Tag Archives: Poetry prose

I knew this was home

When you knocked on my door, shy smile on your face, my heart skipped a beat, and it must have known before I though it even possible.

When we laughed for hours at the coffee shop, my eyes were kissed pink red, and my heart must have told them.

When my fingers rested in between yours, comfortable in the gaps, comforted by the weight, and they tightened on their own, and they must have known.

When my arm slipped around your shoulders, the laugh shaking around them whispered to me, “hey, you know what this is?”

When you pushed me up against the door and kissed my breath away, I realized I had been drowning, and your touch was my air, your hands were my anchor to land, your eyes were my lighthouse through the night, and I never wanted to stop breathing and finding you.

When the words slipped through your lips, I think I finally knew, even though your said “no, not yet,” your eyes said, “yes, yes, maybe I know too,” and I think I knew this was going to be home.

When I told you that I knew, and you said yes, and I said yes, and you spun me around, I knew this was home.


Are scary movies scary?

I don’t understand. Why would a horror movie scare me?

Why would blood and gore and the soft steps of a silent murderer scare me?

Why would the the thump of a decapitated boy, the squirt of a ripped out heart, the screams of a young couple – why would any of that scare me?

What could fantasy do to make me feel more fear than I do at reality?

I am afraid of the edge, of how close I’ve been to it, of how I’ve looked to the other side, and lifted my foot up only to step back and turn around, and what if instead of stepping down I had slipped backwards?

Am I am afraid for anyone else who has been at the edge or who is at the edge, because there’s nothing scarier than feeling numb and content and satisfied and knowing that you could do it and just end it right now, and I am so scared for them.

I am afraid of little children not looking both ways before they cross the road, of how risky it can be, of tall SUVs and of old cars not seeing and not braking in time, and what if that new bright little light is snuffed out before it had a chance to shine?

And I am afraid for all those parents who have had too many close calls or any close calls or even that final call, and I am so sorry for those little lights.

I am afraid of the unknown, not of death as it may seem, but I am afraid of not knowing what happens after, of not knowing when after will come, of not knowing if I’ll have done everything and said everything and loved enough and hated too little, and most of all, I am afraid of not knowing if I’ll be remembered.

And I am afraid for everyone who isn’t remembered because I can’t remember you and if you’re watching in the after then I’m so sorry.

I am afraid of the almosts and the not quites and the never agains and the unanswered questions in life, and yet I love them because they are all part of life, and I love life (even if sometimes it feels like I have no reason to) just as much as I fear it.

So why would I waste any of my time watching movies of empty fears? LIfe is scary as is.


You make me want to be an artist, or at least learn how.

You make me want to learn how to use those small, soft sticks of charcoal and that thick, ridged paper so that I may capture the lines of your face in perfect black and white detail. Because words will not do them justice: the window frames of your eyes that hold the clearest view to your soul, the bridge of your nose that divides your face into imperfect symmetry, the height of your cheekbones that seem ever higher when you turn your face up towards the sun, the outline of your lips that I can never get enough of (whether that be staring or touching or kissing, it doesn’t matter).

But even if I learned how to charcoal in the lines of your face, I would need to learn how to transform water colors and colored pencils and paints into the shade of your irises, a shade found in only those two places in all of nature. Could I learn how to mix the correct colors and use my fingers to lay down into my outlines your stunning eyes? You make me want to.

And if I can color in your eyes, then I would wish to learn how to use a calligraphy brush, its hairs hard yet malleable, to brush onto those pages the flat planes and smooth curves of your body: the diagonal line from the side of your face and down to your chin to form your jaw, the curve of your neck that transforms into the curve of your shoulder, the angled outward jut of your hipbone, the sinuous curve of your spine, the long-lined shadows that your legs cast whenever you walk, the alternating and flowing shapes of your fingers as they dance with every sentence you speak.

If I can capture your body, surely I could learn to use pencils and pens, dark as the night sky and any raven’s feather, to draw each individual strand of your hair, to pause those strands’ movements just for a moment to lay them down into a permanent pose on paper. But how impossible that seems – I doubt the Renaissance artists themselves could capture the crazy flowing of your hair with every shake of your head, every spinning circle of your body, every time you run your hands through your hair and ruffle it.

To the core of the earth and to the farthest reaches of the universe, you make me want to be an artist, and I can only ask every god and goddess that I don’t believe in how they could have been willing to share the masterpiece that is your smile. I would use every medium, drawn or painted or photographed, if only I could capture every instance that that smile appeared, and I would learn the art of comedy if only to keep it there forever.

You make me want to learn to be an artist if only to have phantom images of you even after you leave my presence. Your very presence makes me want to be an artist, but I never have the time because all of it is soaked up in your laughter and your words and your hands, and every breath I take is art in and of itself if I can breathe you in, and I would gladly spend the rest of my life just breathing you in. (Because no art of scent-making could ever bottle the smell of your joy for the world and your appreciation for all the lives in it.)

You inspire me to be an artist (of words because that is the best way I know), and I can only hope that these words do that inspiration justice.

Our love was toxic

I don’t know how to turn this heartbreak into words. I don’t know how to turn it into something tangible, something I can write down and tear into pieces. I don’t know how I ever was able to before. I always thought that heartbreak would get easier, but it doesn’t. And I knew it was coming too, I saw it from a mile away.

Because it was in the way we started, wrong, toxic, rotten, poison, something to get rid of before it could spread. But it was still human, because humans are not perfect and humans fuck up and sometimes badly. And we were still human. And we were weak, too fragile, too delicate, too vulnerable to be on our own.

(And he made me feel human, he reminded me what it felt like to feel. To care. To love. To hope. Above all, gods and goddesses I don’t believe in, he made me remember how to hope.)

So maybe still wrong and toxic and rotten and poison but still human. Still hopeful. But still so wrong, and we hated ourselves and we wanted to hide away from the world. Because we did not deserve to be in the garden that was life when we had just thrown trash in it.

But we turned it into something beautiful, something worth looking at, caring about, loving. Our beginning was transformed into something we wanted to keep if only because around its hated core was something we both wanted.

But no matter how beautiful the growth, the stem, the leaves, the blooming flowers – the seed was rotten. And we both knew it. But we wanted to breathe the air and reach for the sky and together feel the rain on our skin as we grew ever more brightly. But it wasn’t enough. And time passed and the rot made itself known and it spread.

The flowers died, but we rallied and if we could just reach a little further, a little longer, we could make it. But no, the leaves died and so did the stem, and we were left with nothing but the dead pieces of our growth. Everything we had nurtured was now nothing but shriveled, wilted remains lying the dirt. And our rotten seed was exposed for the world to see.

And so we threw all of it away, and it was no more. But our wilted flowers were already lost in the dirt, and maybe the results of our beginning can be a good thing for that garden. But not for us. Never for us.

Our rotten seed is gone but always remembered. And that brief moment of beauty of life too will be remembered. But only fleetingly. Because it was not long enough in the sun to imprint the warmth of it onto our skin.

Because it was not long enough that I am even sure it happened. Because I am weak, too fragile, too delicate, too vulnerable to be on my own. With you, I was wrong, toxic, rotten, poison, but with you, and that made all the difference.

But now I am once again on my own. And I need to search for a new beginning. But not yet. Because I do not have it within me to grow any time soon.

Because I loved you. As rotten as we were, I loved you. And I thought you loved me too, and you promised that we could make it. And I believed in you. But you threw me away as if our development meant nothing you. And maybe it’s better off this way, our rotten seed no longer polluting the garden. But that does not mean I don’t miss you all the same.