Man I really MISS being able to write.  I really just don’t anymore and that is so sad.  Anyways I read through all my journals from college (except the last year) and dang.  I miss writing.

Here is something 3 years old.  So glad I finally found someone worth being a happy lovestruck idiot for.


For some people love means never being alone on Valentines day, maiming hearts into trees with pocketknives. For me love is this unattainable gold pot at the end of a rainbow tangled with hints of particularly putrid shades of browns and greens, you know, like a couch from the seventies… this is for all the ugly sofas in my life, you know who you are.  This is for the the end I’m still waiting for even though I’m pretty sure it’s probably a myth or at least guarded by a heavily armored leprechaun named commitment-phobia

This is for everyone who taught me what love isn’t.

For every misstep on the ladder to happiness that left me with skinned knees and metaphorically knocked out teeth and for every time I doggedly struggled my way back up. I’ve lived my life like a romantic sitcom, dining on cliche-ridden late nights and so many cheesy pickup lines I give thanks to Cupid every day that I’m not lactose intolerant.

This is for all the men I can’t have, won’t have, have had, or taste bad. This is for all the Indians who won’t date me because I’m not what an arranged marriage looks like, and this is for when I told you I didn’t want to marry you anyways and I think that was probably the clearest definition of sour grapes that I’ve ever smashed into wine. This is for your mistaken notion that you are allowed to friendzone me two days after I cook for you.

This is for the oh-em-gee preteen-style butterflies that grew legs and feet and began to brutally kick at my heart instead of flutter. Every over-dramatic, he’s-so-bad-for-me and all the good advice I ignored. I still can’t stomach bitterness, I front like I’m a jaded skeptic but I can never quite pass as one, I will always be the happy lovestruck idiot in the room.

I’ve pretended I’m not being manipulated for so long that it’s started to not matter either way.  I still refuse to believe those compliments were scripted even with his teleprompter smiles still echoing through my brain like the first time I realized that all my grandmother’s decorative fruit was really just plastic. My veins pulse to the tune of every lie I can’t let go of, starting with when you told me you’d always be around, waiting, like your heart was just gonna lie around on a shelf with the Christmas decorations until I felt like picking it up again.

This is for hearts that refuse to give up, catch up, or shut up. This is for the delirious crash and burn I’ve been chasing since before you met me. This is for the one who stuck around even when I wouldn’t sleep with him and just kept saying “BAM, pregnant” whenever he mentioned it.

This is for love, real and imagined. Well in my case pretty much always imagined. This is for those of us too stupid to tell the difference, rocking enough poor judgment to fill a hallmark card store. This is for mistakes and refusing to acknowledge or learn from them.

This is for the the hook line and sinker crowd.

This is for living, life, flammability, and the pursuit.

Stumble on.

heaping bowl of thought processes.

This week has been filled with bad things.

I have to take a step back and realize:  I’m still in the same place I was yesterday, driving home from work, reading in bed, sampling my roommate’s cooking..

Nothing is fundamentally different.  Except I know things I didn’t.

How can I put my brain into the carefree state it used to be in?

I don’t want to get dependent on the future.  I want to depend on my present-day self to be happy.

Deep down I do believe people are only happy based on meaningful contact with those around them.  It’s hard for me to fathom someone that can perpetuate contentment or joy in their own brain, away from anyone else.   (But then again, didn’t books used to do that for me?  Why don’t they satisfy me now?)

I am happy when I’m being productive.. Maybe I’m just not busy enough?   I was enjoying myself today at work for instance, until I received a very lucrative email which communicated to me that I may have lost 800+ dollars.

If you want to sell a couple things, please NEVER use ebay.  You can’t get your money for 90 days, or until you sell 25 items worth at least $250 all together. 

I just wanted to sell my camera.

BASICALLY.  If it weren’t for money, I don’t think I’d ever be unhappy.

also long distance relationships could possibly put you in the hospital.  Think about it. 

In a flash of clarity I almost convince myself it’s (i.e. everything is) because of the weather, just like that doctor once tried to tell me but I immediately reject the idea (not as fast as I did then,  but still).

There’s too much chaos for me to be comfortable.  Too much unknown but vaguely thunder-cloud looking, foreboding/that-kinda-gray darkness.

I can hear the ominous music.

Like I’m juggling sharp things and wouldn’t you know it

GRAVITY kicks in so hard I’m seeing through a red curtain.



I couldn’t really “BASICALLY” this.  Sometimes all-caps are not enough to neaten a churning brain.

first thing I’ve written in months and months

I’m going to take you to where the sky falls, where the stars bite cold, where the ocean tastes the shore, leaves, and then comes back for more.  Our bodies were made for dancing, like your hand was made to trace shivers into my spine, begging the feathers to grow.  Flight pulls us toward the moon, like the tides, all silver, filling the sky.

I want to be there when you realize what joy is.  When you fall bone-struck into the wild hymn the wind has been trying to whisper to you since you clawed your way from the womb.  Your wounds are deepest harmonies you forgot about.  Eyes wide open.   Hands empty.

Chords igniting in your veins.



here is a clamored aviary
filled with children too young to
sound human.

a child-owl keens,
too-early wise with anticipation of
lifelong suffering

here flails a many-colored
screech-of-a bird,
angry from wings-lack,
furious at his inability to

a harsh-throated pigeon stares down
the gaping maw of dependence,

quiet-feathered with the sharp
pain of

been taking salsa lessons.  He’s gonna give me half off ($25 instead of $50 !)  because I love dancing so much.  I wanna go to South America.  I think of it as the dancing capital of the world.  Except it’s … huge.  So the dancing region of the world. whatever.    This is my eighth day in a row of work. preparing myself for a MASSIVE paycheck in 1.5 weeks.  I’m so done with school.  I want to graduate.   the end.

A song!



know your enemies

dedicate songs to them,
dance the last number with
jealousy, a slow waltz,
low murmured headrush

lean against
the doorframe,
touch selfishness briefly on the mouth

take anxiety home and
leave quietly at dawn before he
traces your spine and pulls you


as always I find myself finally able to write when I attend church.  very odd.  I like this one though 🙂


Writer’s Block is the most satisfying beast to kill in the whole world I think.  A lot less species would be endangered if hunters would have only picked up a pen instead of a gun.

Happy Valentine’s Day!  This is the first time I’ve made it this far with anyone and that makes me exceedingly joyous.

Writer’s Block

I am not broken

rainbows only bleed from
cracked glass, I am none of this

my creative beasts have chewed
their way out of me,
who will cook?

whose claws will mutilate printer paper
into soggy, squalling origami?

who will hold my head down, under the ink
watching the bubbles float up until I finally

my scars are almost gone
there is no ink in the larder

See You from the Dirt

The Caves or Dream

we hit the ground two years ago and
haven’t stopped crawling

defrocked butterflies, a teaspoon
away from drowning
in soil and rain

come lay beside me,
we will count the stars through
mud-stained eyelids

the air will bite at
our grateful collarbones
as if flight might still

take us somewhere dangerous


I really love this one.

Another cure for writer’s block: Get someone to drive you around and listen to NPR (National Public Radio) whilst holding onto a large notebook and pencil (pencil can be small or large, does not matter).

Also, this is a song:

went to bed at 8 PM woke up at 2 AM, now can’t sleep

part of me believes we won’t make it past February.  I’ve never made it to Valentine’s day with anyone, much less the altar.  I don’t trust my judgement.  My brain relies on sleep-deprived emotions rather than rationality.

I am afraid of boredom.  I am afraid of a lack of communication.

I think I like doomed relationships better.  Like a prison sentence that you know will end next weekend so you can get comfortable with the free food and cable.

Beginnings are so pretty.

I’m bad as half of a dual substance.

keep me tethered
twin moons, orbiting

I no longer get drunk off stars only
high on the laws
of gravity

anxiety is an unpleasant and
like jealousy

the dark underbelly of love
bites into my flesh

jeweled handcuffs.

Your thoughts still bring flowers for my brain

The sunshine is still here, just… reflected back.  I am the moon tasting of the sun in the nighttime.  The past distorts, shines brighter, cuts deeper, gives off radiation so strong my hair falls out.  Everything grows back, eventually, but sobriety is a far cry from dawndrunk and I am still waiting for sunrise.  I am a starfish cut in half.  Half of me takes a plane to New Jersey. Half stays here.  I cook half of what I would be cooking, I drive my car half as much.  You are out there living the rest of what I should have.  You go out.  I work.   I go out.  You look for work.  I search for a window back to you.  The internet connection is slow and I think of turtles and weddings and a steady income to raise two children on.  I wait.  See you soon is a drastic overstatement.  I will see you.  That is all.

come back

come back and fix everything.


chaos soup

my thoughts don’t seem to press well together, now a dirty tangle of threads instead of the once-bright tapestry.  I can’t think what picture must be woven, the one so clear to me a week ago today is dim as dreams, thick fog, impenetrable.  (I was somewhere else) or Soon, I will find myself waking up, shaking sweating and relieved.  I will pour myself into your arms.   “I had the worst dream….”  Reality will be blinding us, sunrise through picture windows.  This will not happen.  The only present-tense that weakens my eyesight is darkness. I feel my way through four hundred days, scrape my shin on five hundred and seventy six thousand minutes, the miles an impossible maze between us.  The time, moreso. This is not anguish.  This is dull, confused, gray-skies ache.   Your “I love you” feels more like a bruise than a promise.  I am becoming far too skilled at goodbye poetry.