UNSORTED

I thought this book was supposed to settle something.

Like if I lined the poems up right, if I chose carefully, if I explained myself without explaining myself, I’d finally arrive somewhere. Like this could be the version of me that makes sense on first listen.

That was the fantasy.

The reality is quieter. Messier. Less cinematic.

These poems don’t agree with each other. Some were written when I thought love was a solution. Some when I thought it was a habit I needed to break. Some sound like I knew what I was doing. Others sound like I was just trying to stay upright.

I used to read them and ask, Which one is the real me?

Now I’m realizing that question was never fair.

This book isn’t a verdict. It’s a snapshot taken mid-motion. Head turned. Eyes half-closed. Blurred on purpose. These are the poems that stayed when I didn’t edit myself out of them. Not because they’re perfect. Poetry is never perfect. Poetry to me is the proof of experience turned into language.

I keep wanting to make it cleaner. Smarter. More resolved.

But that feels like lying with better lighting.

So I’m letting it be what it is.

A collection, not a confession.

A moment, not a monument.

UNSORTED isn’t me finished.

It’s me honest enough to stop pretending I am.