if hearts had training wheels

copyright © 2022 by Ellen Everett. All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except in the context of reviews.

Front cover design, interior book design, artwork, and illustrations created by Ellen Everett.

www.elleneverett.com

ISBN: 979-8-9858177-2-0

also by ellen everett

i saw you as a flower

acknowledgments

To my Mom and Dad: You are my favorite people in this world. Thank you for encouraging me from my roots to do what I love. From a young age, you have encouraged me to use the gifts God has given me and to share them with the world. Thank you for always believing in me, for supporting me, and for being incredible examples of a godly and pure love. Thank you for loving me and for bringing me years of wonderful memories and happiness. I am so thankful for our relationship. I have not always been easy; thank you for loving me as if I was. I love you.

To my siblings, Ben and Naomi: I feel so lucky to have grown up with you and do life with you. I wouldn't want to call anyone else my brother and sister. I'm so proud of both of you for the people you have become and am so thankful for each of you. Thank you for a lifetime of aggravating and loving each other.

To my Poppa and Nana: My heart aches writing this to you both. Poppa, I love you. It breaks my heart that I cannot pull into your gravel driveway again and see you working in your garden. You were a beautiful example of how to live. You always believed in me in all that I did. I can’t wait to join you in heaven’s gardens one day. Nana, you have always been an inspiration for my writing. You are such a gentle soul. If your memory was still with you, I know that you’d be so thrilled to read through these pages. Thank you for years of walks through your flower gardens and for your pancake breakfasts. Thank you for introducing me to books and your love for reading. I love you endlessly. You are the best flower I know.

To the rest of my incredible family: Thank you for always supporting me, checking up on me, believing in me, and for reading my first book over and over. I am so grateful for your love and constant encouragement.

To Abby Green, my best friend: You came into my life and changed it instantly. You are a light to everyone you meet and inspire me daily. Thank you for being both the shoulder I cry on and for being the person that can always make me belly laugh. Thank you for always holding me accountable and for being the person I can always confide in. Thank you for never losing your excitement for life. I’m so grateful for our friendship.

To Douglas Dabbs, my first illustration professor: I cannot express in words how grateful I am for you. It is because of you that this project has been possible. You have a unique ability of helping students cultivate their skills and bring their ideas to life. You have been the catalyst for my growth as an artist, but you have given me a gift that extends far beyond the classroom. Your endless encouragement and support over the past few years has impacted my life forever. You have been a confidant, a role model, and a friend. Thank you for genuinely believing in me when I couldn’t believe in myself.

To the rest of my MTSU art professors: and more specifically, Noel Lorson, Tony Rodriguez, Stefanie Cobb, and Sheri Selph, for continually encouraging me in my artistic endeavors. As well as being role models and inspirations, you have all equipped me with the skills and confidence I needed to make this project possible, and this is something I will carry with me and continue to develop for the rest of my life. I am forever grateful.

To the entire Oakdale community: my wonderful teachers, ball coaches, families and friends I have come to know and love; thank you for your immense support for I Saw You As A Flower, and simply in my entire upbringing. I’m so thankful that my growing years were spent in this close-knit community. You have given a new meaning to community and have been a family to me. Thank you for encouraging me from a young age and continually supporting me in all that I do.

Above all, to the ultimate author, artist, and creator— my personal savior and redeemer—my Lord Jesus Christ.

And with all my love, to Kevin:

You’ve been the anchor in my stormy seas;

in waters calm, you’ve been my peace—

and I’ll always keep a piece of you.

CONTENTS

PART I
THE GRAVEL DRIVEWAY

abandonment

where are the honeybees?

in places you aren’t wanted

inhabitant

haiku

bitter roots

a failed attempt at destruction

rotten fruit

fortress

in wrong places

PART II
THE SCENIC ROUTE

fleeting

november 3rd, 2019

do i ever cross your mind?

poison ivy

feeling colors

unwritable boy,

we embarrassed the stars, even

mixed signals

dementia

transported

exhibition

one more song

rough draft

vincent please don’t gogh

tangled

if i say, “i love you,"

dear mr. glass half-empty,

if you kiss a wound

bare

together

let me write you into a poem

freedom

a patient gardener

my final sunrise

silence

we don't have to do anything

“i love you.”

you

if my heart is a landscape

let's

my favorite place

our love language is braille

i have never loved february

a letter to a lover

lost

tailor of my heart

where willowbrook ends

unclouded soul

a love like rain

evening thoughts on love

the ending of things

valentine’s day

disconnected

tree of life and death

PART III
USING THE BRAKES

changes

keepsake

one of our last days

a great day with you

tonight i wish i had more time

packing

the last goodbye

“front door”

if it falls off its axis

morning breath

remains

the mourning

all of the empty spaces

engulfed

loving you quietly

the lotus pond

fossils

missing you

forgetting

irreversible

to break a home

from everything to every thing

medusa

births and deaths

from my side of the table

betrayal

nobody knows me like you

probably

my side of the hourglass

“goodbye”

march

something new

bottle caps and simpler times

kind, gentle, handsome

my perfect memory

these orange walls

the reason you smile

crescent heart

thrifting for love

barren

reminding myself

the perfect fit

better apart

housekeeping

waiting

PART IV
THE UPHILL CLIMB

doubts

better company

not today

maybe tomorrow

a loss of imagination

slipping into monotony

hidden places

rush hour

i’m just here

hide and seek

who am i

harmful state of mind

god's timing

it better be divine

still awake

right

trail of tears

in the dying of it all

self-hate

stuck

somewhere in between

opus 56

sue

oblivion

today's storm

resilience

empty days

here

knee-deep in comfortability

jealousy

chapstick

true to myself

things i've been noticing lately

high tide

new creature

walterhill dam

PART V
THE DOWNHILL COAST

new beginnings

she

a morning prayer

gather up your limbs

rejuvenation

a different kind of isolation

unshakable

lost and found

clarity

gentle reminders

a dance with freedom

maggie

let it be

my affair with today

30 things you should never forget about yourself

even after destruction

light-bearer

the capacity to be courageous

relentlessly alive

untitled

prisoner of jesus

hope

house hunting

this miracle of living

architect of the unwritten

creators

the ultimate artist

breathing for yourself

the aroma of life

whispers from god

wings

dream-doer

i need to close my eyes more

a wink in time

things i want to be

for you

unruled

love to share

unbridled

lessons from a man in a thrift shop

this chance at living

meek reminders

wings in a windowsill

pocketful of faith

even when i’m sleepwalking

patience and purity

this moment

two directions

this dandelion-wish life

melodies and stories

recipe for living

I have always had a hard time talking about my feelings. I tend to bottle things up and bury my emotions inside. Writing them down has been a way for me to process my life and heal. The paper is here for me in the way I would need a person to be. It is my venting ground. My place to unleash everything. I hope it is here for you in this way as well.

What you are about to read isn't just a result of me growing. This isn't just me developing my writing. This isn't just me mulling over words repeatedly in my mind until I have to spit them out. It is all of these things, yes. But more than that, this is me experiencing. It's me loving. It's me losing. It's me living. It's me dying. It's me sharing. I want you to know everything. I want you to heal. To feel. To find connection. I want you to know that you aren't alone. This isn't just a book I've written. These aren't just letterforms on paper. These aren't just words dressed up fancy.

This is my soul, so take it freely. Live in it for a moment. Fold over the corners of your favorite pages, write on me like graffiti. I want this book to be lived in. I want your art. I want your thoughts. This is my life and I want you to be a part of it; live in every room inside my heart. Make yourself comfortable. Light a candle, or two, or as many as you’d like. Stay for a while. I’m not just a storyteller. I’m living a story and I want you to live this story with me.

Before you start reading this collection, I wanted to explain a few things that I think are important to know while reading these pages. When I write, I often go on long walks. I carry a notebook in hand and simply admire the world. I walk past flower fields and fences and neighborhoods. I stop by rivers and ponds and streams. I go to parking garages. I soak in the world around me. While I’m walking is usually when I quickly jot ideas down into my journal. Whatever comes to my mind, I scribble it down as quickly as possible so it doesn’t run away from me. Most of the time, it is literally while my legs are still moving. So my journals are extremely messy. Anyways, I’m telling you this because I have included some scans of my original ideas for my poems throughout these pages. I’ll have them placed next to the poems they coincide with. I’ve also sprinkled in a couple of notes people have written to me. I wanted this collection to be as raw and personal as possible, and I’ve realized I want to be more vulnerable and honest as a writer and a sharer of the human experience.

By including these scans of my journals, I wanted you to have a more intimate experience with these poems. I want you to see where they began and where they ended up. My writing never starts out perfect, and it never ends up perfect. It is a chaotic, personal, and messy process. Once the words walk around the page enough, they finally leave their footprints. They finally get to a point where I’m satisfied with them. I think this can be a testament to our lives. They won’t ever be perfect; it’s the journey that matters. The process. The little moments along the way. This is what makes living worthwhile. I hope this collection brings some light into your life and leaves its footprints on you as well.

I first learned to ride a bike in my grandparents’ long, gravel driveway. Fear swept over me as I climbed onto the bicycle without training wheels for the first time and it began teetering side to side. Thinking of falling could have kept me from riding it, but I wanted freedom more. I wanted to feel the wind in my hair and let it waltz against my cheeks and eyelashes. I wanted to feel alive. And I did feel alive. I was especially reminded of it when I crashed. And it happened many times. That gravel driveway absorbed it all: bloodied wrists, scraped knees, tread marks, and tear stains. I learned then that any time we begin something new, we will fail at it. We will have our share of falls regardless of how prepared we think we are.

My teenage years were similar to my time spent on the gravel driveway. Especially my first relationships. Crashing was inevitable—and like the gravel driveway, my heart was there absorbing every blow. I was young and enthusiastic, and filled with wonder—but I was naive. I have always been hopeful when it comes to people. Especially at this time in my life, I saw the best in everyone. I was seeing the world with tunnel vision; oblivious to any red flags in my peripheral. I overlooked everyone’s flaws. I thought that because I wanted nothing except to share my heart with another person, their intentions were the same.

I was wrong. I gave my heart to the wrong people; people who took advantage. It took me a while to realize that I hadn’t been the one pedaling the bicycle at all. I was just an accessory in the basket. Or maybe I wasn’t even in the basket. I had allowed one person in particular to control every aspect of my life. They thrived at my falls. Laughed at my scrapes. Caused many of them. I’d lost control of the bike without even realizing it.

This small section is about that period of my life. After this, I don’t know if I’ll ever write about it again. It has taken me a long time to recover and an even longer time to let go. Thankfully, I have found forgiveness.

My heart was left so battered and scuffed from this relationship, it is a wonder I was able to stand up on my own two feet again. Getting up from the ground came with a bitter taste on my tongue. But more than that, it was disorienting. Life felt both hopeful and unfair. I couldn’t grasp why I was going through this situation when my intentions had always been pure. I so badly wished that my heart had training wheels, so I would have never known heartache or trauma. So I would have never fallen or lost control.

At the same time, I was grateful. My life was my own again. I didn’t know what direction I was going, but I knew that staying on the ground wouldn't change the past or help me move forward. I could lie on the gravel and dwell on my fall, or I could pick up my wobbly legs and climb back onto the bicycle. So I collected my strength, threw my leg over the seat, fastened my grip around the handlebars, and started pedaling. This time with more caution—and equipped with some scars as humble reminders.

Narrowing down my feelings and writing these poems has given me a closure and peace that has truly helped me to heal and move forward from this part of my life. I have ridden away from the gravel driveway and will never return again.

abandonment

In the end of it all,

it is not you

who determines

the outcome of my life.

I choose whether or not

to allow my walls

to be riddled

by your overgrowth and ivy,

and my windows to collect

with your grime and mildew,

and my hinges to ripen with rust.

I am in charge of my own upkeeping,

so when the pipes leak

and the closets gather with clutter,

and the floorboards are left unswept

and begin to creak and groan,

I cannot blame you for this.

And although you may have

contributed to my decay,

I can choose

to wake up each morning

to dust the cobwebs,

and to unclog the gutters,

and to trim the hedges.

I will choose to

power-wash the siding,

and the porch,

and the concrete,

and I will watch your muck and fungus

run into the gravel driveway

and underneath the topsoil

to take root

into someone else’s plot of earth.

where are the honeybees?

It must be winter forever;

I haven’t seen the honeybees in a while

Even in the spring

they must be in hibernation

I have only encountered wasps and hornets

and yellow jackets and cicada killers

I have never had someone

who did anything but sting—

Where are the honeybees?

I need someone to pollinate me.

I have only been stripped, pillaged, plundered;

I have sacrificed and devoted and pledged myself

only to be vandalized, ransacked, crippled.

I have never wanted anything except

to be whole with someone—

not torn from and torn apart by—

Where are the honeybees?

I crave someone’s sweetness;

someone who knows how to

congregate amongst the wildflowers.

Someone who generates new life.

Someone who will better me.

in places you aren’t wanted

I have a splinter and I’m sure it must be you; who else would be lodged underneath my skin without warning / there was no sign of entry / you snuck inside me swiftly, eager to find a passageway to my heart

the veins, you thought

the blood will pump through them

you were confident that you could make it / navigating has always been your specialty / even if you had reached my veins, my white blood cells are far too good at detecting infections / they know what to attack

why won’t she love me, you wonder

as I extract you from the skin

you lodged yourself into uninvited

inhabitant

Like the charcoal underneath my fingernails,

I cannot rid you from

making your habitat in every last part of me—

in each crevice and furrow

You plummet into my pores

I find you burrowed into my crow’s feet

and lodged inside my tear ducts

You occupy my vessels, veins, arteries

You are present everywhere

My breaths reek of your lips;

you cling onto every inhale and exhale

How can I remove you from me?

Would I have to cut off my limbs?

My arms, my legs—

Shed my skin?

Donate every ounce of my blood?

What would it take to rid myself of you?

You have dug into my core,

used it as grounds for your well;

everything I do springs up from you

I don’t know how to escape what fuels me

haiku

I love you loudly

because of you I am proud

you whisper my name

bitter roots

I haven't been writing

with roots of bitterness lately.

For a while, my words stemmed from hate—

from trauma, from pain—

from being dragged out of the driver's seat

and being told how to behave.

I wasn't allowed to drive my own vehicle,

or have my own thoughts—

instead, I was called names,

and given silent treatments and blame

for doing nothing except give everything.

After only overflowing kindness,

I was made to cry for the delight of it—

Car doors were opened for me

only to be degraded once inside

and I slowly began to dwindle,

my flame, it lost its light—

my car became a place of hatred,

so when I had the chance to drive,

I only wanted to escape it—

and I hate to admit that

I thought I'd go off an embankment

to get away from it;

I could yank the wheel

and be saved from this.

But I've always wanted to live.

I was naive, only knowing to give—

but I still blame myself

for always choosing to forgive

and not realizing it sooner that

there's more to life than this.

And I want to apologize to my dad

for all of this you've seen—

and for the parts you didn't know,

that now you've had to read.

You've probably wondered if you failed

to exemplify what a man should be.

But Dad, there's never been a man like you.

I've never met a heart so pure, so genuine and true.

And all the words I said from bitter roots,

none of them were true.

I want you to know that I love you.

And one day I'll choose a wonderful man,

but he'll never be as wonderful as you.

love,
ellen

a failed attempt at destruction

It’s been a while now,

long enough for me to forget most things about you.

But I’ve yet to disinfect my memory

of the shift in your voice—

Like magma clambering up the walls of a volcano,

eager to burst through the seams of the earth,

your voice foreshadowed an impending eruption

and I was always the villager

scrambling to avoid destruction

But I was never prepared for the catastrophe—

I never was equipped to combat you—

I was scalded by you so many times

I am in awe that my flesh still clings to my bones—

My mind has been blistered

and seared by your sick manipulations

I am in awe that I am not simply a mesh of scar tissue—

I am in awe that my sanity wasn’t liquefied,

or left in fragments, or disintegrated

You came with an intent to

belittle and deprecate me—

with an intent to showcase

the hopelessness of my existence

but instead you have proven to me

the magnitude of my strength

If I can withstand the fury of a volcano

I was made to survive anything

rotten fruit

I am not a fruit for your delight,

and never was; you just used me as such.

I will not allow you again to squelch out the life

I've worked so hard to fill myself up with.

You plucked me from the tree before I was ready,

when I was new and filled with life,

and you sank into me with your nasty teeth—

drained my zest for your own pleasure.

You thought you bettered me, ripened me;

but I was made to rot

and every blemish that appeared,

you were the cause.

But piece by piece,

I have cut you out.

And although parts of me are missing,

I salvaged what was left of myself;

buried my seeds back below the ground

where I once began,

and root by root,

I clawed my way out of the dark earth.

And as I’m rising from the ground,

seeing the light again for the first time,

I outstretch my arms towards the heavens,

I lift my head towards the sky,

and I bask in the newness of living.

I am not a fruit for your delight,

but my own tree,

audaciously growing,

daring to create life

as if I had never known the meaning of losing.

fortress

It is time for me to dig a moat around my heart;

surround it with soldiers,

burn down the drawbridge.

I’ve let too many wanderers

barge into my castle,

reside in my quarters,

and feast at my table.

I’ve chosen to see the good

in too many evil intentions—

I have given to those

who only seek to receive;

who never intend to give in return

My heart is a castle—

not a subway station,

or an airport,

or a ferry boat—

My heart is something to fight for;

to make a home from—

not something to hop aboard

for a fleeting moment

only to leave and disembark from—

My heart is not a passageway,

or ticket to get somewhere;

my heart is a destination.

But I’m bolting the doors

and barring the windows.

So unless you know

how to build a drawbridge,

and unless you can defeat an entire army

and climb a castle wall with your bare hands,

then you can find another table

to feast at.

in wrong places

I don’t know,

I have a knack for finding love in the wrong places.

Maybe love will find me in the right one.

It felt great to be in control again. My feet pedaled faster and more fervently than ever. My bicycle basket carried a newly gained confidence and a smile. I felt alive again. I couldn’t fall if I wanted to. Or so I thought. I didn’t fall off of the bicycle this time; but instead, fell for another person. A genuinely good person. Someone who rode along this journey with me, bettering me as we went. Together, we took the scenic route.

fleeting

I have only met you in brief moments;

in passing, in eye contact across the room—

but like smoke that clings onto clothing

you linger on me

I look for you everywhere—

see your face in crowds

where you aren't

hear your voice in places

you've never been

dream up conversations

we haven’t had

our encounters have been fleeting

but you are anything but temporary,

could never be forgettable

november 3rd, 2019

The first day I spent time with you,

you spun your thrift store records

while we drew portraits

of each other into our sketchbooks

And in my mind

I wished you were the record player

and I was the vinyl

and that you were spinning me beneath your arm,

dancing around the living room to the music

But all the while

I admired you from across the couch

and I loved you silently

and clung onto the hope that

you were inaudibly loving me too

do i ever cross your mind?

Do I ever cross your mind?

Do I float in, gently, like a feather?

Or do I hit you all at once,

like a tsunami, destructive weather?

Do you think of me on sunlit days

because you’re reminded of my light?

Or do you think of me in darkness

because I remind you of the night?

Do I ever cross your mind?

And if I do, what do you see?

I see you in everything,

but do you ever think of me?

poison ivy

Your poison ivy lips—

I am apprehensive to graze them

in case I should become infected.

They will leave me

itching for you for days

My skin will crawl, ache, swell

from the remnants of you

You will linger here for weeks

My fingertips will become

like magnets to my lips

I will not be able

to resist from tracing them,

trying to mimic the electricity of your touch

Just the thought of kissing you

has me poisoned

feeling colors

We came together,

an uncalculated collision

of lips and skin;

my breaths unsteady

and lips quivering

from the eagerness of wanting you

and the nervousness of

not knowing your lips before

It was far from mathematical

but much like a collision of acrylics

on a blank canvas

ready to meet colors for the first time

I had only seen colors,

never felt them,

until I’d kissed you.

unwritable boy,

It is impossible to organize

my thoughts about you.

How can I separate you, divide you, categorize you,

compartmentalize you, formulate you.

How can I place your entire existence

into an arrangement of words

when you dismantle me with your eyes

and unstitch me with your smile

You disassemble me with your laugh

and undo me with your touch

How can I begin to knit together

words to describe you

when you unravel my entire being

with just your presence

we embarrassed
the stars, even

We kissed

and you should have seen

the moon and stars

and how they hid their faces

because their eyes

could not handle

the intensity of our light.

mixed signals

my right brain says

you love me.

my left brain is

not that creative.

dementia

Please don’t fall in love with me

for what I have

or for what I look like when my hair is primped

and when my face is tidied

Fall in love with my unruly hair,

and puffy eyes,

and half-shaven legs

Kiss me with my morning breath

and when I am gray and forget what day it is

and begin to put hairbrushes in the freezer

and dishes in the bathroom

and forget how to brew my evening coffee

Love me and my absent mind,

and when I forget what words to say,

read books to me

and tell me about your day

And when we have the same conversation

three times in a row,

pretend it is new and exciting

so I don’t have to remember that I’m forgetting,

so I don’t realize that I’m unmaking the memories

that once seemed so secure,

like they would always be there, waiting for me

And above all,

remind me that I am loved.

I don’t want to lose myself

without someone there to find me

transported

My compass stopped working when you kissed me.

I could have been anywhere. Maybe I lost my senses

or maybe they were amplified. Either way, I was

transported—and I don’t want to come back.

exhibition

I am an artist.

You are the only canvas

I want to paint the surface of,

the only palette

I want to dip colors from.

Let me touch you,

I will mold ceramics from your skin

and sculpt abstractions from your lips.

I want to illustrate your

bends and curves with my fingertips.

I am an artist.

I will look into your eyes

and see sapphires—

gaze into your smile

and find amethysts—

place my head upon your chest

and feel rubies between

each of your heartbeats.

I will listen to your emerald laugh

and extract poetry from between each chuckle.

I may be an artist,

but you are the subject

of each and every creation.

Let me make you my favorite exhibition.

one more song

I wish you were a record player

and I was your favorite record.

Place me onto your turntable.

Lower your needle onto my surface,

gently trace along my grooves.

Spin me beneath your arm.

You are the only one

I want to sing melodies for.

Cherish my vinyl carcass.

Tuck me into a sleeve

and protect me from scratches.

I’ve accumulated too many from careless handlers

who tossed me to the side

into unwanted corners

and onto floorboards in dusty attics.

What if I am stagnant?

What if my only music is static noise?

Show me that I still have a song left to sing

rough draft

I don't want to edit you.

I don't want to mark you out with red ink.

I don't want to manipulate you,

rearrange you, change you.

I don't want to fancy you up,

dull you down, shape you.

I don’t want you as anything

except who you are right now.

I want you for you.

Your rough draft.

vincent please don’t gogh

Please do not be Vincent ;

don’t Gogh because you think you’ve not been loved.

Since the Starry Night I met you,

my smile's beamed brighter than the heavens above.

I think of us in The Night Cafe,

when you first caught me with your gaze—

and of our days beneath the Cypress tree

sharing warmth beneath the shade.

I keep your Sunflowers on my dresser;

I’ll keep them long after they're dead.

They remind me of our walks in Daubigny’s Garden

beneath the sun that kissed our heads.

I’ve loved you for infinity;

I hope this doesn’t reach you late—

I want to get the chance to tell you

before we meet at Eternity’s Gate.

tangled

I don’t know what

it is that I’m captivated by

when it comes to you—

Despite the times you’ve

tried to push me away,

I have loved you.

You are magnetic,

even when you are not

Even on days when

the world's weight is insufferable

and you think your existence

only adds to the heaviness of it,

you are still magnetic—

and I am still drawn to you

Even at your worst,

I am a moth

willingly tangled in your web

and I would purposely fling myself into it

again and again

if it meant giving you

the strength for another tomorrow

if i say, “i love you,"

Love hurts because it can be lost

and because it can be forged to begin with.

"I love you" is too effortlessly slipped from lips.

It is undemanding.

It is simple to say, but challenging to mean.

It glides off crooked tongues

and anchors itself onto honest ones.

It is painless to say with deceit

and strenuous to say with sincerity.

I want to say "I love you," but only if I can say it wholly.

If I say, "I love you," I want it to be unrelated to time,

and measured only by the joining of your heart and mine,

the moment when two lives become one.

dear mr. glass half-empty,

You worry I see you for what you're not—

for the past decisions you have made

and the sufferings they've brought.

And though you're far from yielding fruit,

I see a sprout emerging from the pot;

a flower knowing it can bloom,

he simply just forgot.

And maybe I don't mean much to you,

but you're a universe to me.

And though you can see your ending,

I see a boundless infinity

of a genuine kindness,

not selfishness or greed—

a wish to better yourself, and in return,

you better everyone you meet.

But when the day meets its end,

you can't find yourself through me.

And as much as I'd like to show you,

it's your own discovery.

I can tell you of your worth,

but only you can set it free.

And maybe you would spread your wings

if you saw what I can see.

love,
ms. glass half-full

if you kiss a wound

They say, If you kiss a wound it will heal—

but I can’t kiss your heart.

So I’ll kiss your lips, your neck, your skin,

and every other part.

And I hope that one day they’ll sink in

and something inside you starts—

because where you see yourself as worthless,

all I see is a work of art.

So I’ll begin to paint your canvas

with the stain from on my lips.

and I will trace your frame so gently,

from your torso to your hips.

I’ll leave landscapes on your body;

there’s not a place that I will miss.

And I’ll always be here to remind you

in case you should forget.

But if life ever comes between us,

or if mine comes to an end,

I hope that at the very least,

when you needed me, I was a friend.

And I hope that if I’ve shown you anything,

it’s that every wound can mend—

that your life is far from meaningless;

you hold universes within.

Know that you can do anything you fathom,

if you only would believe.

And the gift of happiness awaits you,

if you’re willing to receive.

And there’s so much love around you—

more than you can conceive.

But I hope you find it in yourself,

before it’s time for you to leave.

bare

Sometimes I have to remind myself

that you are real

and not a fabrication

of my incessant imagination—

Sometimes I feel like I could blink

and you would disappear

but I open my eyes

and you are always standing here

showing me what it means

to be loved for myself

and not for the woman I could be

if I was born as someone else

and had lovelier locks of hair

or seamless skin

But you love me, bare—

the way we are all meant to be loved—

stripped of all the excess

that we put upon ourselves

and then wonder why we are

weighed down and heavy

You love me, bare—

cleansed of makeup,

frills, and material goods

You love me, bare—

and I have become

light and weightless;

free from gravity almost

together

You make me think of things

like blueprints and yellow houses,

fenced-in yards and wrap-around porches,

car seats and tiny shoes

I have always been afraid

of tomorrows, and leaving my twenties,

and misplacing my memories—

but you make me think of things

like growing old in rocking chairs,

forgetting the world together

let me write you into a poem

Let me write you into a poem. Let me clothespin you onto the blue lines of the paper, iron you into the space between the margins, and string you into words that could somehow immortalize you.

Let me write you into a poem.

And just maybe, I’ll be there too.

freedom

The most freedom I’ve found

has never been from

places my feet have roamed

or in building blocks of

places I've called home—

I have not found it

in the confines of walls,

or boundary lines,

or the atmosphere even—

that itself is not freeing enough for me

I love the flower fields

and the tides of the oceans

and the cliffs etched into mountaintops

and yet I’ve not found

a field freckled with enough flowers

or a seaside blanketed with blue enough waters

or a mountain with tall enough peaks

to compare with the freedom

I find in your arms

Like a black hole,

I fall into you;

gravity rips me apart

at your smile

and I’m completely satisfied

with the thought

of never escaping you

a patient gardener

Dear gardener,

You have seen me at my worst.

You uproot the weeds I find myself tangled in.

And when my blooms are spent and heavy,

you cut them off, diligently,

to encourage new ones to grow in their place.

You have seen me in drought,

my limbs limp and shriveled

and deprived of nutrients.

You have seen me in wilt,

and still you tend to me,

believing that tomorrow I will rise again.

You find promise in my tomorrows

and love me for my imperfect todays.

Dear gardener,

I do not deserve the care

of your calloused and tender hands.

my final sunrise

I don't think kissing should grow stale with age.

Who says that growing older means growing farther apart?

I refuse for doom to sit comfortably at my table.

I want to grow hopelessly intertwined with someone.

I hope my lover knows laughter and shares it well.

Who has time to worry about wrinkles?

They are a small price to pay for years of fulfillment.

I hope my face becomes a grand canyon of them all

so I know I have experienced uncontained joy with someone.

Then, I will know I have lived well.

When I come to the end of my life,

and the sun greets me one final morning,

I hope to be cluelessly happy,

obliviously enthusiastic,

and too preoccupied with the zeal of life

to notice something as trivial as death coming for me.

I hope to start my final morning

like every one of my other mornings.

I will roll over and give my lover a kiss.

silence

It is the quiet hours

that are my favorites with you—

It is the moments of stillness,

when silence settles in

and the room is dim,

but your eyes are not

It is in these quiet moments with you

that my love for you is the loudest.

we don't have to do anything

We don't have to do anything;

being with you is enough.

We could sit at the kitchen table for hours

looking at computer screens

and paper-ridden dreams;

or we could venture the world,

partake in all the finer things

We could do anything, or nothing at all,

and I would feel as if we were dangling our feet

off the edge of the atmosphere,

looking at the world below us,

but forgetting that it exists

the two of us is all I see;

where we go or what we do,

it's only you and me.

“i love you.”

I love you. Here it exists in writing and still, it doesn’t compare to how I truly feel for you. It looks misspelled, but it isn’t—it just wades shallow compared to the depths of my affection towards you. You’ve changed me like the sun changes the world each morning. You’ve become so interlaced with me that I don’t know how I ever lived without you.

I love you.

I love you like the earth loves to spin.

Like the leaves meet the wind.

I love you like lilies love valleys.

I love you.

I love you like every example of love possible,

except nothing like those examples; not even close.

I love you and I always will.

you

You are the sun to my day

and the moon to my night—

You take all of my darkness

and turn it to light

if my heart is a landscape

I love you, I do.

My love, it has always been you.

If my heart is a landscape,

then you are the view.

You turn my darkness to light;

my steel gray to blue.

When prisms bring rainbows,

you are every hue.

You are the song of the sparrows,

the ballad of the bees.

You are the dance of the dandelions,

you are the wind in the trees.

You are in every valley of my soul,

in every mountain and each peak.

You are my fountain of strength

in the times I am weak.

You are genuine good

in a world where good remains few.

You bring life to my landscape;

you make this aged heart feel new.

But you're more than a scenery;

you're more than a view.

You're more than a rhyme could conjure,

more than a line could construe—

You are more than what letters could describe,

more than what numbers could ever accrue.

But of this one thing I'm certain—

and this will forever ring true—

My dearest love, I will always love you.

let's

There are too many ways

to say, " I love you."

and not enough time to say them all

So let's just take the evening slow

and make the most of it—

Let's split a sundae, share the sunset,

and simply sit

in the stillness of our love

watching the world whirl around us, and above—

Let's linger in the last of the day,

and let the clock hands carry our worries away—

and everything

except our love for each other

Let's let love stay

my favorite place

I want to capture you on paper

in the same way a camera could on a screen

I wish I could press a button

and you’d appear in a perfect arrangement of words

I wish I could put my heart through a scanner—

maybe then, I could describe you

and the way you make me feel—

but how can I put words to feelings

my heart has never felt before?

How can I condense you down into a page, or two,

or two thousand—

when looking at you

is enough to stir oceans out of my eyes—

not because you make me unhappy,

but because out of everywhere I’ve been,

you are my favorite place to be—

and when I look at you I wonder

how you aren’t the highlight of everyone’s day

or how your name isn’t etched into a monument

or at least put on a street sign yet—

or how maybe I’m not really in the Milky Way

and maybe you and I aren’t really

just sitting on a bed

in a room where you can’t see the carpet from all the clothes

or make it to the bathroom without tripping—

because being with you

feels like I am in another universe

and you are simply sitting in front of me,

looking down at something you are working on,

unknowingly bringing tears to my eyes

by doing nothing except

cross-legged and effortlessly

being my everything

our love language is braille

You speak to me with your hands

and I listen to you with mine

You run your fingers over me

like I am Braille;

starting with the title on my spine,

then exploring further—

reading me like

a cliffhanger lies on

every inch of my skin

You are always reaching for the next word

and I do the same with you—

like each touch will solve a mystery—

but our plot always meets a twist,

and these lovely pages never end

We are lost

along the lines in our story

where every word is different

but all of them are exclaiming, “I love you.”

i have never loved february

I have never loved February,

but I love how much you love February;

how your eyes light up

when the world is a snow globe

and we are just two figurines

watching the sky shake snowflakes from the clouds

I have never loved February,

so I am hoping they disappear

as soon as they touch the ground,

but you are holding onto every flake

like they are trophies sent to you from God—

and the only reason I understand it

is because I am holding onto you

for the very same reason

a letter to a lover

I don’t know how to tell you that I love you, perhaps because three words could never justify exactly how I feel for you. So maybe four words can describe how I feel a little more accurately.

You are my universe. The dictionary says that the universe is all of space, and time, and their contents. So, in other words, the universe is everything. You are my everything. When you look up at the stars, can you imagine their end? I imagine constellations after constellations, galaxies after galaxies. I cannot picture the sky ever coming to a point where the stars cease to exist and there is a sudden wall of infinite blackness. I imagine the stars going on forever. My love for you is the same. It continues on and on and on.

When I tell you that you are my universe, I am not saying that everything will always be perfect. Even the brightest stars fall from the sky. Some explode. Some burn out. But amidst all of our explosions and shortcomings and falling outs, I will still love you. Because out of all of the things that fail in this life, love never does.

You are my universe. But even those four words do not unravel my love for you; I'm not sure if anything ever will.

lost

Our eyes are filled with mysteries

and universes never discovered

and there is someone for each of us

willing to risk everything

for a chance to get lost in their wonder

and uncover our heart’s greatest secrets

tailor of my heart

You're the tailor of my heart;

before I met you, I was worn.

A gaping hole lay beneath my chest

from all the times I had been torn.

You're the tailor of my heart;

you took out your needles and your thread.

You stitched life into the parts of me

I'd long since thought were dead.

You're the tailor of my heart;

the first stitch had a bit of sting.

But you carried on with gentle patience,

weaving love into my being.

You're the tailor of my heart;

slowly, my heart began to sing.

This winter I'd been buried in

took its first breath of spring.

You're the tailor of my heart;

it is you who made me whole.

It is you who now is woven

into each fiber of my soul.

You're the tailor of my heart,

but you're also my best friend .

You loved me when I was broken,

and I'll love you until my end.

where willowbrook ends

I have gotten to know you best

after midnight

underneath muted kitchen lights

and between ceaseless conversations

and comfortable silence

I have gotten to know you best

during early morning back massages

and while listening to stand-up comedians

who hardly make me laugh as much as you do

I have gotten to know you best

listening to you recite your poems

and watching you carefully craft each sentence

until the weight of your words

moves us both to tears

I have gotten to know you best

by your daily interactions

and from the way you invest your time

into making everyone around you feel seen

even when you feel invisible

I have gotten to know you best

sitting together in plastic chairs

on a dead-end street

where Willowbrook ends and our love began

And as it continues to live on,

I will continue to praise God

for investing his time

into creating the one

who I am proud to know best

unclouded soul

My arms are wrapped around your waist,

I never want to let you go.

It’s not your body that I’m holding;

it’s your pure, unclouded soul.

It’s not your skin, it’s what’s within—

your heart and mine have joined so close.

This love we’ve built together

never fails to overflow.

You’ve been such a privilege to know.

I never want to let you go.

a love like rain

Although I hope it doesn't,

if this ever ends,

at least I will know

that I loved you like rain, except better

I didn't freeze

when the cold seasons

nipped at the passion between us—

Didn't allow myself

to harden in your presence—

Would never allow my words

to become stiff—

only let them pitter-patter gently

from the roof of my mouth

and land on your ears lovingly

I've loved you like rain,

but not with the intent to drown you—

just soak you lightly,

enough to keep you nurtured

and thriving in the sunlight

and you have loved me the same

And if this is to end,

we will know that it wasn't because

we have been unkind to one another—

We just happened to have been planted

next to each other,

and we grew together happily—

sharing each other's nutrients,

and soaking in the same radiant sun—

but our roots were simply meant for different soils,

and that’s okay.

Together, we grew in the right direction.

We sprung forth in flowers.

We brought color to the world.

We were happy.

Although I hope it doesn't happen,

if someone else sees me in full bloom,

it was you who helped me blossom—

and I'll always be grateful for that.

evening thoughts on love

I don't care about games—the cat and mouse chase of keeping someone in love. I don't believe love is something that can be forced upon someone or begged for. If someone loves you, they'll make sure you know it. If they don't, maybe that means something.

When I was a child, we had a pet toad for a winter. We would dangle ham and cheese from a string and make a game out of feeding him. Many times I remember pulling the string away from him right as he lunged for a bite. The tantalizing was fun. It was a thrill to see him work harder for his meals.

But I won't dangle my love before you. I have never been someone to withhold my affection for the sake of being pursued. I don't believe love is something that can be half-done. I will love you whole-heartedly and will remind you of my feelings often. I don't know how to constrain a feeling that is so powerful. I also don't know why I'd want to suppress it, after seeing how beatific and plentiful love is when it is shared with someone.

I guess I could show my love less if I wanted to protect myself. Maybe when I’ve parted ways with people it could have helped ease the blow a little. Maybe if I had given less of myself, it wouldn’t have been as painful to find myself again.

But I've never been good at pretending not to love someone.

Anyways, even if I was, I'm sure I'd always wonder if I could have given more, and the uncertainty would be just as agonizing. So when it comes to you, I'll do the only thing I know to do. I'll love you and make sure you know it.

the ending of things

In the end of it all,

when it is time for us

to blow out the stars

that we lit together like candles,

I hope you remember me

with a spirit like evergreens—

undisturbed by the brisk and frigid seasons

that have a tendency to turn life into death—

and know that I’ve always

wished the same for you

And when life greets you with hostility,

I hope you remember my love

draping around you

like a warm summer evening;

a reminder of the comfort love can bring.

And although we burned bright together,

I hope the light you shine on your own

burns much brighter,

and the love you find proves much stronger,

and I hope you are overtaken by a happiness

that makes you forget about any sadness—

a happiness that makes every other joy seem dull

valentine’s day

It's Valentine's Day and honestly I'm not feeling too loved. I know I am loved, but today I am tired. There are so many things I need to do, and I don't have the motivation to move. I've just been in bed. I want to get up and work on my personal projects. I have art to make and words to write and people to say “i love you” to. But I've not had any motivation today. I went to get a cheese pizza for myself and the car took forever to defrost. It finally warmed up and I drove to the pizza shop feeling completely alone.

I was alone.

It has been quiet today. Sometimes I wonder if I've ever really been in love. I know I have loved; there is no doubt about that. I've poured my entire soul into people and have given so much of myself. And I know that I'm far from perfect. But today is one of those days that I'm thinking about the lengths I go to make people smile and I'm driving in silence. I forgot to play music and that scares me too because I always love listening to music. I don't know why I'm rambling. I just need to think out loud sometimes. I wish I could get up and start working because I know at the end of the day, it would be worth it. But I'm just so tired and feeling unloved.

disconnected

I have been feeling a little disconnected

from you lately.

Like a radio station starting to lose signal—

like a melody becoming static.

Like a shortage in my aux cord—

in every direction I turn, I can’t find clarity.

Everything is fuzzy here

in our world that used to be so clear.

Like poor cell service.

Like I’m the one bulb in a strand of string lights

that flickers out and makes the rest go dim.

Like “we” doesn’t sound like “we” anymore.

but more like “me”

and more like “you”

and less like “us.”

I have been feeling a little disconnected lately and

I don’t know how to keep the signal from getting weaker.

tree of life and death

I've seen the trees; I know what they do.

I know their cycle of revival—

how they empty themselves

of their leaves just to rejuvenate again—

I know it should inspire me,

seeing them resurrect after death,

seeing them fill themselves

after seasons of emptiness,

but the leaves won't stop taunting me.

Leave. They say.

Leave!

We do it everyday! It's what we are!

“It’s not that easy,” I grumble.

I've never been good at letting go—

at letting something I've grown with

fall away from me—

but I do it for the sake of myself.

I have to live; I have to let go of all that's dying

or all that is meant to.

I have to leave.

I know I'm always talking in analogies.

I think it’s easier for me to make sense of things.

Unfortunately, even the scenic route can be riddled with potholes, freckled with boulders, and filled with unpredictable twists and turns. As a cyclist navigating these roads, we are forced to make decisions. We have to use our best judgment to maneuver through the obstacles that lie ahead of us. Sometimes, we have to switch gears. We have to use the brakes.

When it comes to loving and letting go of love, using the brakes is never easy. Sometimes, it feels nearly impossible. The jolt can be devastating, and at times, unbearable. Sometimes, it will be so painful that we will wonder if we’ll ever be able to move forward again. But I’d rather experience a sudden halt in my path than allow myself to ride through a pothole or crash into a boulder. I’d rather stop myself short than continue riding down a road that only grows ruttier and more treacherous. Sometimes, the scenic route starts looking less scenic. Sometimes, a love meant to last forever is actually temporary. At the end of the day, I have to put myself first. I have to strap my self-worth into the bicycle basket and guard it for dear life. I had already lost control of the pedals, once. I didn’t plan on losing control of the brakes, too. Unfortunately, using the brakes has been something I have become very familiar with.

changes

But instead I will be

someone else’s forever,

and infinity does not feel

eternal without him.

keepsake

It doesn't feel real that this is ending.

This moment with you,

I wish I could stay in it forever.

I'd swallow it if I could;

press it like wildflowers

into the holiest book of my mind as a keepsake

and hope that it stays

preciously preserved between the pages

so I always remember us beautiful

and our love strong.

You've always been so good to me.

And when life greets me with bitterness,

I'll flip back through these pages

until it stops on the wildflowers.

And even though they will have faded,

their petals wrinkled and dried

and broken off into the binding,

there will always be a hint of color

reminding me of what it felt like

to be alive with you.

Reminding me of your smile.

And of your heart like the ocean;

always full, always giving to the shore

and pulling away—

only to give more of yourself again.

You've always been so selfless.

It doesn't feel real that this is ending,

but I'll let the book close on this moment;

inside each other's arms,

my head on your heartbeat,

holding each other tightly

as if we weren't about to let go.

one of our last days

We sat on the edge of the rocks and watched the great golden yolk slip out of the sky, ending with the same splendor it began with. Its final moments were captured in orange glints on the water's surface that slid over the edge of the dam and collapsed into more of itself. I thought about the river; how nice it must be to not have to think about anything—it all simply flows together in one harmonious body; nothing is left out or disjointed. Everything drifts together and not apart from. I wish everything worked that way. I wish endings didn't exis—

my wishes were interrupted as the sun's reflection left the river—then, we climbed off of the rocks, walked to the car, and closed the door—leaving the river behind us and entering into the dark night.

a great day with you

I had a great day with you, I always do.

That's why it hurts so much to know

the day is almost through; it's our last.

I hate the way time glides on so fast.

I wish I could linger longer in this moment,

but in a blink, it's in the past.

I had a great day with you, I always do.

I wish I could go back.

tonight i wish
i had more time

What kind of moon is this tonight?

What kind of moon is hanging

in the wardrobe of this midnight sky?

It's our goodnight moon, our goodbye moon;

the last moon with your hand in mine.

Two years of moons have come and gone,

but tonight I wish I had more time.

I wish I could steer the moon off course,

tell the stars to unalign.

Tonight I wish I had more time.

More "I love you's," more "love you too's,"

your heartbeats next to mine.

More silent conversations,

singing love songs with our eyes.

I am going to miss you,

this moon will soon say its last "goodnight."

The day brings all that's good and bright,

but I dread to see the morning light.

packing

You're moving boxes, I'm watching.

It is time for you to leave.

This mountain of belongings you're taking with you

is far less than all you’ve left with me.

You’ve given me laughter

and a joy beyond compare.

You’ve given me encouragement

in times when no one else was there.

You’ve reminded me of my self-worth

when I struggled to simply see;

You’ve grounded me in moments

the world was slipping from beneath my feet.

You’ve given me your soul;

the purest heart I’ve ever known.

It’s not this house I’m going to miss;

it’s this man who has been my home.

As cardboard cubes fill up this “living” room,

my heart sinks into vacancy.

I don’t know how I’m going to live

without the one who makes me, “me.”

the last goodbye

How do you condense an entire relationship with someone into one final moment? How do you cram everything you want to say into a goodbye? How are you supposed to condense the years you thought you'd spend with someone into a short summary with an abrupt ending? How do you break a soul-tie?

How are you supposed to just end something like that?

“front door”

Outside these doors,

couples are laughing;

people in love and choosing each other

Inside these doors,

a couple is weeping;

two people in love and choosing to be apart

I keep hoping that one day we will wake up

and things will be different,

but we already are different

and this hairline-thread of difference

feels like mountains between us—

yet I’m so close to you

it’s like we are woven into one skin

I try to hold onto you—

your cheeks, your hands

your arms, your legs,

your shoes, even—

still it isn’t enough to keep you here

inside these doors

It isn’t enough to keep the birch branches

from flailing against the brick and gutters

and knocking on the door of this temporary house,

urging you to come outside

We know the birch tree is right,

but wish it wouldn’t be—

wish the wind wasn’t calling

us away from each other

But we walk out,

painfully listening

to the wind whispering loudly

and the sirens screaming quietly

and the trees tapping impatiently

and the headlights hurrying idly

and the world whirling around us quickly,

but slower than I’ve ever experienced

For a moment it all feels bearable

because we are outside of these doors together

and being with you has always felt like

the calm in every storm

But it is a fleeting moment;

a last kiss, a last grab of the hand,

a last look of acknowledgement

Both of us pleading into each others’ eyes

while feeling known and understood

by each other for the last time—

afraid of being strangers, afraid of being lovers—

and now I am inside these doors

trying not to curse at God

and trying to accept that

this front door is meant to stand between us

if it falls off its axis

I know the world is spinning.

I am reminded because the sun continues to pry

my eyelids apart in the mornings

and the birdsongs mingle with my ears

hoping to wrangle me out of my bedsheets

and the trees empty themselves

of their leaves just to fill them back up again—

I know it should inspire me,

knowing that I can do the same,

knowing that my winter is here only for a season.

I know.

I know the world is spinning.

But I don’t care if it continues to spin

or if it loses its balance

and topples off of its axis

The world may be spinning,

but if you aren’t here

to dance with me while it turns,

my world might as well not be spinning at all.

morning breath

I could be angry at the morning.

I could spit at the sun for daring to rise

and shed light on this bed

where you aren’t and never will be.

I could be angry at the morning

for beginning with the sun instead of you

and for waking me up with light

instead of your lips.

I could be angry at the morning.

I could be—and I want to be—

but I would rather walk outside,

exhale my morning breath,

and inhale the beginning of this beautiful day.

remains

The ramen bowls

are piling up, scattered

across my room

like mines in a minefield

I can't bring myself

to carry them to the sink,

pour them empty.

The bathtub water

has been filled for days

For some reason

I can't bring myself

to pull the faucet

and let it drain.

Everything is dirty here

in this room

I've found so much love in

I'm a mess and

I can't bring myself

to rinse off;

don't want to erase

your touch from my skin

your kisses from my lips

your hands from my hair

Everything remains the same

and nothing is the same at all

I can't bring myself

to purge the remnants of you

How do I move on from love

when I don't want to

I'm holding onto the last of you

while knowing I have to let go

the mourning

It’s so difficult mourning someone. Even though they aren't dead, it feels like they are. The worst part about losing someone is that they are still in reach, but you have to force yourself to stay away. Conceal the car keys so you don't drive to where they are. Put away the pictures. Hide things that remind you of them so you can forget and move on. Forgetting is the worst part. Especially when you don't want to forget them. But to move on, you do forget. You forget what things they said that made you belly laugh. Your inside jokes drift to the outside. They fade from memory. You can look back at pictures but forget what happened during that moment. Forget what other things you did that day. What conversations you had. It all just—fades.

all of the empty spaces

You are the gap between my fingers

and the leg I still reach for in my passenger seat

You are the silence where music used to play

and the opening between my lips

You are all of the empty spaces that complete me

and I am completely empty

engulfed

If you’re asking around,

I’m down by the sea.

Waters surround me;

sands encompass my feet.

I know you’re leaving

without a goodbye;

on top of these waters,

but under this sky.

So I’ll let these waves

sweep up my cage;

toss me and turn me

in all of their rage.

They won’t bring me to you,

but at least I’ll remain

in the place where you left,

and here I will stay.

loving you quietly

I don’t know how to talk about you without crying

or say, “I don’t love you” without lying,

so I am quiet these days.

the lotus pond

I sit at a different side of the pond now

and watch the ducks waddle along the bank

where we used to sit

The pond is even more beautiful

than when we left it

It was the end of May

and the end of us too—

the pond was bare, then

June is coming to a close,

and already, everything is beginning

to bloom and open—

The lotus pads

freckle the cheeks of the water’s surface

and the baby turtles freckle

the cheeks of the lotus pads

One brave flower is rising above

the water in front of me;

its petal whites grinning in the sunlight

while the mouths of the other lotus are closed—

not quite ready to speak yet

I sit at a different side of the pond now,

and everything is more beautiful

than when we left it

but still, it’s underwhelming

I don’t want to watch the ducks by myself

or laugh at the kids catching minnows

and squealing, “it’s humongous!”

I don’t want the red fox to come back

without you here to see it

I sit at a different side of the pond now,

and the view is disappointing—

and it has nothing to do with what side of the pond I’m on

fossils

The sun is kissing my face,

and already I think I’m forgetting

what your lips felt like here—

I don’t know why; your affection was always so special

and so were you. You are special.

I’m trying to hold onto you;

preserve you in thoughts, in words, in art—

in every way I know how—

yet it isn’t enough to detain you

from fading away from me.

But even when our conversations and memories

become buried beneath new ones,

and I can no longer remember

the glimmer in your eyes when you

would wait for me in your doorway—

When I am no longer an archaeologist

lucky enough to study the relics in your cheeks—

When my mind becomes weathered and eroded by time

and I can no longer excavate

how it felt to kiss you—

my heart will still know you.

You have engraved your mark on me forever.

You are my favorite fossil in this heart full of remnants,

and traces of you will continue to bring life to me

long after you’ve left.

Our love is immortalized within me,

and my heart has been restored

simply by knowing you.

missing you

Does it hurt as much for you

as it does for me?

The missing you

is a weighted blanket.

My heart crawls under it

and struggles to get up in the morning.

Throughout the day, I am reminded

that it didn't get up from under it at all.

I was laughing today and my stomach ached,

but I barely noticed

because the ache in my heart was far greater.

From the missing you

but forcing myself to not talk to you.

From the thinking of you

but forcing myself to

not think of how I love you

and how I want to see you again.

I could be doing anything

and the back of my mind

is whispering your name.

My heart is blanketed

by the heaviness of missing you

and I don't know when

I'll feel free again

or if I even want to

forgetting

I miss you more than anything

I miss my laugh, too—

I haven’t heard it in a while

and I’m starting to forget what it

sounds like to be happy

but I don’t want to hear it

come back for anyone else

I wonder if you miss me too

or if you’ve forgotten me

the same way I’ve forgotten myself

irreversible

I know you have seen reversible jackets—

the kind you can flip inside out

and each side is completely different from the other

I wish I could do the same with my heart

I wish I could simply flip it inside out—

maybe the new side wouldn’t be broken

and weathered and wrinkled

I wish I could say

the damage my heart has sustained

is reversible

Now that I have given my love away,

I just want to ask for it back

Next time, I’d keep it with me;

maybe then, I would have some left to give to someone

How can I ever love someone again

when I barely have enough left for myself

to break a home

Your laptop is singing an 8 hour loop of

To Build A Home by the Cinematic Orchestra

while we are painting in the kitchen

and I’m throwing a paintbrush, grabbing paper towels

and wildly wiping acrylics off my canvas

while you calmly wipe tears from my cheeks

All I can see are mistakes;

nothing I do is good enough for myself,

but it’s more than enough for you—

you always see the best in me.

You are just happy to create next to me.

We wanted to have fun that day.

All I can think back on is my anger

and my competitive spirit

intruding on a peaceful evening

and me missing moments I should have kissed you

Should have told you I loved you more

when I had the chance

But your patient heart loved me through it

told me my yellow smears looked great anyway—

those uneven splotches plastering the canvas—

and I’m lying here on another sleepless night

with the painting shoved in my closet

so I don’t have to look at it

But I’m wanting another painting day with you

Wanting a redo

Wanting to turn back time

to hold you for one more second of that 8 hour loop

and hoping the clock hands get stuck there

from everything
to every thing

How does someone begin

as a best friend

and then a lover

but become a box

buried in a drawer

beneath some clothes

inside a closet

behind a door

that rarely opens

How does someone begin

as your everything

but end up as

every thing else

medusa

I can’t avoid breaking those who encounter me

I unintentionally desolate them

Turn people into wastelands

Fill them only to leave them barren

Reside in them just to leave them vacant

Is this what Medusa feels like

when everything she looks at hardens into stone

Little do they know

I destroy myself

at the thought of wounding someone else

births and deaths

The windows are rolled down

and I’m driving fifty in February

with my left hand thrusted out the window

flailing against the cold

so I can feel something

besides missing you

I miss you like May

and the way you make me feel warm

when everyone around me

feels like December

You are May and June

and July and August

You are all of my favorite times of the year

but even my least favorite months

have been irreplaceable

simply because you were in them

But with the birth of a new year

came the death of ours—

How can it be that we meet our end in January

when the rest of the world is beginning

from my side of the table

Every time you greet my mind,

it wanders to where we both began;

at different sides of your kitchen table—

sharing stories, holding hands.

We moved counter-clockwise around your table,

gradually changing seats with time;

until we made a two-year orbit around your kitchen,

a journey I’m proud to say was mine.

I loved each side of the table;

in every chair, I learned you more.

With learning you, a love grew

that I had never known before.

From the first side of the table,

the wall held stories of your past;

delicate graphite drawings sketched from

bruised knuckles—hands scarred and bashed.

Marilyn, the Mad Hatter,

a dragon, a California tattoo;

each echoes of your younger self—

a life only known by you.

From the second side of the table,

appeared another corner of the room;

it was here I watched your dreams emerge

from root to petaled bloom.

Empty easels began holding canvases,

empty canvases began holding painted scenes—

interpretations for words you'd woven

from the deepest fibers of your being.

From the third side of the table,

behind you, blinked an oven light

whose times always seemed to remind us

that it was hours after midnight.

It was here I began to learn you best;

watched you write, listened to you recite.

Until your words—once shadowed with darkness—

when spoken, now filled the room with light.

Our hearts, as well, were weightless—

free from gravity and bound by love’s delight.

From the fourth side of the table,

the counter held a kitchen sink

that proudly drained the leftovers

of the people we used to be.

While flourishing with each other,

we also grew separately.

We made each other better;

became the people we wanted to be.

So that’s why this side of the table

has a view that’s bittersweet—

because we made it back to where we first began,

but our orbit was complete.

I love each side of your table;

each side brought a different view.

But from every side of the table,

my favorite part was always you.

As we stand up from this table,

push in our chairs, and venture apart,

know you’ll always hold the dearest seat

in the table of my heart.

betrayal

We are not together anymore

and it still feels like a betrayal

to give anyone else

the smile I gave you.

nobody knows me like you

You’re the only person

I know how to talk to when things get rough

Sometimes we don’t talk at all;

you just hold me and that’s enough

But I can’t talk to you now.

I just lie here alone without a sound.

I’ve been here for myself my whole life

and it’s been painful, but I’ve survived.

I’m barely breathing sometimes,

but I’m here, I’m still alive—

still hoping for the morning light.

It’s just another painful night.

probably

You’re probably painting.

You’re probably bringing ideas to life like you always do.

You’re probably thinking deeply about everything.

You’re probably making everyone around you laugh.

You’re probably as beautiful and bright as always

and you probably don’t realize it.

You’re probably lighting up every room you walk into.

I’m probably wishing I could be in your light,

and you’re probably not thinking of me,

not even for a second.

my side of the hourglass

I miss you already and you’ve barely left.

We keep trying to prolong this;

extend this one more time,

but our time has been spent—

and we cannot keep turning over this hourglass

and falling into each other

while knowing we aren't going anywhere—

when we will always be trapping ourselves

into one end of this hourglass

that we both aren’t completely content with

Though we blend together so beautifully—

Though I would stay here for a lifetime if I could–

Would pour myself into your side of the glass forever

if I wasn’t sifting pieces of myself to get there—

Would love you for infinity

if I didn’t miss my side of the glass

I left behind for you—

Believe me when I say I love you—

but in loving you

I’m leaving pieces of myself behind

and loving myself less

“goodbye”

I feel like I should say another "goodbye"

to remind myself, this is the end.

I haven't seen much "good"

come from our "byes,"

but until I do, I'll just pretend.

I don't see you in every day and night sky.

I don't look for you when cars like yours pass by.

I don't smile at the thought of you,

and afterwards, I don't begin to cry.

I don't wonder how your days have been,

I don't notice your absence from mine.

I don't hope to see your name light up my phone,

I don't wait up in case it might.

I don't ever look out my window

and wish to see you standing there—

with open arms and an open heart

for only you and I to share.

I don't write any words about you,

I don't feel the need to preserve you in my art.

I don't think of you in almost

every second we're apart.

I don't see you in anything,

and I don't feel like I should say goodbye.

But this isn't truth or dare,

and everything I wish was true is all a lie.

The truth is, everything I see looks like you;

each day feels like a broken game of "I Spy."

I will always want to see and say more to you,

but I feel like I should just say, "goodbye."

And know "good" will come to us both again—

and this time, it'll just say, "hi."

march

March reminds me

that time is marching on—

and the colors in the trees remind me

that spring is here,

even though you are not

and the earth reminds me

that the flowers don't stop from springing

just because my heart is still in winter

Life doesn't wait for anyone

and neither does death—

both are ready whenever they are ready,

whether we are or not

The world will keep on moving on

even when I haven’t—

And the seasons will change

even when I don’t want to accept them—

And time is marching on

regardless of if I like it or not—

and it is up to me to choose

whether I will remain halted

or decide to march on with it

something new

We used to write on pizza boxes;

now I write alone.

I write on every dying sunset

hoping you’ll resurrect inside a poem.

Airplanes climb across this pastel sky,

and I wonder where you could be.

I know you’re alive—I know you’re free—

but it feels like you’ve died to me.

I’m mourning the loss of you

while still loving you behind the scenes;

still hoping for your happiness

even though I won’t be there to see.

I love you endlessly.

You’ve been the anchor in my stormy seas;

in waters calm, you’ve been my peace—

and I’ll always keep a piece of you.

Even when this sunset’s through,

it’ll rise again and I will too—

and every time, I’ll think of you.

Knowing that as this night breaks into day,

we’ll both break into something new.

bottle caps and simpler times

I have two bottle caps on my windowsill

from our date at the Soda Bar

on a trail by the train tracks

back when our only worries were

what flavor of soda we wanted

and what patch of grass

would hold our picnic blanket

We laid beside the trees

and read each other bad poetry

and laughed and wrote our own

while the screaming steel dwindled into the distance

Everything was perfect then

and it felt good to finally know you

and understand what it means

to share a secret language with someone

But now, we are just two bottle caps,

remnants of two people who were lucky enough

to be alive and in love together

And although we may have not

been designed to stay that way,

I think of you every time I pop bottle caps

and each time I sit down for picnics

but I see you everywhere, in everything;

in my own reflection in the mirror, even—

and each time, I muster a smile through the tears,

knowing that my life has been bettered

because you were in it

kind, gentle, handsome

I fell in love with a boy

with a poem on his ribcage

and a "be better" tattoo

on his collarbone

and he did just that;

he always was bettering himself—

growing like weeds

except more gracefully,

and blossoming everywhere

His energy was infectious

and it spread to everyone who met him

and I'm sure

it is still spreading—

it's who he is—

kind, gentle, handsome;

with emeralds for eyes

and a heart of gold

I loved him for all of it

and for making me

want to be better too

my perfect memory

I’ll always be okay;

I’ll stand tall until my end.

But underneath this sturdy smile,

I’m missing my best friend.

My one person that I go to

for every laugh and cry.

The one person that I trust

with every aspect of my life.

I want you to know,

that even though I’ll be okay,

the times you cross my mind

are the best parts of my day.

You’ve given me more love

than I believed I’d ever know;

the tender heart below your chest

has never failed to show.

I always said I’d never have tattoos,

but you’re tattooed across my soul,

as my two-year perfect memory

who made my broken pieces whole.

these orange walls

These walls are orange and full of warmth—

I suppose they intend to make me feel the same;

the fuzziness, the acceptance, the security inside this box.

And I do feel safe, and welcomed, and hopeful,

and filled with unhinged ambition—

but I also feel blue, and empty, and cold,

and missing a boy,

and missing who I am with him

But I'm learning how to love these walls anyway

How to make friends with myself again—

introduce myself, make my own acquaintance

I'll fall in love with the way

I dance alone with tear-stained cheeks

and with how I fall asleep crying

but wake up and brave the next day with a smile

How sometimes, I drive in complete silence

while other times, I rattle off a novel to God,

hoping He'll take notes for me

I’ll fall in love with how I'm not afraid to write alone

at parking garages and at coffee shops

and take myself on lunch dates and night drives

How even when I am empty,

I am never soul-less.

How despite it all, I make it a point to walk outside of

these orange walls, look up at the sky, and be thankful.

the reason you smile

Has this been easy for you? Losing me?

You make breathing look easy and I am suffocating without you. I truly want your happiness, but I selfishly hurt thinking you are happier without me. I miss your smile. I miss being the one putting it there.

crescent heart

When I was a kid,

I used to think the moon was cut in slivers

I was always confused when some days

it was round and full

and other days it was just a slice

I had no idea it was whole—

I just thought it was regrowing itself each night;

the way sea crabs regrow their legs

and sand lizards regrow their tails

But not everything grows back so easily

How do I grow my heart back

after I've given it away?

Maybe it's just like the moon;

it was never gone—

it's just been dark here for a while

and a day will come

when the light of life will overtake me

and my crescent heart will become full again

thrifting for love

I have yet to unravel myself—

I have yet to unstitch the reasons why

I continually exchange miles of myself

for millimeters from others.

I desire too little from people.

Perhaps I have spent too much time in thrift stores,

finding beauty in two-dollar jackets

and in thirty-five cent t-shirts.

Perhaps I see too much promise

in hand-me-downs.

Perhaps I have become too accustomed

to sifting through the unwanted.

I’ll upcycle them if I need to;

patch them up, hem them down,

fashion them into something

I can see myself wearing.

Perhaps this is the problem.

I’m only looking for reasons to love them

instead of reasons to not.

barren

I want to be done with love,

but my heart has so much to give

Even when it's empty,

it wants to give a little more—

pour a little more into a thirsting heart

when mine's already parched,

shriveling from heat waves

of finding false love

and losing real love

I've been wandering in circles

in an endless desert,

stopping to water every cactus

in hopes that they'll bloom

and I'm slowly losing energy

to press forward

and quickly losing hope that

anything lies beyond these hills of sand

to replenish me

reminding myself

At the end of things,

I will find new beginnings,

and beginnings will find you too.

the perfect fit

I'm learning that love has its limits when it is shared with the wrong person. It doesn't mean that they did anything wrong; they just weren't right for you, and that's okay. I'm learning that sometimes you have to let go of people even if you love them. Sometimes, love isn't enough.

Why would anyone want to be with someone who wasn't designed specifically for them? It's like jamming two pieces of a puzzle together, knowing they don't fit, but leaving them because they are “close enough." They might look fine together, but they weren’t made for each other. The colors and shapes will never perfectly align. The big picture will always be a little off. The puzzle will never truly be complete. And you’ll always be left wondering what your life would have been like if you had waited for the perfect fit.

better apart

Maybe we are not meant to be together.

Maybe you and I are the sun and the moon.

We can only reflect each other—

my midnight is your noon.

Maybe you light up the world from your end,

and I light up the world from mine.

And maybe that’s the only way

for each of us to shine.

housekeeping

I’ve spent too much time

at the wrong doors

in the wrong houses

kissing the wrong faces

and holding the wrong hands—

I’ve spent too much time in places

I never intended to visit,

and built houses with feeble foundations

knowing they’d never stand—

I’ve made sandcastles my homes

knowing the tide was coming,

but I stayed there anyway—

until the walls caved in around me

and still, I grasped the sand beneath my fingertips

as the torrents tore me away from it

I’ve made my heart a hotel room

and given keys to temporary travelers,

hoping one day love would check in

and never leave—

as if love is an accident

or coincidence, or happenstance—

and not something that is earned,

and built, and maintained

I’ve spent too much time treating love like gambling—

carelessly rolling my heart like dice

and expecting that one day,

I’d land on something miraculous

I’ve spent too much time throwing my love away

and placing bets on everyone but myself—

I placed a welcome mat outside my door

before a door was even built—

I’ve spent too much time house hunting

when I should have been housekeeping —

pouring cement foundations

and securing sturdy framework—

I should have been building

both front and back porches,

and laying rock gardens and pathways,

and planting bushes for the butterflies,

and hanging sugar water for the hummingbirds—

I should have been installing insulation,

and light fixtures, and hardwood floors,

and choosing cabinets and counter-tops—

And by the time I began decorating,

and manicuring the walls with art,

and stocking the bookshelves with stories,

and filling the vases with freshly-picked flowers,

maybe then, I would have been ready to open the door

and put down the welcome mat

and wait for something right to knock

waiting

I hope you wait for someone

who loves you like

you give all of the color to the world—

like the earth is a coloring book,

and you are the very thing

that brings this pale blue dot to life.

Like the world is only contour lines,

and emptiness, and shades of gray

without you in it.

And if they look at you

with any less enchantment

than when they look at the sky

on a cloudless day,

or at sunsets when the horizon

bleeds out in shades of red,

then keep waiting.

You are meant to be loved

like the world comes to life

when you rise each morning

and like it dies each night

when you close your eyes

and go to sleep.

It’s the most dreaded part of the journey; the uphill climb. The incline that seems it will never reach a plateau. The doubts, the insecurities, the fear that this journey doesn’t get easier. It’s even harder when you’re braving this incline alone. When your eyes sting from your sweat and tears and you can barely see the path ahead of you. When the only thing you are holding onto is the hope that there will be an end to it. A peak with a breathtaking view. When all you can keep doing is pedal one foot ahead of the other and hope that one day, you’ll wind up where you need to be.

This section is about the challenging periods, the uphill climbs, of my life. The in-betweens. The times I’ve felt that everything ahead of me is out of reach, and the times I’ve looked back and wondered if I’ve lost pieces of myself along the journey. The times my worries have tried to steal my wonder. The times when I’ve been stuck in between sleeping too much and not enough. The times when the air is so thick it feels like I’m drowning in it. The times I’ve questioned who I am and where my place is in this world. The times I’ve felt completely isolated, depressed, and filled with doubt. The times I’ve forgotten to live. This is about the internal battle within myself; the tug of war between pressing forward and spiraling backward.

doubts

Doubts seep in with such secrecy,

they are invisible almost;

like polluted water,

I don't notice their presence

until after they've tainted my system,

infested my bloodstream.

Doubts are devious;

showing up like fingerprints on a crime scene

or worms inside an apple—

they often go unseen until the damage is done.

And here I am—

doubt-riddled and bed-ridden—

wondering if I've ever contributed

anything meaningful to the world,

wondering if my life

has ever dared to carry a purpose.

better company

Sometimes the night comes

and brings Sadness with it.

A lot of times, actually.

I scald my skin in shower water,

hoping to scour this ache from my chest,

but instead, it removed a layer of my skin.

I love the hot water though; it calms me.

For a moment, the water and steam

rush against me and I forget

Sadness has ever come to visit at all.

But when I walk out of the bathroom,

it is waiting for me, patiently.

It sits at the foot of the bed

and invites me over.

The day has been long,

and I am tired,

so I oblige to crawl under the sheets

and keep it company.

It isn't the pleasant kind, though.

My heart is heavy.

Sometimes, the pain is unbearable.

Sometimes, I wonder where my place is

in this world I call home.

Wow, I need some better company.

I'm not promised another morning,

but I'm thankful for a chance at it.

Maybe it will bring Happiness along.

not today

Am I okay?

That’s a question for another day.

Tomorrow I’m busy—

the other days I’ll be away—

Am I okay?

Sorry, I can’t pick up the phone,

so leave a message at the tone—

but I’ll always be a call away.

Just not today.

maybe tomorrow

The birds sing that I will be okay

Maybe tomorrow, not today

a loss of imagination

As a child,

I would lie in the grass

and watch as the clouds

took shape before my eyes—

they wafted through the air, telling stories,

and I felt like I was a part of something

And at night,

I would lie in a bunk bed

and stare at the popcorn ceiling

and watch as ridges formed into faces of people

who became my friends—

and the next night I'd examine the ceiling

until I found their familiar faces

and I watched the adventures unfold again

As a woman,

I wonder if I'm forgetting

to find stories in ceilings

and in the sky—

Instead of paying attention

to the world around me,

I wonder if I've only been walking

with my head down

What if I've only been looking at my feet?

and even then,

I still don't know

what they look like

slipping into monotony

I remember days

when just the sight of dandelions

and the carpenter bees

that surrounded them

was enough to fulfill me

I was completely content

with my existence

and with my place in the world

I didn’t see myself as small

compared to the vastness of the universe—

instead I saw myself

as a contributing individual,

harmonious with the other creation

Sometimes I wonder

if I have lost that innocence—

I wonder if I’ve been tainted

by the aches and troubles

that coexist with being human

Have I lost my enchantment

for the simplicities in life?

When the night comes,

do I even notice the fireflies anymore?

or look up to spot the Big Dipper,

or thank the stars for their light?

or do I simply

get out of my car,

and walk into my apartment

without taking even a second

to see anything

except darkness.

hidden places

I used to look for things

in hidden places

Like under the stones,

the spaces

held salamanders

and their backs

held colors

that were always exciting

Their orange spines

held black spots

like mini black holes,

like the ones

in the centers of galaxies,

and they vacuumed me into them

just the same

I used to have a mind

that was curious

about everything

and eyes eager

for everything unseen

I used to look for things

in hidden places

but now I look at things

in open spaces

Reach for things

already in front of me

Long for things

my eyes have already seen

Or maybe I am

lazier than that—

Maybe I don't reach

for anything

Maybe I sit idly

and wait

for the open spaces

to reach me

Wait for the wonders

of the world

to find me

For the sights

to see me

Maybe I close my eyes

and dream of all

the worlds

I want to visit

and still, I wonder

why my world is dark

when I'm the one

whose eyes are shut.

rush hour

I don't want to live beneath my eyelids

but I don't know how to wake up—

Even when I am awake,

my eyelids are heavy

from carrying skylines of skyscrapers and sidewalks

It's rush hour

and the streets are congested—

the vehicles are honking and braking

and I can feel every jolt—like bolts of lightning

The people are hurrisome

and bustling and bumping into each other

impatient to escape workplaces

and experience life outside of cubicles

and I can feel every footstep

pounding into my eyelids like elephants—

left, right, left, right, left,

right—I just

need

to slee—

i’m just here

Sometimes, I want to run away.

Sometimes, I wish I could catch wind and disappear

into the boundless blue, but I’m here and I don’t know

what I’m doing with myself.

hide and seek

There is a gap in my life’s timeline—

and I don’t know when it began,

but somewhere between 2 and 23

I have misplaced the girl

who loved to dance in the rain.

Now the rain and I play hide and seek,

except I am never seeking—

I am always the one hiding and running away from it

like it will destroy me with one drop—

as if I am not made of it already

There used to be a girl

who looked forward to the rain.

In their game of hide and seek,

she was always the seeker—

and she celebrated finding it by frolicking in it

She was shoeless and worriless;

her bare feet twirling

as if the earth was her stage

and she was a dancer in life’s music box—

overjoyed to be spinning

to the choreography of the clouds

and the rhythm of the rain

But now there is a girl

afraid of getting her hair wet,

and I am trying to find the girl in the gap again

who am i

I wonder if on my journey

to become someone

I’m becoming someone I’m not

harmful state of mind

Why am I so bitter?

I catch myself ripping petals

from the He-loves-me-nots,

tearing heads off of the Black-eyed Susans,

crushing rosebuds beneath my feet

I’m mad at the flowers

for no reason at all

besides that they are beautiful

and I am not

god's timing

All right, I'll write.

All right, I'll write.

Why else am I awake tonight?

I guess God is picking up His hand

and asking me to be the pen this time.

...At this hour.

So all right, I'll write.

I'm not sure what about,

but I'm sure He has a story to tell.

It better be divine.

it better be divine

I've just not been thinking right.

Or too much; it's hard to sleep at night.

And believe me, I'm exhausted,

but I go nowhere when I close my eyes.

Wherever the mind's supposed to go,

mine's been avoiding boarding flights.

Before I know it, the sun is stirring

and waking up the world with light.

The coffee pots are whirring,

the car engines all ignite.

The neighbor's footsteps rouse

the ceiling floor awake,

the birds are chirping with delight.

Everything is beginning to hum in harmony,

but I'm off key, and I still have a flight to catch.

still awake

What else am I supposed to do?

Now that my writing session's through,

I'm still awake.

Maybe I need to take some time to pray.

Maybe you want to talk to me

about the day before it breaks.

And I'm breaking too.

So maybe that's what you're wanting to talk to me about.

Maybe you'll console my doubts.

Maybe you'll fix me or show me how to fix myself.

right

So you see,

sometimes I don't write the words;

instead the words write me.

And that's when the writing feels most right.

trail of tears

Every day feels like a war to be awake

and every night feels like a war to be asleep.

When the morning comes, I am not ready for it;

I am still wrestling with the night.

When the night comes, I am still not ready;

I am fighting with the morning.

I am struggling to find peace

on this trail of tears I’m drowning in.

I don’t know how to win

this battle that’s already been lost.

in the dying of it all

I came to the parking garage to write; to string together some words and hope that they capture how I'm feeling. But instead, I've been lying on the hood of my car, thinking about life and how I don't know if I feel anything anymore. I feel like I need to cry, unbury my sadness, my frustrations, my exhaustions. But I just lie here, expressionless. Like a carcass in a casket. Staring at the sky. Wondering if I can ever resurrect myself; my happiness. Wondering if everything really does happen for a reason, while knowing deep within that it does. It has to. Life is too intricate to be an accident; and mine, too. Something better has to be coming. The sun is setting and I'm trying to find good in the dying of it all. I just don't know what that is yet.

self-hate

I have a magnitude of love

for everyone around me

and not enough for myself.

stuck

The sun is awake

and I am also trying to be awake

Sometimes I lie down in bed

and get stuck

like velcro to the mattress

The night comes and goes

but I stay put—

motionless in the whirl

of the morning

I need to move

but I'm embroidered to the sheets

and don't know how to escape—

My body resists every attempt

to unstitch myself

from this fabric I’m woven into

but I lean forward a last time,

seams bursting—

threads tearing in the sunlight—

finally, one of my feet

touches the carpet

and my pin cushion heart

pumps what is left of it

to stay awake

and make it through another day

somewhere in between

I am somewhere between

broken and mending

and beginning and ending;

I am a walking coffee blend,

somewhere between bitter and sweet—

brewed from a dark roast of heartache

and a light roast of love

pumped with night drives and day walks

with an espresso shot

of good music for bad mornings,

a spoonful of sunsets for sad evenings,

and frothed with a smile

and a little art

And to be truthful,

I don't even know my coffee terms—

or the difference between

a latte and a cappuccino—

but basically I'm somewhere

between finding and losing myself

and sometimes the only thing

keeping this walking coffee cup from spilling

is the thought that someone else

might need their caffeine today

opus 56

It’s Opus 56 living in my radio

It’s the black keys of the piano

It’s the crescendo ascending

It’s the windows rolled down

and the wind descending

into my car, my hair—

it’s everywhere

It’s my sunglasses masking

my tears collapsing

It’s losing my Poppa—

It’s driving home a last time and knowing it

It’s the process of dying and we’re all doing it

I just wish it could be me first—

me in your place, lying

Not you, Poppa

Not you, Poppa

Not you, Poppa

It’s screaming

It’s screaming so loud my lungs hurt

But your lungs are drowning right now, Poppa

The fluid, it’s building—

and the piano is too

It’s pulling in your driveway

It’s walking into your room

It’s holding your face

It’s the last “I love you’s”

It’s the black keys fading

It’s the music ending

It’s you too.

sue

Her life was like a music box, like the one that I cherished as a child; the one that sits atop my dresser drawers, sprinkled with dust, yearning for another chance to be seen and heard. Her heartbeat, her music of life, dwindled slowly, like the end of the familiar tune of that box. I can distinctly remember the hesitant clicking of the crank beneath the box—the slowing of a song that did not want to give up just yet.

Normally, I would get up and rewind the crank until it could not turn anymore and play the tune again. But her melody could only be played once, and I knew that from the day that I met her. I knew that I would have to close my eyes and listen to her song with my undivided soul. I was to embrace each stanza, each note, each beat, and each rest while I had the opportunity. Even with that knowledge, I still could not help but wish that I could play her song again. But I leaned over her bed, one hand in hers and the other on her mattress, my hunched shoulders allowing my ponytail to hang over her body, and submitted to the reality of the situation.

Then, a heartbeat could not be found. The music ended. The box stopped turning. The clicking ceased. A bottomless void assembled. And I was just there, lying at the edge of the abyss, holding her hand tightly so that she would not fall from me into the unknown. But she began slipping from my fingers, her leverage getting the best of me. When I let go of her hand, she fell into that new, and real, black hole.

oblivion

Today, I felt desolate.

Today, I felt out of control.

Every now and then,

the gardens within me grow rampant

and I don't know how to stop them.

Today, the loneliness flourished.

I love music, but there was no room

inside for a song to occupy.

I love sunlight, but today I couldn't

find a ray that would brighten me.

I don't know what it is lately.

I feel like a balloon;

I'm filled with so much emptiness,

with one small prick I could rupture—

so I’ll choose to avoid everything

and feel nothing.

I’m just floating off into oblivion—

into more empty space.

today's storm

I can feel her pain, the earth's—

as thunderstorms fill her sunset eyes,

I wonder who it was

that broke her heart today

It could have been any of us;

I know I have been unpleasant plenty of days.

She grumbles in agony

as her vibrant sky

is clouded with darkness

I feel a silent connection with the earth;

we have never been afraid to show our emotion.

Her tears collapse onto my hair

and I do not run from them

or seek shelter

or rummage for my umbrella

Today, I will be the earth's shoulder to cry on.

resilience

From the deepest pain

and the darkest hours,

comes the fiercest rain

and the fairest flowers

So when my heart breaks

and my hope cowers,

will these tears awaken

a strength that towers?

empty days

Another empty page again,

another empty day again.

I’ve always been optimistic,

so it feels wrong to write when I’m not happy—

when I have no more praises left

to come out of my feeble fingertips—

when I have no more reassurance left

to come out of these hapless hands—

I don’t want to fill this page with wreckage,

but I’m weather-beaten, worn by living,

and I never knew it could be so exhausting

to place one foot ahead of the other

and one word ahead of the other

I feel sick and can’t tell if I’m feverish

or just broken—

I need to find something good to say,

but I’ve given all my hope away

and I know I’m not hopeless,

just a little hollow right now

But at least I’m being noticed by the wind

and this lowering sun

as they dance along my hair and skin

and soon it will end—

but I will keep living,

and keep filling these pages

with the emptiness, even

here

Even in my emptiness, I am here, taking up space;

hoping to somehow make the world a better place.

knee-deep in comfortability

I'm wading in familiar

and I'm drowning in the skin I'm in.

Change is calling out to me;

it's my time to begin.

jealousy

I am disgusted that she resides in me still

though I've stripped her away from me for years—

I've watched her peel off of me

like dead skin—

I've picked at her,

watched her flake off

like nail polish—

I've ripped her to shreds,

watched her ugly colors

fall to the floor

like aged wallpaper—

Sometimes, I am sure that I have scrubbed my soul

with enough vigor to strip myself of her permanently—

shed her skin from me for the last time—

but layer

after

layer,

she slithers her way back—

swelling

beneath

the

surface—

sinking

into

my spirit

with fangs filled with envy—

She broods at everyone's beauty—

She flicks her forked tongue

and convinces me

I should look more like them.

I should change my hair

widen my wardrobe

but be myself—

just different

She spits in the eyes

of everyone's successes

and hisses all the reasons

they don't deserve to see them—

all while asking me,

Why can't you be more like them?

She's a part of me,

but she isn't me.

Maybe one day I'll crucify her—

stab her in the side

only to find that there is

nothing left of her to strain from me

And when she’s gone,

I’ll resurrect as someone

who celebrates your successes

and finds joy in your jubilee—

I will behold your beauty

while appreciating my own—

I will love you, my sweet neighbors,

without shedding the love I have for myself

because I believe in a world

where we should all uplift each other;

a world where we are all triumphant.

chapstick

I have always been my own hype woman.

I have always found something to love about myself

and carried it throughout the day like chapstick—

reapplying when I start to doubt myself

I’m here for myself like the soles of my shoes

that absorb every thump into the ground

and each sharp rock so I don’t have to be impaled—

I am my protector.

I show up for myself today, and every day,

when I feel the least important,

and when I feel like a revolving door

for people to walk through me

I am here for myself like I need to be,

but sometimes I need to hear it from someone else—

sometimes I need to feel like

a piece of art hanging on someone’s bedroom wall—

I need to know that someone is admiring

the good qualities that I can’t see in myself

Sometimes I need someone to

proudly show me off despite my imperfections

Sometimes my chapstick isn’t enough

and I need someone else’s

when my own words of affirmation are drying out

true to myself

I write a lot of sad poems. And I am sad often. But more than that, I am hopeful. I am thankful for the heaviness because I can appreciate the lightness when it comes. On those days, I will fly. Sometimes, I rhyme. Other times, I let the words do what they wish. They can walk wherever they please as long as they tell their story well. Sometimes, I care about everything; other times, I wonder if I’ve ever found anything to love at all. I have written short poems and long poems. Both have their place. Sometimes, I feel a tug to keep going; other times, I feel at peace with where they are. Some poems are meant to die quicker than others. Of one thing I’m certain; I’m thankful I’m not stuck in one place. I never want to be complacent. I always want to be growing. I always want to move forward. I never want to backtrack, even if I stumble every now and then. I will always stand up and continue pressing on; one foot ahead of the other, one word ahead of the other. Above all, I always want to be vulnerable. I always want to be honest.

things i've been
noticing lately

Lately I've been noticing,

I'm always bringing winter's spring.

I'm always here to summon warmth

to hearts grown cold with frigid sting.

I turn gray skies to blue,

so no one thinks that I get blue—

it's like they've forgotten I'm a human,

with more emotions than I know to do with;

and I've got no one to spew them to—

or at least that's how it feels sometimes—

who knows if it's the truth.

But lately I've been noticing,

I'll light the paths before their feet

and I'll let the shadows fall on me,

if it only means that they can see.

And this is who I want to be—

be there for anyone in need—

but often times, I'm just

a stepping stone in someone's dreams

and when they find out where they're going,

their destination isn't me.

So it feels like their life's been on a lock,

and I am just the key.

So I'm here for myself at the end of the day;

I've had to adapt to be this way.

I need validation too,

but I'll have to be the one to say,

that regardless of what life has in store,

I'll always be okay.

I'll always choose to see the rainbow's bend

even when I'm dripping, drenched in rain.

I'll always look up to admire the stars

and learn them all by name.

And I'll know that Someone's looking down

and wants to know me just the same.

And knowing this is comforting;

because lately I've been noticing

that no one seems to notice me.

Notice me.

high tide

I will not apologize for my feelings;

I cannot help that my heart is like the moon

pulling tidal waves out of my tear ducts

whenever it pleases

It’s high tide

and I will not apologize

for my eyes carrying oceans—

I cannot control the currents

that crash against the coastlines of my cheeks

and seep into my pores

and the shores of my lips

I am not meant to pretend

that I am never wavering

or tossed with life’s wind—

I am not meant to pretend

that I am always tip-toeing in the shallow end

when hurricanes and tsunamis

are building and billowing within

I am not meant to be steel-faced and unphased;

I have never believed that strength

means standing immobile—

like rock cliffs and monuments

and all things towering and unshakable

I believe that strength is remaining soft

even though hardships can easily harden

I believe that strength comes from

honesty and vulnerability—

and from being willing to look at you in the eyes

even though I can barely see

over the waves rising

and capsizing onto my cheeks and chin

and I will not apologize for my voice shaking

over the sound of all of the storms swelling within me

because I am not ruled by these riptides

and I will not apologize for choosing to speak

when the high tides could have silenced me

new creature

The leaves, they are falling

from the trees like snow;

and snow, it will soon follow—

a sign that things are still changing

in a world where I've become desperately still

The winter is coming,

but it feels like I've been in it since last year—

I never left.

I don't know what it is like to bloom;

how could I when I lock myself away

from all things that resemble sunlight?

The seasons are changing,

and I know I should too—

like a butterfly in need of its wings,

I need to experience the world as a new creature.

I've lived in darkness so long,

I'm not sure I remember what light looks like.

But the cocoon can only contain the caterpillar

for so long before it thrusts itself into the unknown;

it cannot be stopped.

The leaves, they are falling

from the trees like snow,

and the monarchs, they are rising

above the world below,

and I—I too am ridding myself

of the weight I've been holding;

I want to know what it means to live with wings.

walterhill dam

I sat below the waterfall

at the dam today.

Sometimes I get so lost

in the routine of living

I forget to stop.

I don't often remember to be.

Oh, but the world is so divine when it is still.

A green heron

sat proudly on top

of the dam's waterfall,

scouring the unfolding water

for minnows.

But I didn't notice him at first,

because he sat so still;

his eyes fixated on the billowing water.

But then he looked up,

his gaze transcending into the distance

and his chest feathers puffed and splendorous.

At this moment,

this was his waterfall

and he was the only heron in the world.

The waterfall was bold, loud;

the center of attention, certainly,

and yet the heron

didn't seem to feel small in comparison.

He appreciated it for what it was;

it was his hunting ground after all.

Some leaves rustled behind me

and I jumped.

When did I become so antsy?

I can't even be peaceful when I try.

When I turned back to see the heron again,

he was gone.

My disappointment left

when I noticed he had made his way

down the waterfall and into the stream,

happily waving a minnow back and forth

in his beak; flaunting his prized catch.

I smiled at this;

I haven't seen something so remarkable in a while.

But I want to notice all of it;

everywhere, every day.

I want to be in tune with

this world I'm living in,

but so many times

it feels like life is an instrument

and I am just a broken string

or a faulty key.

Sometimes I feel so separate;

but today, the waterfall was singing

and the heron was melodious

and I am learning to be

a part of this harmonious whole.

This is it. This is what the struggle was for. Tears of joy replace my tears of grief as the ground begins to level beneath me and I can finally let go of the pedals. I’ve made it to the plateau and I can’t stop grinning at the sunset. I let the last rays of the day climb all over me like children on monkey bars for the first time. The orange light reflects against my bicycle’s surface and I begin reflecting on the journey that led me here.

In this light, I can see everything clearly. I look at my bicycle and can see every nick in the metal, every scrape etched into the paint. The basket, too, is weathered and frayed—but I couldn’t love it any more than I do at this moment. It was these battle scars that carried me to the top of this mountain. I can look back on each of these scuffs and remember every fall. There is a story behind each of these imperfections on this bike. Without these stories, I don’t think this view would have been as breathtaking. After roads of ups and downs, I have found a balance. My faint feet and weary legs can rest. My heart can be at peace. My soul can cling to freedom.

I am looking forward to the rest of my ride. It is a downhill coast from here. I’m going to let my feet dangle off of the pedals for a bit and simply admire this world around me. I’m going to let myself fall in love with this earth again; with this life again. I’m going to wave at every stranger I pass, chirp at every bird that sings to me, and let the cool breeze waltz against my cheeks and eyelashes like I did when I first began. Scars and all, I am alive and I am grateful, and I’m ready to linger in every moment of this ride home.

new beginnings

We all will encounter

moments of self-doubt—

We will hold loneliness by its hand

and dance on its toes

We will stare at the ceiling

unnecessarily for hours

before finally falling asleep,

if sleeping at all

We will clothe ourselves in sadness

and we will feel its weight

bearing down upon our shoulders

We may spend days, weeks, years even,

yearning for a break-through

But one day,

we will release the loneliness

from between our fingertips

and we will slip off the heaviness

as gracefully as the trees

shed their foliage

on a colorful autumn day

and instead of mourning what we’ve lost,

we will rejoice for all the space we’ve created

to allow something more beautiful to take its place

and that isn’t to say

that we won’t still feel the harshness

of a brisk winter—

we were never promised a life

without suffering.

But one day,

a bud will spring forth to remind us

what it feels like to flourish

and even the sun herself

will envy our light

she

She feels it—everything—and feels it with ferocity.

Her spirit won't let her do otherwise. She is so willing to love, so willing to give, so willing to connect. But she's unwilling to settle, unwilling to be merely comfortable, unwilling to linger in love with the person who is almost right. She hurts, she aches, she is exhausted. But she trusts, she lets go, she moves forward. She endures. She lets loose of what doesn't nourish her and clings onto life, holding fast to the one thing she can depend on to maneuver through this dark and angry world.

She looks for light. She becomes it. She.

a morning prayer

My day begins with “rrRrRrrrrrRr”;

it’s the coffee maker’s good morning growl

and I am awake and thankful again.

I’m ready to close my eyes and take in the morning.

Thank you God for this opportunity

to soak in your air.

Thank you for the people around me

and the endless love we share.

Thank you for these fingers,

for the chance to create, write, and type.

Thank you for these hands.

Thank you for these eyes.

Thank you for these ears

and for the music they entertain.

Thank you for making this heart

able to withstand so much pain.

You make life bearable

when it is unbearable.

You give me new and promising days.

Thank you for your wondrous ways.

I am ready to begin this day.

gather up your limbs

If you're feeling empty today, gather up your limbs.

Take them on a walk. Drink in the sunlight; fill your

lungs with new air. Let the birdsongs inspire you.

How they lift their heads and sing despite everything.

Inhale the beauty of living. Exhale the rest.

rejuvenation

As time journeys on,

I continue to meet myself over and over again—

learning what I love and don’t love,

discovering new things about myself daily.

I am always “me,” but am ever-changing—

growing into myself with each season

shedding parts of myself and rejuvenating

losing myself and finding myself again.

I have embarked on this voyage of living and dying

and I will always choose to live.

I will always focus on renewing myself

even after moments of losing everything.

They are only moments.

We can always begin again.

a different kind of isolation

Is the world empty

or just full of empty people?

I'm always smiling at everyone I pass by,

and one day they all stopped smiling back.

I didn't know that joy could be so isolating,

but I'm learning more and more each day

that happiness is rejected by most people I meet.

I'm learning that having a cheerful heart

is a lonelier life than I once imagined.

But I'd rather be lonely and joyful

than keep the company of misery.

I could let this all discourage me,

but it is not in my character

to contain my excitement for life

and so I won't.

I still have hopes to find someone

wide-eyed and whimsical, and with a welcoming grin—

and just maybe, they'll smile first.

unshakable

If we don't pay attention,

we can become bitter.

We can unknowingly

become the world's sculpture;

let it chip away at our sweetness,

sand away our joyfulness

mold us with its wry fingers

and leave us to harden

into an image

that looks like hatred

and nothing like

who we were before,

back when we were unshakable

and jovial

and would stop to smell garden lilies

and dared to leave love letters

on windshields

when our daily missions

were to make the ones

around us beam with bliss

If we don't pay attention,

we might stop,

and I don't want to know

that version of myself.

lost and found

The day fills me with life

and the night pours it out of me—

The day hands me hope

and the night trades it for doubt—

The day gives me purpose

and the night steals it away from me—

but I chase after them,

not surrendering

until the day returns all of the things

I've lost in the night

and I have found myself again

clarity

I thought maybe the sea would speak to me. I thought that somewhere between the sandy hair and salty skin, I’d hear something. I sat by the ocean and waited for a clarity that didn’t come. It was just one wave crashing after the other. Not answers. Or reasons why. The tide just kept falling against the shore. It couldn’t stop if it wanted to. I guess life keeps on going whether our questions are answered or not. The only thing we can do is keep living.

gentle reminders

I am reminded

that I am not alone

in the gentlest of ways—

by the grasshopper latching itself

onto my bicycle basket—

by the monarch tap-dancing

against my shoulder—

by the leaves confusing my hair

with the ground—

by soft smiles,

those sweet gifts given to me by strangers—

Sometimes, I just need to be reminded

that there are still things that notice me

amongst the loneliness of existing

a dance with freedom

In this moment,

she became one with the world around her.

She frolicked along the shoreline

and the waves nervously brushed against her ankles,

asking her if they “could please have this dance.”

She twirled in agreement.

The waves crashed in response.

Suddenly, life began to sync up.

Suddenly, she didn’t have to think anymore.

She was just a girl spinning

on a billion grains of sand—and that’s all that mattered.

It didn’t matter what anyone thought of her.

It didn’t matter what she thought of herself.

It didn’t matter that she was broken.

Or that we all are broken.

We will always be a little broken somewhere.

For a moment, she forgot all of it.

When the tide pulled back, her worries left with it.

They couldn’t stay if they wanted to.

She curtsied.

The ocean bowed.

The sky applauded.

In this moment, she was free.

maggie

She is music in a quiet world, a waltz in a still room, a melody gracing the ears of the deaf, even.

let it be

If I am to be caged, let it be in happiness.

If I am to be surrounded, let it be by love.

If I am to be free, let it be from hatred.

If it doesn’t uplift me, I’ll let it be.

my affair with today

I am wildly in love with possibility

and probably too infatuated with tomorrow—

but in my affair with today,

I will hold hope by the fingertips

and dance on the toes of the miraculous—

I will spin freely beneath the arms of purpose,

and mystery, and wonder—

forever finding music in the mundane

and seeing beauty in the most bland of places—

and knowing no destination

as long as love is my loyal companion

on this joyous journey of living

30 things you should never forget about yourself

You are beautiful.

And it’s a possibility that no one has ever said those words to you before. Or maybe someone reminds you of how beautiful you are every day. Whether someone else recognizes your beauty or not, maybe you still need to see it for yourself.

So, stand up. Right now, wherever you are, stop whatever you are doing and simply stand up. Walk to the closest mirror, take a deep breath, and look at yourself. Take some time to genuinely look at yourself and think:

I am beautiful.

Even when I feel ugliest, I am beautiful.

Some days, every person I see is a reminder of the

person I am not, and I am left feeling empty.

But even at my emptiest, I am enough.

I am radiant.

The sun rises each morning to compete with my light.

And on days when darkness consumes me,

I am a lighthouse.

I pierce through the darkness.

I am a light and I am destined to be seen.

I am destined to be loved.

I am destined to be cherished.

I cannot make everyone happy; I am only a person.

But I am a great person, and I deserve happiness.

I deserve the kind of happiness

that you hear about in fairy tales—

the kind of happiness that you read about in books,

but question if it truly exists.

I believe that it does.

I will meet sadness in my lifetime, we all will.

But it is up to me to continue walking

until I meet happiness;

and there, I will choose to stay.

I am breathing.

I am meant to be here because I have been given life

and I am breathing.

I am meant to take up space.

I have a purpose.

I am capable of moving mountains.

I am capable of generating a mere thought into existence.

I can make a difference.

Today, I woke up with another breath.

Today, I woke up with another chance to be the person

I have always wanted to be.

Today, I woke up beautiful—and I will never forget it.

even after destruction

Plague me.

Place me onto an angry ocean

as a small sailboat

and rip my sails in the tempest.

Engulf me in waves.

Toss me into a handful of lightning.

Drown me beneath the fingertip of a tsunami.

Empty me of all my precious cargo.

Raid me of everything you think I am

and I will continue to be more than that.

Even when you believe I am shipwrecked,

I will show up,

proudly strewn across the ocean floor,

amongst the coral and seaweed and all things colorful

as a beautiful disaster;

a treasure to be explored and sought after

even after destruction.

light-bearer

I want to be a light-bearer.

I want to be the type of person

who ignites fires in people—

even in the people

who think they are

too damp to catch flame,

too empty to generate warmth

If I could,

I would cremate all of your doubts

and bury their ashes

in the deepest parts of the earth

that way you'd never

be hindered by them again.

If I could,

I would show you

that you are a light-bearer, too.

the capacity
to be courageous

It is more than easy

to remain where you are comfortable—

to stay where you are at

when the streetlamp is familiar

and the sidewalk has been trodden.

But somewhere

amidst your enslavement

to your fears and doubts

and the uncertainties of tomorrow,

I hope you feel

an immeasurable strength

emerge within you,

along with the capacity to be courageous—

the willingness to make the decision

that is not easy.

relentlessly alive

I once knew someone

brimming with thought.

Their bedside blinds

could not stop the morning sun

from filtering in and flooding their mind with ideas

They were full of imagination

and relentlessly alive from the moment they woke—

and yet they felt farthest from alive

than anyone I'd ever met.

I could never understand

how their thoughts spiraled into darkness

when they themselves were so bright and vivacious

It's strange how the people

who are the most full of life

are actually empty.

What does it take to fill someone up again?

I don't know.

But I'm thankful the sun is shining again this morning.

untitled

I didn't give this a title because when I started writing it, I had no idea of where it was going or what its destination would look like; but then, I realized that this is simply the theme of life. As I have grown and matured, I have realized that worrying about where I am going does nothing but withdraw from my happiness and give me aimless anxieties. So I vow to live each day with eager spirits and in the moment.

This doesn't mean that sometimes I won't slip into doubt about where I am going or who I will become, because being of human nature, I will. But above being human, I am the creation of a perfect Creator, and I am choosing to embrace this journey while knowing that my Creator has a purpose for me more magnificent than I could fathom—and that itself invigorates me; knowing that I cannot imagine the intricate ways in which I was designed to change the world around me; the paths I was meant to interweave in this wonderful entanglement of life.

prisoner of jesus

I'm a prisoner of Jesus;

I'll never be the same.

I've taken on his name for evermore.

I've tried to run and hide,

but I just can't get away.

I'm a prisoner of Jesus,

and that's the way I'll stay.

hope

I know it's there, it's in the air—

Hope; it's hard to find when life strips us bare

But I'll search for it on the wings of a prayer;

I know eventually it will come back to me.

One day hope won't be hard to see.

My hardened heart will soon be free.

I know it's there, it's in the air.

house hunting

In our endeavor for acceptance of our bodies,

we have crafted a casual hookup culture.

Our bodies have become welcoming carcasses

for others to be the vultures.

We are feasted on and ravaged

and left with nothing but our bones.

Temporary rather than permanent,

we allow people to come and go—

and yet we wonder why we are seen

as only a house instead of home.

But I refuse to be seen for only my body

and the pleasure it can give,

and I choose to be seen for only my heart

and the treasure it can give.

I refuse to be reduced

to a number on a man’s list

of women whose clothes he’s stripped.

I refuse to be just a name he’ll forget

once another woman has his taste on her lips.

I won’t become a number in his body count

of women he’ll forget about—

so don’t come to me

if you’re only looking for a house.

Until I’m wanted as a home,

I’ll choose to live without.

this miracle of living

I want to immerse myself

in the world around me

Forget routines,

the mundane cycle

of only existing

I want to be an emulsion

in this wonderful dispersion of life;

An anther in the lilies,

a lullaby of the whippoorwill,

a crest in an unfolding wave,

the last breath of a dying star,

I want to experience it all—

It is not enough for me

to only see it,

this miracle of living—

I don't want the world

to pass me by

because I chose to be still

while everything else was

moving in tandem

When I wake,

and the sun tiptoes across my eyelids,

I hope I am overtaken by

an immense and childlike joy

along with an abundant eagerness

to thrust myself into the day

as if it was my first time seeing

architect of the unwritten

I have an irresistible urge to write—

my body and mind

would rupture

if was not able

to release these words—

these phrases—

these utterances—

like wildfires,

they consume me

The back of my mind

is continually churning,

occupied by crafting sentences

and rearranging phrases;

I tear sentences apart

just to build them back up again

I am an architect of the unwritten—

of what could be—

of turning a thought into something tangible

something that makes me feel alive

creators

I think we are all destined to create.

I think somewhere in each of us

resides a seed waiting to take root

and spread like wild kudzu

swallowing entire towns—

like telephone lines

spanning entire worlds—

like brilliant stars,

those twinkling grains of salt

peppering the entire universe—

I dream of creating overtaking me the same;

with ideas gripping me like tentacles

so I can no longer function

until I turn them into something tangible—

so I can no longer live

until I breathe life into the lifeless

the ultimate artist

Some days, like today, when soaking in the blue sky, bluebirds, and bliss, I begin to drift into the clouds and get lost there. Is there a way to describe them that hasn't been said already? So many people have tried. Many have done so successfully. Sometimes it's hard to believe that there is room for one more voice. It's hard to believe that someone could even offer up a new perspective. Will I say anything different from the next person, or the people before me? We are all living the same life, after all—just differently, and in our own time. I can hear people laughing through my headphones, but it doesn't distract me. I'm still lost in the clouds.

The cloud above me is in the perfect shape of a heart—

I wonder is if this is God's way of letting me know he sees me. Or maybe it isn't for meant for me at all—but I'm looking, so I can only go by what I'm given. Maybe looking up is my way of showing God that I see him. Either way, I'm lost in his wonder. He's the ultimate artist; can it really be true that I'm his apprentice? I have so much to learn from him and I am watching and observing.

When I see the clouds, all I can do is imagine God finger-painting. He doesn't think too much about it, he just lets his fingers slide across the atmospheric canvas and creates. He gets lost in it. He makes a perfect mess. For the fluffy clouds, he is generous. He isn't afraid to pile on the paint and dab it all over the canvas.

For the feathery ones, I imagine his fingers sweeping across the canvas, so freely, so tenderly, and with much ease. Maybe the angels are singing and he simply allows his hands to follow wherever their harmonies take them. When the clouds take shape, into hearts and dolphins and bicycles; well, I’d like to think that’s God’s way of showing his sense of humor. I wonder if he stops to see who is looking up and watching his painting session and he drops a little gift right where they are gazing.

And when the clouds move, I imagine them moving from his breath. Surely his breath is that powerful. Sometimes I test his greatness—I ask him to spell out words in the sky if he hears me. But why should he have to prove this to me?

Isn't looking up enough?

breathing for yourself

Selfless darling,

you cannot always

lend everyone your oxygen—

deflate your lungs

from all the giving—

deprive yourself

of your own air—

Sometimes, you have to breathe for yourself;

Plug the faucets—

Clog the gutters—

Throw away the funnels you use

to sift from yourself for others—

Learn not to drain yourself

to see others full—

You congest yourself to set others free;

to allow their air to circulate—

an outpouring of life

Don’t you think you deserve that too?

the aroma of life

I don't know what

it is I'm smelling

on this lovely walk;

I have never been good

at naming the trees and the grasses

like my father is

It must be life—

the eagerness to exist freely

and linger long in happiness

whispers from god

Sometimes it can be difficult to hear God's voice

amongst the noise of existing.

Every now and then I have to separate myself

from the world and lean into the quiet moments.

It is then that I can hear Him everywhere,

and with such clarity.

Take the flowers, for instance;

they are whispers from God reminding us

that even storms are here for us to bloom.

wings

I don't know where I'm walking,

but I hope it is in the right direction.

The air has been colder

and the trees are bare,

making it easy to see

the birds' nests resting comfortably

in the arms of the white oak.

I guess I wanted to

live like the birds today,

because I found my own tree to sit in,

although much smaller

and not near as high off the ground,

as I am bound to my legs and gravity.

I think I will come to this tree more often—

to write and wonder, and give wings to words

I think should take flight.

Maybe they will teach me something.

dream-doer

She gave wings to her dreams

and made her wishes take flight

And when the world met her with darkness,

she simply said, "Let there be light."

i need to close my eyes more

Tonight I sat in stillness

and let the night sky envelope me like a warm cloak;

I draped my eyelids shut

and the longer I left them there,

the more the stars swaddled me—the grasses, too—

the scent of the earth—

they all began to greet me.

The sounds, especially,

began to swarm together in symphonies;

the crickets and katy-dids like mini violas—

the owls like trumpets—

the whippoorwills and nighthawks like flutes—

I was overwhelmed by their serenading,

but realized they had never stopped.

They'd crooned their tunes nightly for me;

I just stopped paying attention.

Life is so quiet when we stop listening.

I need to close my eyes more.

a wink in time

When I am with the trees,

I always find myself admiring

some wonderful little creation

and wondering what it would be like

to live more like it.

One day it is the flowers,

the next day it is the birds—

today it is the Mayflies.

I watched them fly along the riverbed and became curious.

The female Mayfly's lifespan is about five minutes.

What an inspiration—

we've all been thrusted into this world

and in a moment we are being thrusted out of it.

I'm not promised more than a Mayfly.

I'm not promised more than a short flutter in the wind.

What am I going to do to cherish

this extraordinary and temporary life?

If I'm only a blink in time,

I hope to at least make it a wink.

things i want to be

I want to be brave and wince at nothing.

I want to carry love and laughter with me daily.

I want to be filled with goodness and give it freely.

I want to scatter kindness on every sidewalk

and leave smiles on every stranger.

I want to be more alive than possible.

I want to be unpredictable and spontaneous.

I want to be honest and vulnerable.

I want to walk with a spring in my step

and with joy in my heart.

I want to scream when I wish to,

cry when I have to,

and burst with joy when it can’t be contained any longer.

I want to live as if nothing can stop me

from sharing this story I have to tell.

for you

You do not always have to be running, or doing—or worrying, especially. Some moments are best spent in stillness. Some moments are meant only for breathing, for entering that realm where the only sounds are the gentle breeze of your inhales and exhales along with the pulsing tide of your heartbeats.

Some moments are meant only for you.

unruled

I always choose journals with unruled paper. My mind doesn't exist between the lines; it clings to the open spaces, but really doesn't cling to any space at all—it gallivants wherever it pleases—dancing freely, and clumsily, and often off-beat. It has plenty of missteps. Sometimes I wish I could reel it in, but I'm learning that I'm destined for open spaces and the ability to wander in any direction without worrying about bumping into anything—this is the only way I know to live and create.

love to share

Today, I will be rooted in love.

I'll let it seep into my soul and spread freely.

I want love to inhabit every home in my body.

After that, I hope it opens doors for others to enter in.

Shake off your feet,

leave any hatred on the welcome mat.

Step into this heart of mine.

We have love to share.

unbridled

I have an excitement for life

that can't be bottled up—

or caged, or stored in a locket

My soul is a flame that cannot be snuffed out,

a treasure that cannot be stolen,

a gift that cannot be returned or exchanged

I want to live like every room

has disco balls on the ceiling

and walk like every floor

is a trampoline beneath my feet—

always dancing,

always keeping a spring in my step—

always searching for another spirit

to share a moment and a laugh with

I will never stop smiling at strangers

and scream-singing at stop signs

and stammering at sunsets—

and I will never put a saddle

on this wild-horse soul of mine—

this untameable excitement

and unbreakable love for living

lessons from a man
in a thrift shop

I am always meeting people and learning how to live from them. Today’s lessons were from an 85-year-old quirky man in a thrift shop. He was so filled with joy, I swore he could burst at any minute. He said two things:

1. You have to learn to give before you can learn to live.

2. If you make someone happy, it makes life worth living.

And after that? He sang. And sang loudly. His voice echoed throughout the store. He didn’t stop to think, he just lifted his voice to the heavens without a worry or care. Three shoppers stopped to sing with him. We all felt alive. His soul was free and we all knew it. And I knew it would be an injustice if I didn’t pass along his lessons. I hope he makes you smile the way he did me.

this chance at living

I don’t know why I am here;

I’ve just been placed on this earth

without a choice in the matter.

But I will tell you, I love life;

these wonderful breaths I’m taking.

The trees beg me to drink in their earthy exhales

so I can breathe out and replenish them again.

I inhale larger than ever.

“I love this life!”

I scream to the trees, and the birds, and the sky,

and they echo back to me;

the leaves waving in the wind,

the chickadees singing joyously,

the sky grinning bright—

all of them exclaiming,

“We love this life!”

I smile and continue marveling

at the wonders of existing.

At this chance for loving.

This chance for creating.

This chance to be anyone I want to be—

to roam anywhere my feet choose to wander.

meek reminders

I am not here to say that love

just stumbles upon us like in the fairy tales

or that it bumps into everyone at all—

or that life is all gardens and blooming

when it is often weeds and thorns and drought—

and most things die and disappear in winter.

I am not here to say that life is painless and easy

when living is anything but simple—

and with each second we are also dying

Sometimes the sun setting

is the only thing keeping us going—

Sometimes the end of the day

is the only thing giving us the strength

to greet another one—

I am not here to promise anything—

or say that we aren’t sometimes broken,

or that we aren’t always flawed—

but I am here to say that our brokenness

does not have to break us completely—

and our flaws do not have to be failures—

but meek reminders that we are still here,

daring to face another sunrise—

daring to let the morning light up

these exquisitely imperfect faces

of these fabulously flawed people

in this magnificently troubled—

but terribly grand world

wings in a windowsill

When I was a young girl,

and all things were bright and beautiful,

my Nana would pick up the dead butterflies

from her flower gardens and keep them

on the leaves of the plants in her windowsills—

and I would always stop to

wonder at their wings—

and with every visit,

they were still as striped and yellow

as when God first made them

And when I left the windowsill,

I would keep thinking of the butterflies

and of all the ways I'd want to be remembered—

If I could only brighten someone's day

without having to even be there—

My life doesn't have to be magnificent,

or long, or remarkable,

as long as it is meaningful.

I could leave this world

carrying a basket of contentment

if I only knew I had touched someone—

if I knew that one person, even—

was holding onto me like wings in a windowsill,

bringing color to their world

even after death

pocketful of faith

I remember the taste of it,

life before I knew things—

and the void was pleasant,

not made of dark matters

like too many questions ,

and too little answers ,

or maybe, too many tightly-bound answers ,

and not near enough time

to unlace them all

I remember reaching for the sun

before fretting became my fertilizer,

growing me in all of the wrong places

and weeding me of all the right ones

and of the light things I wished to keep

And faith, I've always had it,

and still, I keep it close to me—

though I used to wear it like

puffed sleeves and red lipstick—

but now I keep it tucked away

inside front pockets—

still close to my heart,

but sometimes, I forget I have it there

It is easy to lose sight of faith

amidst the traffic of knowing—

the more I know,

the less I am certain about anything

But when my mind begins to wonder,

and wander again with worry—

and my heart begins again to pound,

quickened by the unknown, and doubts,

and all of the dark things rippling within me,

I can feel faith resting here,

a faint force inside my front pocket—

steadily and peacefully

reminding me that it has nothing to do with seeing

or understanding—

and everything to do with feeling

and surrendering—

and knowing that I will never know everything

and besides, I can't imagine life being interesting,

or meaningful, or purposeful if I did—

I have always loved to learn, and seek out, and ponder—

I am afraid of knowing, and not knowing,

but I am more afraid

of living without this little compass,

this pocketful of faith

that guides me when I cannot see

what lies before me

even when i’m sleepwalking

Some days come and go

and I wonder if I even thought

about anything at all—

Sometimes I wonder

if I’m sleepwalking

throughout my entire existence—

I wonder if I’ve ever truly

been present for a moment

But other days,

I know I’m alive—

My spirit is on fire

and I feel it kindling

more fervently than ever

My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts

and if I don’t write them down,

they’ll hold me hostage—

so I let them loose,

getting rid of them

in every way I know how—

pressing them into paper—

and onto keyboards

of computers and typewriters—

I scribble them on any surface I can find:

receipts, napkins, notebooks, walls,

the back of my own hands, even—

These are my favorite days—

the days I’m so ensnared by living

that I have to capture it

The days the sunsets are more than brilliant

and the people, too—

The days I spend arranging bouquets of words

with my muse being all of creation

Heartache and all,

I’m thankful to be alive—

even on days I’m sleepwalking

patience and purity

My home is in the mountains,

but not on a plot of land.

It’s two people who have always held

my heart inside their hands.

My dad embodies Patience,

and my mom, Purity.

Together, they are both examples

of who I strive to be.

There’s a house beside a pond,

there’s a porch made with Patient hands.

There are three small rooms down a hall

where Purity tucked us each in bed.

There’s a living room for time well-spent,

there’s a room for Purity to quilt.

There’s a long, gravel driveway

near a barn where Patience works and builds.

There’s a fenced-in yard for doggies,

there are woods for all of us to explore.

There’s a tall, muddy embankment

beside a concrete basketball court.

There is Patience’s sense of humor,

there is Purity’s contagious laugh.

But there is discipline when needed

to keep us on a steady path.

Mom and Dad, I love you.

Thank you for all the love you’ve shown.

Thank you for your wisdom;

it is because of you I’ve grown.

My spirit has always loved to wander,

my feet have always loved to roam—

but no matter where I choose to be,

my heart is always home.

this moment

Sit a while with me.

Wherever you are reading this from,

a bed, a balcony, a bench, a backseat;

whatever you are doing, it doesn't matter.

All that matters is that you are

exclusively and entirely you.

Sit here for a second and think about

how you are the only one present for this very moment;

How no one else is breathing your air—

How your sky isn't the same shade of blue

as someone else's—

How the world looks a little different for everyone—

How you are the only one inhabiting the territory

of your wild and unfeigned thoughts

How spectacular it is to be purely you—

How magnificent it is to live in a world

where there are no replicates—

There will always be some wondrous thing

that makes you unlike anyone else.

I think it is easy to slip into feeling alone;

but even though we are living this moment separately,

we are in it together.

I wrote these words already, but I was thinking of you

and of this moment we are both in

from our dwelling places across the world—

and I hope these words extend out to you

like a warm hug, a gentle embrace reminding you

that you are not alone.

two directions

There are two places we can choose to dwell;

what lies ahead or what lies behind.

I've found it easiest to let the past

take the throne inside my mind.

I carry so much luggage

from the places that I've been,

that making room for more

is a hard task to begin.

One by one, I'll dump the bags;

sort them through and through.

The good, I'll carry with me.

The bad, I'll toss askew.

There are two places we can choose to dwell,

but I'm looking forward every day.

The burdens that once plagued me

are no longer in my way.

I look behind from time to time,

but my focus is on today.

I am living in the present;

in the past, I’ll never stay.

this dandelion-wish life

Life is made up of highs and lows. Throughout the day, we constantly scroll through “highlights" and forget that everyone has their “lowlights," too. It is important to remember that beneath our aesthetics and angles, we are all human. We are all united through our experiences; knowing that no matter who we are or where we are from, we are all a part of humanity. We are all maneuvering through these highs and lows together.

We all have one chance at this dandelion-wish life. If we don’t pay attention, in a gust, it will be over. I don’t want to waste mine wishing on someone else’s story. I want my own story; lowlights and all. I want to die knowing I have lived my life and not someone else’s.

melodies and stories

I woke up this morning

and the only plan I wanted to make

for my day was dancing,

and the only thing I wanted to be was music—

each of my footsteps a beat

in this glorious soundtrack of life

And if I was brave enough to pretend that

I didn't care what people thought,

I would run out my front door,

barefooted and doing handsprings,

and somersaulting down the streets

and up the sidewalks,

and screaming to the neighbors,

Something about songs

and how we are all dancing melodies—

Something about books

and how we are all walking stories—

Something about the earth

and how it's our memoir—

and our feet, the pens!

Our voices, too!

Everything we are and do!

We are all writing,

grafting our stories

into the binding of the universe,

and I woke up this morning

terrified of not living a story worth telling

and not telling a story worth living—

I don't want to live my life without commas,

or semicolons, or a few plot twists—

and I don't want to reach the end of my story

and wonder what it was about.

I want to dog-ear every page

in this chapter of life we are sharing.

And right now?

I'm going to start by dancing.

recipe for living

Yesterday came and left so quickly

I wonder if I was even there for it at all

This morning I woke

and realized

I forgot to relish in it—

forgot to marinate in its sunlight—

savor the sound

of the songbirds' final cries of jubilee

before winter feeds their silence

What did I do yesterday?—

except fill it with empty conversations,

leaving it malnourished

and in want of something real

Sometimes I think that I'm immortal—

like tomorrow will always be here for me

But today is fleeting,

so I will sift it of all its hatred

and knead out any bitterness

I will glaze it with love,

garnish it with intentionality,

sprinkle it with sweetness and benevolence

I will rise with each day

and preserve it carefully—

I won't allow it

to stale or fester with mold

This is my recipe for living—

it is not meant to be stored in a box

or exchanged in hushed whispers—

It is meant to be echoed from the mountaintops

for the whole world to hear:

Today is meant for us to partake in