic. She never hides or sugarcoats things, and I know it’s because she loves me.

Whenever I tell other people what she’s said to me, they rub my arm, give me pitying looks, say it happens to the best of us. But I don’t understand one bit; my friend is kind, and honestly, without her I would just get hurt. Who else would tell me the truth, and not just lie for the sake of protecting my feelings?

I remember all of this as she sits beside me on the edge of my bed, takes my hands gently, looking at me intently.

“You know I’d never lie to you, right?”

“Of course not.” Like I said, she’s never lied to me, not once.

“You aren’t ready for this.”

The words don’t sting, because she’s right. I’m not ready, and I never will be.

“You don’t have time, or experience, or anything, really. You were lucky enough to get where you are, but seriously, don’t push it.” She wraps me in a hug and pulls away with a sad smile. “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear, but I’m just laying out the facts.”

I smile at her, nod. She squeezes my hands and stands up. “Well, I’ve got to get going, but it’s a good thing you told me before going through with it! Can you imagine?”

She’s right. What was I thinking? I’m so glad I told her.

My friend waves as she leaves. “See you soon, Lydia.”

I wave back. “See you soon, Insecurity.”

She’ll be back, I know it.

Such a loyal friend.

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My mother yanked her comb through my coils, no doubt taking some strands of my hair with her. “I told you that you should’ve sprayed it with water, but of course you didn’t listen to me, right?”

She sounded annoyed. I didn’t like upsetting her, so when she yanked again, I didn’t do more than wince. I really should have sprayed my hair, I thought to myself. Spraying it keeps the coils from tangling while I have my protective braids, but I hated the feeling of water droplets running down my neck. My 4c hair was impossible to dry with anything but air, so I would hold a towel under my hairline for at least twenty minutes to avoid the goosebump-inducing feeling.

“How far are you?” I asked for the fifth time that hour. Say one half say one half say one half…

“One third.”

Ugh, I hate my hair.

I’d never say that out loud; the last time I told my mom I wanted hair like my fair-skinned friends, she told me never to say that again and that my hair was unique to me. But it didn’t stop me from envying the way they could finger-comb their natural hair without hissing in pain or wash their hair in less than an hour. My hair and I had a love-hate relationship, with an emphasis on hate.

I am yanked out of my thoughts again when Abby Lee Miller screams something new at her dancers. I had already finished every episode and season of Dance Moms, but it was hilarious getting to see my mom’s reactions, so I watched it again. It was the background to most of our hair-related activities, besides washing. I truly hated washing my hair; there was nothing on Earth that would make me believe that bending over a sink for a minimum of thirty minutes at a time was a pleasant experience.

We ignored the clock, as usual; there was no use pretending that either of us would be asleep at a reasonable time. After yet another yank, I ask again, “How far are we?”

My mother pulls at my hair a bit, looks at how much of my head she has thoroughly tortured before saying, “A bit less than half.”

God, get me out of this chair.

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It’s been a hot minute since I gave an update on my upcoming poetry book, and boy do I have a big one for you!

Not only do I have my release date set, but I also have my cover! I’m really excited to show you, so I’ll won’t yap too much.

If you are on my ARC Team, thank you for joining! I will be sending you my book pretty soon. Please make sure that you leave a review on the date of release! I am looking for praise to add to the back of my future books, so please let me know if I can use your review.

Without further ado, here is my lovely book cover!

My release date is…. drumroll please… June 27th, 2026!

I’m excited to announce that there will be a launch event that Saturday - more details coming soon. Stay posted!

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There are
rivers
on my cheeks, and they are
rushing downstream
faster than the Mississippi
from Minnesota to
Louisiana.

If only
the memories floating
on my skin
would row that far
from my
heart.

The river flows to my
mouth
jaw
neck
finding it's pathways
across my face
(and my heart).

even when my fingers
swipe at the streams
my lake eyes
dutifully send a new current
to replace the one lost.

a waterfall forms
on the edge of my chin
drip
ing
to the source of these 
rivers.

a blue screen reads
i
am
sorry
but no matter how
sorry
you are,
the rivers don't cease.
Your apology simply
canoes along the rivulets
taken by the tide.

there are
rivers
on my cheeks, and they are
all because
of you.

This is the second part to the short story I posted last week. If you want context, read it here:

If you're just here for vibes, that's cool too! I respect that.

Okayyy no more yapping, here it is:

If Izzy had left only five minutes later, she would have opened the door to see Jiro standing in his wrinkled dress shirt and yellow tulips.

If Izzy had left only five minutes later, Jiro would have seen her tired eyes and stuffed suitcase, and he would have known.

Because he always knew.

But, of course, that’s not how things went. I am not a kind author, but I am not a cruel one either; it would have been too much for him to watch his dream avoid her eyes and she walked out and didn’t look back. Instead, he arrived after she was long gone, and he opened the door to an unusually empty apartment.

It was better than seeing her walk out, he supposed, but it didn’t sting any less when he read the letter she had left for him.

Dear J,
Sorry.
It’s not you.
-Izzy

Izzy wasn’t wrong. Jiro had truly tried everything to make her fall for him, make her love him, but that wasn’t enough and he knew it would never be. When he first started noticing her distance, it had wrecked him. Why didn’t she love him? Why had she strung him along? He went through all five stages of grief - grief for the life they could never have. He threw himself into proving his worth for her. He thought that maybe, just maybe, if he held one more heavy bag or bought one more bouquet or upended his entire day for her convenience one more time, she would love him.

They both deserved better. Jiro deserved someone who would love him and Izzy deserved someone she would love. It was odd that two people who were so wrong for each other would cross the world together, but that happens all the time. We all cross oceans, lives, hearts, souls with those who we were never meant for.

Or maybe they were meant for each other, just not anymore. Maybe Izzy would find a nice man in Chicago who wouldn’t treat her half as well as Jiro, but she would love him in a way Jiro couldn't fathom. Maybe Jiro would find another girl who he wasn’t as desperate for as he was Izzy, but she would love him without the constant flowers, without the endless uncertainty.

If Izzy had left five minutes later, she might have seen the ring box he had hidden in his coat pocket, an extravagant gold band with a princess cut diamond that Jiro had worked for months to afford.

It didn't matter anymore.

Because this was never going to be a happy story.

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For those interested, more information regarding my poetry collection is coming out at the end of this week! (There may or may not be a cover reveal…)

I've got a poll for you:

Thank you so much!

With love & a pencil,

-arya

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