Two years ago, I published my debut collection of poetry. It's surreal to look back on because yes, this was a huge accomplishment, but no, it really didn't make me good money. And it felt like I was fighting tooth and nail—not only my "enemies" but also "friends" with secret animosity over me writing and publishing the damn thing. I think that enough time has passed that those closest to the book made peace with our demons... escaped "The Haunted House," so to speak... My old "enemies" are far from being true enemies these days. If you bought the book, thank you. If you read the book in pieces on Instagram, or I somehow snuck you a manuscript (or a manuscript of anything I published afterwards), thank you for reading. At the time of publication, I was just angry. And hopeless. But when I wrote the final poem for the book "Closure," I was able to just... let that anger out into the world, screaming... burning Bright and Blue... and I felt heard for the first time in a long time. Cheers to two years of being disobedient, rude, rowdy, "crazy," independent, hot, AND Autistic (and/or ADHD + whatever the Hell else we have going on). We are everything that society tells women that we cannot and should not be. I felt so alone while writing this book... but I'll never feel alone looking back on it. What a rewarding treasure to encapsulate a truly rough time. Like the chrysalis between being fuzzy and having a bunch of little feet and then later having fewer feet but beautiful wings... butterfly... moth... whatever. I like both.