top of page

Jessica Lynn Hilton ...

a Poet from Santa Clarita CA.


When I was in fifth grade, my class was given the opportunity to create books that would be published in our school library. Seeing something I created in a library was a feeling beyond comparison: my love for writing was born. It wasn't until high school that I got serious about composing poetry. My whole world started to revolve around it. In between classes, during classes, when I should've been doing homework. I didn't have much privacy where I lived, so I wrote a lot in the bath tub. That habit still holds today! 


My influences include Neil Gaiman, Francesca Lia Block, Haruki Murakami, April Eileen Henry, and all of my life experiences. Pain is my greatest source material. Facing my fears and the events that have served to destroy pieces of myself is the truest path I have taken to growth. 


I write to connect. To not feel so alone. I write to discover myself and understand others. To navigate the darkness and make sense of my headspace. It's as simple and as complicated as that...

Paraíso Perdido

on hands and knees
begging for the broken glass
the cuts on my hands
just to have it back

bleed it out, you said
past is past tense
yet I shout into black nights
that this is the present
and I haven’t left yet


Stellar Origami

The dull ache of loneliness has been something I’ve become accustomed to. The pale moonlight, distinct and unencumbered, illuminates nights I sometimes wish were darker. To disappear, among stars, is a comfort - I latch onto their distance and understand their sense of duty. Nothing keeps them from lighting the sky, even their own sadness which, I assume, all entities can be ascribed to for we are all in constant danger. There are no safe days, maybe not even safe places. But we build homes out of people and we sink into the warm bathtubs of their brains and get comfortable. We seek peace. We are unaware of where to find it. It is sometimes more simplistic to believe it will instead find us, and in the meantime we wait. We are waiting on a miracle. These do not exist; we are waiting on nothing. We are stopped, in time, awaiting the toll of Death’s hour - the incessant tick tock fades into the background until we hear no sound. Absorption of the stimuli. Yet we are all colliding. To be alone because you can touch both everything and nothing at the same time. 


I am not comforted. I lack in responses. I see in absolutions. The visual field yields no grey area anymore. I am nowhere. There is no way to find me.


bottom of page