Because it’s perfectly okay if your sunshine is bottled.

Photo by Christina Victoria Craft on Unsplash

I think it’s safe to say that 2020 has been one big dumpster fire, am I right?! Considering the terrifying global pandemic, horrendous and continued racial segregation, and stark political divides….

But, hey, at least we’re in agreement together about the awfulness.

Oh, how I love some good ol’ fashioned GIFs about how shitty the state of the world has been and is currently. I relish in the fact that some people out there understand me just a little bit and we can all giggle together in our PJ’s :)

Anyhow, big breath now, I’m going to get a…

Photo By The Author

A Poem Left On My Lovers Pillow

A short reflection

Photo by Abhishek Singh on Unsplash

The morning fog rolled off the mountains, a cool breeze caressed my skin, and the smell of wild, untouched nature, specifically sagebrush, enveloped me as I walked up to meet a circle of strangers with whom I would not be engaging. I signed up for an afternoon of silent meditation and arrived late and alone, speeding up the hills to the monastery, my tiny fuel-efficient car sputtering out at such angles. I had to press my foot so firmly onto the gas pedal I imagined it busting through the floorboard.

I never planned these types of excursions, so I had…

A poem about menstruation

Photo by Erol Ahmed on Unsplash

I’ve tried silky creams on my inner thigh
to stop the aches that arise
I’ve tried pink dainty pills to control
the swing of things
I’ve tried tinctures and potions
trying to mend what feels broken.

I’ve tried meditation and prayer
incense and warm bubble baths
hot tea and therapy
massaging my third eye
wishing I could just die
eating nothing but dirt
desperate to relieve the hurt.

Though nothing seems to take away
the burning in my abdomen
the rage that boils up into my throat
the paranoid thoughts or all the mayhem
and days lost to sleeping
plans rearranged
relationships strained
that hangs on a…

I don’t belong here

Photo by Elia Pellegrini on Unsplash

It’s true
rakija goes down smooth
almost like his convincing words
they burn,
and linger.

But it has been her only comfort
since she’s come back
she is reminded of all the things
she lacks
and she shouldn’t lap
up his gaze
like all the others do
unbeknownst to his passing phase.

She believed him
she believed his soft kisses on her thigh
his breath like a lullaby
his fingers twiddled like playing a piano
her moans a lovely soprano.

But so did they
they, too, watched him from afar
from outside the window, sitting at a bar.

She had…

Taylor Haught

Freelance writer, poet, filmmaker, digital nomad, and health enthusiast.

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