It sucks to be a writer.

April 3, 2016 at 2:38 am (Uncategorized)

Four AM means falling in love with the stories and poems we’ve written, about those we’ve fallen out of love with.

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Clean Me Up

April 2, 2016 at 12:54 pm (Uncategorized)

There are days I think we taught one another the wrong lessons, cared about the wrong things. I look back at every boy whose hand I ever held, and I remember the promise I made every time. I’d leave him better than I found him, if I left him at all. I’d find the cracks and patch them, I’d shine away the rough spots in his lacquer, cheer up every down-turn to his smile until he couldn’t recall sadness.

I don’t think they ever knew. I still tend to see the potential in a man, rather than who he is, and I always believed in that potential like I’d found a new religion.

But I was the girl who could never match her socks and who preferred raindancing to umbrellas, and it’s the sort of crazy that needs a waiver. I’ve started taping warning signs on every empty space in me, scratching away the fingerprints left behind, making damn sure every oddity in me, every curio belonging in a penny arcade museum, comes labeled hazardous.

Caution, they say, all of them, neat little letters keeping you informed. I’m full of yellow tape, a living crime scene smeared with evidence and walked over too many times to keep the sundry trails clean. There are so many sneakermarks, so many imprints on my skin and my life, all of it already tousled through and searched by the men that came before. There’s nothing left to uncover, but they certainly left a mess I can’t bring myself to clean up.

So I try to label it all, package it neatly and make sure you know what you’re getting into when you smile that smile at me, when you think I’m something safe and nontoxic simply because we laugh at the same jokes. I wanted you to know about the moments I couldn’t smile, about the shadows I keep, the dark bits of me that have never known warmth or light ora man who stays when the rest always go. I want to tell you about the scars, about the stretchmarks and contortions that have wounded me one too many times, trying to bend and curl myself to fit into someone else’s fairytale. Even though I’m the only one that seems to see them.

You’re set on me, you’ve started gardening the weeds and nurturing the thorny flowers that struggle to grow in me, thorns keeping the careless or the cowardly from trying to pick me. You’ve been ripping down the crime scene tape like I’m finally safe to visit. Can your hands stitch up the places I can’t reach, are you faint at the sight of heartblood? I don’t know what scares me more, that you’re trying at all, or that you might give up now that you started.

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Musings

April 2, 2016 at 12:44 pm (Uncategorized)

I’m speechless… what kind of writer am I? With all this love and no words for it?
Anne Sexton

I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
Anne Sexton, A self portrait in letters

Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either; I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
Anne Sexton, A Self-Portrait in Letters

I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
—Anne Sexton

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No key, huh?

April 1, 2016 at 10:10 am (Uncategorized)

TOM: “Don’t you put the past in a room, in the cellar, and lock the door and just never go in there? Because that’s what I do.

Then you meet someone special and all you want to do is toss them the key, say open up, step inside, but you can’t because it’s dark and there are demons and if anybody saw how ugly it was . . .

I keep wanting to do that–fling open the door–let the light in, clean everything out. If I could get a huge eraser and rub everything out, starting with myself…”

PETER: “No key, huh?”

Talented Mr. Ripley (1999)

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Forecast is gloomy.

February 6, 2016 at 4:43 am (Uncategorized)

I’ve grown scared of my love, hanging over my heart like stormclouds, charging the air with the wild, static promise of a lighting strike. I checked our forecast and it’s a 90% chance I’ll love you back and a 10% likelihood I’ll wreck you.

It’s like a storm front, like something wrong in nature that I can’t put my finger on, but it’s pulling you into its riptide like you’re something it’s set to devour.

I know I’m the storm, I know I’m the tremor shaking up our life. And I’ve told you to go, too – I never form my lips around it, but I’m telling you every day with little frowns and backward glances at the life you’re leaving behind. A safe place without three AM adventures, but also safe from my hurt, from my wrong, from the insecurities I carry in a satchel that even you can’t part me from. I am a hurricane, I’m a touching-down tornado that has never held anything gently in its entire existence, and I can’t hold you as gently as you deserve.

So I’m saying leave, but what I mean to say is that you are the rush of first landfall, that you make my heart beat just at the thought of you.

I told you to leave, but what I mean to say is that my hands aren’t shaking from cold, from fear. They’re trembling because I’m trying to hold on to something that I can’t afford to break.

But I’ve never learned to keep a heart like yours safe for long.

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I Was Before You and I’ll Be Here After

August 4, 2015 at 12:08 pm (Uncategorized)

Thank you, for never calling. Thank you for giving me cause to appreciate the one who calls, who can talk about my boring day and what I cooked for dinner and make the hours pass by like they’re irrelevant.

Thank you, for never texting. Thank you for always having better things to do and making his little texts every day mean more than he will ever know.

Thank you, for the girls whose numbers you’d take, whose calls you concealed, the ones you found time for when I was finding time for you laundry, dinner and your favorite books. Thank you for teaching me the meaning of mattering, so I could find someone for whom I do.

And thank you for leaving, when I asked why you can’t love me as hard as I love you. Because now I have room for someone I’ll never need to ask.

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Hey boy,

July 3, 2015 at 12:25 pm (Uncategorized)

You treat me like my hands don’t break everything they touch.

You kiss me like my mouth isn’t full of poison. You whisper soft compliments and I yell that you’ll always be wrong about me. That you’ll always be too blinded by the light you swear sometimes seeps through the cracks in my armor to see the blood on my hands. I won’t let you kiss away the cuts, the bruises, even though they ache through the night. I won’t let you hold my hands even though they’ve been freezing, along with my heart, for years. I refuse to let you dim my light or clean me up.

I’m a wreck you can’t repair, but you’ve decided I’m your fixer-upper.

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I’ve never known Home away from Home

July 2, 2015 at 11:41 am (Uncategorized)

There are some people that you try to force yourself to love. You think about how talented they are, how sweet they are, how much your parents will like them, but you never feel a thing. Your heart doesn’t race, you never want to kiss their face a hundred times, your hands never ache with missing them, your legs never chase them, you don’t stay up thinking about that one time they smiled in your direction.

I never had to teach myself to care about you. Even my bones can say your name. You’re written all over, under and through me.

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My Bed is Too Big

June 3, 2015 at 12:13 pm (Uncategorized)

When I’m in your arms, I fall asleep easily, obliviously – melting into serenity like there’s no where better suited.

My world is at peace, because it’s laying inches away.

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I don’t Miss You

March 5, 2015 at 12:08 pm (Uncategorized)

In 8th grade we learned that the French don’t say “I miss you.”

Instead they say, “Tu me manques,” which translates as “You are missing from me.”

And now it all makes sense.

Why my chest feels lighter, when you leave for work. Why my hands are constantly searching to hold something that is gone. Why my mouth compares every taste to the last kiss we shared. Why sometimes I can’t speak, why I trip over my feet, why I get through the day feeling floating and not-enough.

It’s because we’ve been saying it wrong. I don’t miss you – you are missing from me. You have left an empty space, in every part of my body, that has molded around you.

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