i tried to figure out the rhythm of her heart while she slept on my foot

August 24th, 2019 § 0 comments § permalink

my dog doesn’t like it when i listen to her heartbeat
i don’t really like it either i can’t quite place the rhythm it’s either
six beats one rest or four beats one rest or six / rest / four / rest
every rest i think she has died
i hold my hand to her heart to get the measure of something
and she slowly rolls away
maybe she thinks i will kill her maybe it’s simply a spot too tender
to touch

barely morning still dark
the space between inhale and exhale
i feel the wind between my cheeks
mouth full of summer leaving
song on the radio says isn’t it isn’t it
i find the tender heart of the present the space
between this suffering and that suffering
for one second it’s everything and then it’s gone and i can’t
quite get that beat down again

my dog looks up at me
getting dressed for the early shift all stretched out impossibly
taking up the whole bed she looks at me like stay
how is my look back i have to do these things to pay rent
she blinks slowly just stay
she doesn’t understand anything but the space between suffering i think

yes people are forever writing about what their dogs teach them
and this is my lesson she really is so good and not in the ways
i’ve selfishly shaped her here she is exploring each pocket of the porch
sniffing out bees and lizards and sitting among the flowers and chewing
the wood chips i painstakingly spread thick and wide she goes wherever
her heart takes her until basically until basically i step in

my heart is taking me somewhere somewhere pretty nice i think even though
i might just sleep with my coworker even though the fantasy of him is much
hotter than the reality and i might just have tea with my ex every week so she
can see me as good as healed as not the one who caused her all this pain even
though eventually i’ll cancel our standing plans closing the door yet
again when i feel better because that’s what i’m still getting unstuck from

my dog hates the car like hates it enough that the anti-anxiety meds i stuff in her
mouth just make her lay down not even sleep she pants her heart races
but ten minutes later we are in the woods twenty and we’re at the creek
twelve hours later we’re at the sea and she can spin like a maniac across the sand
never have i seen her bound for joy like when we get to the beach the creek
the forest but i wonder if the suffering is worth it for her
i wonder if dogs kill themselves ever like birds can pluck that one feather above
their heart that makes them bleed out
suddenly i’m wondering if that’s apocryphal

if there’s one chance i get to strip away suffering in this life
the only real chance i have is with my dog
so how am i doing with that and does it have anything to do with what i’ve
stripped away in my own?

i don’t know where we’re going and now i’m the one panting at the window
sticking my face in the breeze and then changing my mind it’s a little too much
we’re going a little too fast for all that and not fast enough how are we still
in this hellbox it’s been seven seconds hours lifetimes and when we arrive
it’s pretty spectacular i have to say even though it’s one space between breaths
one moment in a billion trillion moments where everything feels okay and
like maybe all the suffering was a different life or a dream or just a movie
i saw once and cried at and then we get back in the car even though i’m
screaming and shouting no and i
wonder how many more times can we do this
before it stops being worth it



for juniper

May 26th, 2019 § 0 comments § permalink


there once was a witch
who time-traveled with nothing but
two black cats in her small bag and
many names for every occasion

and they called her sister

her magic was born of blood dirt piss tears
her magic grew from the ground and rained from the sky
her magic wrote songs in the fire that burned themselves
deep into her flesh

sister she said
how does a cat mourn her brother
does she look through the glass and see him
slinking his way back through the garden
how does a cat mourn her brother
does she reach her maw into her food bowl
and take only half
sister how does a cat mourn her brother
or does she live with him still

the witch said brother how does a sister say goodbye
does she dig your grave with her fingernails
does she whisper your name to the setting sun
does she crawl through the night howling
or does she live with you still

brother she said i would claw my heart open to hold you again
to see you bathing sister under the achillea moon
to listen to you sing wild songs
to feel your magic once more

sisters he said you already know the bowels of grief
and you must not starve its hunger
feed it your heart your words your snot your tarot
feed it your song your ink your blood your breath
feed it until it can live alongside you
and wander with you through the forest
as your shadow

sister our paws will touch as i grow with
every rising and falling sun i will live with you
as your shadow in the light

sister in silence you will hear me
in the moonlight you will see me
in darkness you will feel me
as strong and wild as you are

there once was a witch and from her ribs
she conjured two cats as black as love
they called her sister in this life and the next

they say if you look closely into the thick summer dusk
you can see her walking through the garden
three shadows as one



understanding violence

November 7th, 2018 § 0 comments § permalink

the caribou calf call out as she runs
the wolves closing in
the calf calls out
for an answer? the mother
has calculated the risk and decided
to continue on. she understands violence.

or does the calf bleat simply because she is afraid?
her small rubbery tongue reaching out
to the biting air
just as we scream
out, our pink throats, gashes
that we are afraid

i do not want the wolves to go hungry
i do not want this caribou to die
the wolves are closing in.
suffering: transferred

a friend watches with me
they say violence is simply change.

what does the calf think—
the wolf’s mouth wrapping around her back leg,
like my precious dog as she picks up a stick
to be thrown—resign? or greater fear?
does she know she is about to be eaten alive?

please, i pray to the wolf, who hears
nothing, kill her fast.
please, no more suffering.
if we must all exist at the expense of another,
if life relies on the exchange of suffering
please let there be less of it.

i am just trying to understand violence
and why it is the mother of all life.

the pack does not close in fast enough
the calf gains ground, escapes.
luck, unluck: the wolves keep their hunger,
tomorrow another calf will call out
for nothing.


It’s the End* and Life Means Nothing

October 13th, 2018 § 0 comments § permalink

*It’s the end of the anthropocene at least. Humans. Most animals.

Let’s say we have ten more good years. Ten more years to swim in the ocean, to use cellphones, to drink tap water. Even that seems preposterous. The amount of carelessness, neglect, over-extraction, denial—the sheer amount of people in the world—if we make it ten more years, that would be truly astonishing.

No—not astonishing—it would be another decade of treading water in a riptide. Time will beat down the already suffering: the silenced, the ignored, the forgotten so the privileged few could have ten more years—maybe. Borders will continue to close. People will continue to be submerged in scarcity. We will work ceaselessly on all of the wrong things, selling our time to the endlessly churning machine of capitalism. Every physical, necessary resource will unravel. Every intangible, nebulous form of currency (time, digits in a bank account, data on a cloud), will take on a crushing weight.

Life—all life, since the beginning—is at the expense of life. Survival for one group means the peril of another. Some of us will fight this, as we fight this now. We will continue to fight borders and cages and walls and insist on the path of least suffering. It will always take longer. It will always take time and time and time to heal. It will always take less then a second to shatter. I don’t know if we are fighting against our true nature. I don’t know if there is some fundamental human state. I know transformation is always possible. I also know that violence is our ancestry and violence is our progeny.

Some of us—perhaps too few, always too few—will love fiercely and fight against oppression tirelessly, as we do now, as the world burns and drowns, as we hold up memories like negatives to the light, as we see a future beyond this one, one to fear and one to fight for. I will always wonder if freedom is truly possible on this plane, in these bodies. Freedom, for me, is the end of suffering. Not just the individual’s, which I do believe has a proximate possible form, but for all that sustains the individual. Freedom, true freedom at the expense of nothing—is to be unborn. But here we are: born, without our consent or consideration. Born into one body or another, one land or another, one time or another, all of which place us on a continuum of suffering.

So what then? We are, almost certainly, at the end of days, without a unified meaning or purpose. Now what?

Here’s where I find freedom because my path forward is clear. All that remains for me to do is this: lessen suffering. Less and less suffering. There is a ticking clock (although time is, you know, relative) and still so much pain. Animals that spend their cramped, butchered lives tortured and miserable. Humans that spend their whole lives in cages. Parents that tear their children into shreds because they were torn apart as children. People who are systematically disenfranchised and murdered by the state. And the rest that remains: to simultaneously lessen my own suffering, to heal all that I can, to stop the cycle of pain of my ancestors. To do all of this imperfectly: sometimes hastily, sometimes without full understanding of the consequences.

But this is what I can commit.

  1. To be my own parent, to be my own child.
  2. To love my parents, to talk to them, learn from them, share with them, to not shy away from their suffering.
  3. Same for my friends. Same for my community. Same for the world, for every life I can fit into my heart.
  4. To lessen my dependence on any product that causes animals or humans suffering, i.e. factory farms, exploited labor, deforestation.
  5. To experience wonder in all things. The history of all things, the life cycle, the specificity, the nuance, the connection.
  6. To be unafraid of money because, for my particular circumstances, I have access to enough. I am lucky. I am incredibly, undeservedly lucky. I can use this to uplift and care for others. This includes going to school for trauma healing therapy. Take out those loans. If the world ends in ten years, the joke’s on the bank.
  7. To write and create: processing information, experience so as not to get caught in it and dragged by it. To transform, envision and honor the subject matter.
  8. To adjust my learned discomfort, push beyond what I think I can do. For me, this primarily means pushing beyond any assumptions and socialization based on my race, gender and class; to ceaselessly fight for, envision, and build the liberation of all. To always share my resources even in the midst of scarcity. To always question my feelings of deserving and righteousness for they often are born of ego and fear. And to always strive to give away as much as I receive for there is no reason to build an individual material legacy. This is the end.
  9. To pursue any small or great desire I have because why not. My entire universe of experience will die with me. And there is so little time left.

So why not:

  1. Get as close as I can to a whale, a blue whale, to touch her, to swim alongside her.
  2. Self-publish whatever I want.
  3. Live by the ocean, close enough to walk to.
  4. Foster children, always have a rescue dog, always have a home that I can share with those that need it.
  5. Eat pastries.
  6. Go to Lebanon, Morocco, Madagascar, Botswana, Hawaii, Japan.
  7. Spend time in boats, canoes, pirogues.
  8. Visit parks, gardens, waterfalls, canyons, caves, forests.
  9. Read everything.
  10. Watch TV because whatever it’s good and I love it.
  11. Continue to watch the same movies over and over.
  12. Listen to more Beyoncé.
  13. Dress in drag.
  14. Go everywhere possible with Hen.



September 2nd, 2018 § 0 comments § permalink

when i was a child

my father told me marilyn monroe was beautiful

despite a small brown circle above her lip


when i was older

my father showed me pictures of the women he went on dates with

thick cakes of make up

dyed and thinning blonde hair


my father told me stories of the women he went on dates with:

vain cruel insecure


when i was a child

we had many large photographs of marilyn monroe

including one above the couch

where i sat beneath her

where his dates sat beneath her

we became a thumb

caught in the frame


people ask: was she really even that beautiful?

people ask: or did [they] decide who was beautiful and who was not?


people say: [someone else] is much more beautiful


i have no interest in individual beauty

either everyone is beautiful or no one is

beauty is so often cruel

beauty is always cruel


i hope i am beautiful

i look in the mirror and i don’t see it

i see a thumb caught in the frame


i say i love myself and the despite gets swallowed

despite: hair

despite: nose

despite: skin

[she was beautiful despite]


my father wrote a book on empowering women

my father came from a shattered cruel woman

thick cakes of make up

dyed and thinning blonde hair


i hope i am beautiful one day

one day i hope to look in the mirror

and see the ocean instead


one day i will look in the mirror and see

something big and beautiful

and cruel


love takes your shape

February 11th, 2018 § 0 comments § permalink



tell me how to love you best

with words that feel softest on your body

and pivot your heart godward


tell me how to love you best

at sunrise, to the sound of you coming


tell me how to love you best

when the world has weathered you

when a slammed door

sets you running from a buried memory

when hope becomes ash on your tongue


tell me how to love you best

and tell me how it changes


tell me how to love you best

when every day is deadly


tell me how to love you best

and tell me how to feed you


tell me how to love you best

and tell me how it changes


tell me, so i can show you

that love is water

and you are its ocean


137 Second Ave (and Riddle Way), Manasquan, NJ 732-223-2976

December 10th, 2017 § 0 comments § permalink


I don’t pay attention to the roads but I still know the way. It is my own map I follow: leave Thursday evening, as the sun sets. Pack the car quickly, bring no snacks, no coffee. Sit in the front seat and watch the whole world slide beneath me, listen for the click-click, click-click as the tires find the bridge with metal stripes. Repeat the names of the towns I pass through, say them with love and wonder, each one is a gift, bringing me closer to where I’m heading. Perth Amboy. South Amboy. Red Bank, Little Silver, Long Branch. Asbury Park. Belmar. Say them like a poem, as if their proximity and placement has meaning, has design. Say their names over and over, each one a bead to pass through my fingers. When you see the budweiser warehouse, make a right and sit up in my seat because we’re close. Let the orange lights pass over my face, a fiery bird reflected in the water. Take a left after the bridge, and another left at how loud my heart is. And there it is, and there it is. What do you say to me? Every single time, what do you say to me?

You’re safe now. This is where you’ll be safe.


I’m talking about the house and the house is you. You are where I return to in my mind. I picture myself at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, overhearing the neighbors discussing the parties they will go to. Their voices float in and mean nothing. Their voices, the faucet running, the flag hitting the pole: these are your silence. After I finish the dishes, I lay down on the couch. There are two couches mirroring each other, pistachio and sinking. I picture myself lying down on the couch against the wall, watching the street through the screen door. People are walking to the beach, the soft siren of their voices are part of the silence too, the metal beach chairs scraping the concrete, the rub of a float against skin. Lying here on this couch, in the sounds of silence, I could be here forever. Every time I return to you in memory I lose you: something on the wall fades away, the feeling of the wood floor under my feet is disappearing.


Your smells are small noises and you are music with them. The wet wood of the outdoor shower, the heat of the garden, the lavender, the hose, the wicker, the carpet. The stale smell of linen in the lofts and the smell of the ocean breeze through the open window. I walk through you and each room’s smell tells a story. Here we sleep late: the mustiness, the only room with air-conditioning, the painted wood, the glued plastic fruit to the dresser. Here we tell secrets: storage behind a tropical print curtain, an open window to the roof, and when I’m older, the smell of sex with strange friends under blankets. Here we dream: the moon, the sun, the stars falling all over the walls, the tin tea set, the warm sterile smell of the stereo. Even now, when I catch those same smells in different places—a Tennessee creek, a thick honeysuckle rain—the whole song plays and the song is you.


All I have of your body now is what I’ve collected of you in pieces, in every shell and sea glass, in every corner of sand. I’ve salvaged you, in photographs, in paintings that once hung on your walls, bedsheets that once covered you, in all of the blue I’ve found, I’ve salvaged you. I gather and gather them closer because the thinking is this: if I press them to my life, to my skin hard enough I will become you. I will lose shape and become you: salt, wood, water, memory. Because without you, I am unknowable.


I am not one for loving walls. I am not one for loving fences. But this is how you were born. And this is how the story goes: there was once a tree that spit and now it is the porch. There was once a spitting tree here, next to the outdoor shower, you see: this stump here, a stump to hang the hose on, to shave our young legs on. You were born as walls and fences and doors and windows, to run my fingers along, to climb out of, to lift up and push through. And how do I build you now? Words are not walls. Memories bleed and disappear.


This is how I come home to you: I step into the bright light at the back of my mind. Every time I return to the kitchen window and I become your silence. No, I think it’s too short this way. I go back further. To the train, the smell of the leather seats. The train is surrendering me to you. Here I recite the names until I get to yours, I walk down Main Street, past the canal we named Lagoon. At Second Ave, I make a left. The ocean wraps itself inside of me, I carry the whole of it. Cross Riddle Way, along the sidewalk I am convinced is stained brown from a rumor I once heard. Then I reach you. Here you are: a small grey house, with puzzle-piece shutters, blue trim (the same color I will paint my room, much later, to crawl inside of you again). I go around back and find the key on top of the windchime. I remove the glass of porch screens because the ocean is large and we must invite all of it in. Open the back door: my mother is not here but she is in every inch of you. Since she was twenty, she has been building you, painting you in every color and design, no part of you has gone untouched. Love is painting everything you have. Painting the bathroom to look like a jungle, painting the cabinet to look like the world, the brick walls painted white. The moon is painted outside the wall of my parents room. The wall falls away, it is a lake, the moon over a lake and looking at the moon and the lake through ferns, a fake palm tree that she has place in front of the lake and the moon and the ferns. There is a lizard painted on the floor, running from the kitchen, and a spider creeping toward the back door. A painted bear and a tiger playing a horn, the tiger forever playing a horn, the bear reaching up its tongue to taste the music. On the driftwood wall of the outdoor shower, two turquoise seagulls flying over forever with R + D above their wings. I have given a home to those seagulls on the knuckle of my thumb. Because eventually the paint peeled away. I remember peeling the paint away. My parents divorced and I made a home for the seagulls in ink on my thumb. It is my favorite tattoo because it is a call to you.


Twenty-eight years of me have been opening your doors. The train door the car door the front door the porch door the shower door the cabinet door the bedroom door the shutter door the shed door the screen door the front door. My memory of you is a door, that’s all it is.

Fifty-Five Notes to My Ex, Collected in a Box Under My Bed

December 7th, 2017 § 0 comments § permalink

During the first week of the break up a friend gave me a box and a stack of blank notes. She said to write down every thought I have of you and put it in the box. I kept both the box and blank notes next to my bed. For thirty days, when I woke up and when I went to sleep, I would write down the thoughts I had of you. These thoughts are both liberating and painful to read. I fear that I don’t come off very well. But this is what the truth looks like, I think. The thoughts I had are as follows, over the course of a month, in random order. This is what heartbreak looks like, even when it is done consensually and lovingly.

  1. What if the future is just me being secretly in love with you?
  2. I saw a flash of your picture on a friends phone today.
  3. I wonder what you’re doing.
  4. I am both thinking of you less and less and still factoring you into every decision.
  5. I’m afraid you no longer love me or care about me.
  6. I wouldn’t be writing this novel if it wasn’t for you breaking my heart.
  7. The anger I feel toward you is a wall—I don’t want to go back to taking care of you.
  8. I’m still holding out hope for you
  9. I slept with some else today. She felt differently than you did, came differently than you did. This is nothing new. But I noticed it.
  10. You are starting to fade from my memory.
  11. Cigarettes have been incredibly effective at erasing my feelings for you. Except now I’m in love with smoking.
  12. Once again you’ve ruined the Mountain Goats for me
  13. You taught me a lot about love. I taught myself more.
  14. At first it was uncontrollable pain that compelled me to write these notes and put them in a box. Now it’s a way to recognize the (smaller) space you hold inside of me. Every day that space shrinks. I wonder what ghost of you will linger on.
  15. I’m afraid that you have forgotten me
  16. You had two chances with me. Now you don’t get me at all.
  17. If I find out you’re dating someone else I will burn your life to the ground.
  18. I’m sorry my email was so cold.
  19. I’m afraid I won’t find anyone better than you. You are so good.
  20. I talked to you on the phone today and you said that you sometimes look at pictures of us, wondering if you made a huge mistake.
  21. I seem to have been successful at burying my love for you.
  22. I wrote you a nice email even though I’m still committed to being angry at you.
  23. Every time I see one of your friends I want to tell them to tell you to go fuck yourself. But I don’t. I’m not asking anyone to hate you. The truth is, there is no one to blame here.
  24. I finished a novel today. I both accomplished a lifelong dream and gave you the biggest fuck you I could possibly think of.
  25. I just want to be held by you.
  26. I’m having a love affair with cigarettes
  27. Honestly, fuck you.
  28. These have become my letters to you, in absence of our communication. Today the moon was either waxing or waning.
  29. I am mourning our future.
  30. Yesterday I realized that we are not getting back together. I wasn’t doing anything special. I just felt it finally.
  31. To be honest, when I hear your name, I think “you can go straight to hell” in exactly the intonation you would have used.
  32. I don’t know what kind of truck you’re driving now so I look for you in all of them.
  33. Why am I smoking?
  34. I miss being your priority.
  35. How many times can I refresh my email until there is one from you?
  36. It feels so painful to hear others talk about sex and relationships.
  37. It’s unbelievable how many things remind me of you.
  38. Turns out this town is big enough for the both of us.
  39. I’m no longer counting down the days until we talk again.
  40. If you hadn’t broken my heart, I wouldn’t have written this novel.
  41. It’s been almost a month since we last spoke and the end is kind of in sight.
  42. I’m afraid that any reference to New Orleans will always hurt. I thought I would lose you to it. Turns out I lost you while you were still here.
  43. What if we are never close again?
  44. I wrote a whole book and I still miss you.
  45. And still—I’m dreaming of you every night.
  46. There was an email from you today but it wasn’t just for me. I read it and then deleted it. I don’t need you.
  47. Will I always be in love with you?
  48. I miss being held by you.
  49. I have avoided looking at the moon since we broke up.
  50. Who could possibly measure up to you?
  51. I can say your name now without pain ripping through my body.
  52. I have nothing left to give you.
  53. I wish I could tell you the incredible ghost story I heard today. I know exactly the face you’d make.
  54. Every night I dream that we are back together.
  55. I knew every moment with you was precious—and still—I thought we had more time.


my will

November 23rd, 2017 § 0 comments § permalink

I have always had this feeling I’m not going to be alive for much longer.

Maybe it’s because I have no money in my savings so picturing getting older is simply scary. Or because I’ve been vaguely suicidal my whole life, even at my happiest, it’s always there if you brush away the dust. Or maybe because the world and universe are entropic and we could all die at any moment.

I will be amazed if I make it past thirty-two. That’s—at most—four years left. Three and a half, really. So I figure it’s time to let you know a few things.

Listen: the first thing I’ll say is that you can read all of my journals. Maybe you can make sense of who I was and what I meant. But also maybe that’s not such a great idea because it could be pretty confusing and bring up some complicated feelings which you can’t talk to me about because I’m dead. So I don’t know, maybe burn them all at my funeral, what do I care, I’m dead, I don’t really get a say in what happens.

Some options of my death include:

  • freezing to death—that honestly sounds like the nicest way to go, plus I’m already always cold
  • somehow I get hold of a gun and blast my head off—I really wouldn’t want anyone I love, or anyone actually, to find that mess—maybe I could get lost in the middle of the woods and just leave a note at home that says “killed myself, don’t go looking for me, love you”
  • cancer—eesh that will be messy and I will have totally deserved it for the way I’ve treated my body
  • aneurysm—see above: world is chaos
  • falling off a cliff while hiking—ok, sure.

Gosh I hope I wasn’t eaten alive or burned alive or basically anything that involves me being like: this is truly the worst thing that has ever happened and I can’t believe how much I’m about to scream. Because, to me, death isn’t the worst thing that can happen. Pain is. And compared to the potential for pain that exists in the world, I’ve been pretty lucky.

Okay, if I could make one request, and then, that’s it, I’ll shut up and not be a controlling dead person, I would really love it if you would distribute my books to my friends and family. Tell them to underline the hell out of whatever they want, to write their name on the title page, and share those books with each other. A book is the best gift you can give a person, because a book contains everything you could ever want. For me, it contained every life I could have hoped to live. So no matter how I go, I will be okay with it. I read, I loved, I wrote, I’m totally fine.

Also, definitely don’t bury me in a stupid coffin. Burn my body or bury it right in the ground. I mean, I don’t really care how you treat my body I just think cemeteries and coffins and embalming are all pretty wasteful. Well actually—the world’s going nowhere fast anyway—so never mind, do whatever makes you feel best.

Also—seriously, the last request—please care for my sweet dog Hen. She won’t remember me but Hen may have been the greatest thing that ever happened to me. Actually, I find myself saying that a lot: this thing, this person, this sweet angel, was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. So I must have lived a pretty great life. I think I knew that, at the time of being alive. And still, like I said, wanting to die was always just a couple of scratches below the surfaces. Who even knows if I killed myself. Well, you probably know at this point. I hope it’s not causing you unnecessary pain.

All that being said: I’m pretty sure it’s all dirt and decomposition from here on out but, if I can, I’ll try to come back as a bluejay or a bluebird or heron or really any kind of blue bird. I’ll definitely try to come back as something blue. It’s entirely possible that you already think of me when you see a really good blue—great! I won’t have to work that hard to get back to you. I’ll just—linger on. Like a ghost. A blue ghost.

Or I’ll try to come back as a bee, gosh even though they’ve all just about disappeared. Actually, that works out nicely: another reminder that bees are precious, that all life is precious, even if it doesn’t mean anything in the whole stretch of the story, preciousness still exists. So I’ll be this precious little honey bee. And if you see me, one day on a hot summer afternoon, when you’d love nothing more than to go swimming in the ocean, and I’m there buzzing and bumping against a glass window, both of us just wishing we could get outside—could you open the window please? And let me fly free? Thanks, love.


  • take care of Hen
  • read my books
  • even if it doesn’t make any sense and you’re pretty sure that I am definitely just rotting away, I think that’s okay to look for me and talk to me, if you want or need, that it’s okay to make meaning out of things even if it’s all longterm-meaningless. I mean, why else would I write or read if meaning didn’t help me survive whatever number of years I survived?

And the final, most important point, so important I can’t possibly stress it enough, perhaps the most important thing I did during my short time in existence:

I loved you more intensely than you can possibly imagine.

Not now.

November 20th, 2017 § 0 comments § permalink

It finally hit me today that it’s over. It’s been twenty-one days since you broke up with me. I am still in shock, still mourning our future. But today, while I was doing nothing in particular, I realized you’re not coming back, we’re not on pause. And that I need to move on. The grieving process has been a slow undoing, shedding off the layers of you. I still am waiting for you to call and say you’ve made a mistake but the longer I wait the more foolish I feel. I can’t wait forever. And part of me thinks I will always be in waiting, forever. And I feel anger now. At you. For taking up so much space in this town, in my life. I feel anger. I feel anger. I feel anger because my heart wants to make a clean break of it. If I see you, I want to tell you to fuck off. Because you had no right… And here’s where the anger dissolves, and becomes something more complicated. You had every right to take care of yourself. Am I angry at the trauma you went through that made it so you have a difficult time setting boundaries? No, I am saddened by that. Truly, I don’t want you to feel unnecessary pain. Once again, I find that I am begging to hate you and I’m coming up with only love. Am I angry that you’re trying to heal yourself? Of course not. I wish it had happened sooner, I wish we could still be together. I wish I could brush my teeth with you, our socked feet touching. And we could once again ride in my car, singing along to Mariah Carey. I wish I could be in your arms, feeling safe and loved and held. My heart can’t make a clean break of this. I am shedding. Every day without you is another reference point for my life without you. Every day the future looks a little different. There is far less of you in it. Maybe one day, we can laugh and hold each other and sing badly. Maybe one day we can be there for each other to confide in, to bring each other soup and understanding. I don’t know when that day will come. I can’t wait for it any longer. If you want to be with me, you’re going to have to do the work. I’ll be over here, reading by the fire, writing a novel, spending time with my chosen family, cuddling my dog. Maybe one day you’ll be back in that picture. But not today. Not now. It’s over.

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