I was born in Belton, Texas, where I spent the first eleven years of my life. After that, I moved to Montana to live with my dad—and it was there that my poetry truly began to take shape. Writing became more than just a hobby; it became a lifeline. It was the only way I could make sense of what was inside my head, the only way I could release thoughts and feelings that otherwise sat heavy on my chest. Some days my words came out as poems, other days as fragments of memoir, but no matter the form, they were always honest. Writing was never optional for me—it was necessary. I don’t write from outside inspiration or some grand muse—I write from what lives inside me. My poems roll out raw and unfiltered, pulled straight from the top of my head and the depths of my chest. That’s where my voice lives, and that’s where it always returns. Still, there are rare moments when a person, a memory, or a fleeting feeling sparks something brighter in me. When that happens, I let my pen become a dedication—an offering to whatever or whoever stirred that fire. For me, poetry isn’t just crafted—it’s survived. Every line I write carries pieces of me: the trauma I’ve endured, the moments of darkness I’ve fought through, and the small sparks of light I’ve held onto. My words are the place where my thoughts stop drowning me and start to breathe. They are proof that I’m still here, still fighting, still giving shape to everything life has thrown at me. My poetry is not just art—it’s my story, my scars, and my survival laid bare for anyone willing to read.