18 September 2016


I am hollowed out and the shell
of me is filled with sugared strawberries
and thorny patience.
Scoop me out and replace
who I am
with what you like instead:
maybe brown sugar and pecans,
maybe peaches warmed in the sun.
Or maybe once my insides
are missing,
you won't
fill me up again.
Maybe you'll just leave me empty.
You forgot to put sugar
with the flour,
and I am only
butter and salt.
Maybe you won't finish
what you started.
Maybe you prefer
a bitter woman to a sweet girl,
dough hardening
in the fridge.

16 September 2016


I am crushed
under the weight
of my transgressions,
and a blue Buick
with soft insides
carries me home,
bones and fat
and humility.
Because it's all true.
I am all hormones
and dangling modifiers
and sleepy memories.
And I am a tired someone.
I am someone's dream girl,
latched onto the arm
of a smiling friend,
warm and tired and simple.
The Buick cradles me
and for once
I am tiny somewhere,
a plush thing,
rattling around behind
heavy doors.
I am carried off
into a large city
or a small town,
some place
with a funny name,
some place where
I am a welcome witch,
where my spells are blessings
and the blue Buick
can be parked undisturbed.

15 September 2016

On Romance

Fall into someone,
whitehot fire
Fall into me
I am your bed,
your dream.
Catch me
before I catch cold,
the sun is gone.
Be my journey,
your lesson,
your chest
falling into me.
Be difficult,
my lesson.
Fall into someone.
Fall into me.

14 September 2016


"Take the light
from this empty house,"
I said, and you complain.
"There you go
with that house imagery
again," you said
through gritted teeth.

I devolve into a child,
or a fiery swarm,
or whatever else you see me as,
and I am left looking upward
toward the candle
in the far window.

fucking take it,"
I spit, a stereotype in
every film you've seen,
every song you listen to
while angry with me.

"I left for a reason,"
you said, and I armed myself.
"You are too sick
and I am too tired."
I looked away from the candle
for the first time.
"Light is all I have.
Warmth is all I have."

09 September 2016

The Shadow at the Bottom of the Lake

"They told us our gods would outlive us, but they lied."
- Nick Cave, "Distant Sky"

Through false lashes,
she bears false witness,
talks of false prophets,
shares false memories.
Don't dare dream,
she says, and don't dare outwit me.
The shadow at the bottom
of the lake, lined in gray,
some impossible darkness,
swallowed every truth
until there was nothing.
Don't dare dream,
she says, and don't dare outwit me.
Until the falsetto of his voice
carries the ash of her fears
away from the fire that created her,
the water can't help her.
Every dream is false, she says.
Every secret is dust.

02 September 2016

A Running Start

I could not understand whether you were saying, "I'm fine" or "I'm flying," and so I assumed that you aspired to do the latter. That was before I kissed you, before you left me.

I slept with my fingers wrapped around your ideas, and so, in a sense, I hoped to fly. The scenery on the television matched my dreams. That was before.

Later, I could not understand whether you were interrupting yourself, your sweet mouth deciphering the best shapes, or whether a thought punched through, the meat of its fists more important than finishing what you started.

So I decided that your specialty was grabbing at the air, a fine display, posturing from the ground to get a running start, and I tried to give you enough room for your wings.

30 August 2016


Leave a little light on
in the smallest room
so that I can find my way
through capillaries,
through the wisdom
of my undoing.
I grab a jacket
that is too small,
but the zipper closes me off
from truths I try
to protect myself from,
the wisdom of my undoing.
And through the corridor
I cannot pass,
because I am too large
and too proud and too much.
The light burns wildly
but it isn't blinding.
It is flickering in the past,
offering a code
with each movement.
"Stay there," it says.

29 August 2016


Once a year a dream says that
apologies will come, arsonists
backlit by promises,
and once a year
the house burns down
with all of our memories inside.

Each day she wants to learn
about you and how to best
comfort you, and each day
you let her listen
and trap witnesses
in her eye lashes,
wishes for more dreams.

When you've been told
that you may not live,
you try not to waste your time,
and you try to be precise
with every word
and mean every laugh.

When you've been told
that you are a broken person,
you try not to waste your energy
on cracks you can't mend.

You try to hold yourself
when no one else will hold you,
and every slow dance is a wound,
and all the pretty dresses
carry thirsty flowers.

22 August 2016

Amazon Wish List

I want to be with someone
who slow dances with me,
who calls me beautiful,
who gently touches my hair.
I want to be with someone
who sees my body as strong,
whose eyes linger longer
over my smile,
whose lips share compliments
and occasional constructive criticisms.
I want to switch-up my language,
twist my own words around
to tell a story with fewer clich├ęs,
more showing, less telling.
So, I want to be with someone
publicly and privately,
in small, fevered dreams.
I want to make love,
fumbling awkwardly,
giggling through pushing
masses of hair away
from excited eyes,
wanting mouths.
I want to be held in a spell
like a long drag off a cigarette.
I want someone's hand
on the small of my back
as he [thinks he] allows me to lead,
and when I get lipstick
on his collar
I want him
to know
that he is mine.

21 August 2016

Radio Edit (Part 1)

"So," she started with a small sigh. "What happened between you and Steph?" This was the first time she said her name without rolling her eyes afterward, so I could tell she cared.

"Well, she was the type of woman who preferred P.I.L. to Sex Pistols, Big Audio Dynamite to The Clash. So, she had big problems."

"Oh, wow. I had no clue, Tony. I'm so sorry," she choked, holding back tears. "I really had no idea. You think you know someone..."

"Yeah," I said. "And to think we made out... And I introduced her to all of my friends..."

I let the tears flow from me. Holding them back would be inauthentic. I used my shirt to wipe my cheeks.

"Come here," she cooed, and she held me close to her, her heartbeat like a song by O.M.D.