You're born and in a snap you're paying rent and buying toilet paper and all of your utensils belong to you. 

Your heart is covered in tape and hot glue and pushpins and strings.

And you are no longer a child and all the words you have ever spoken exist in between two parentheses on your face.  

You're born and all of these things really do happen in a snap. 

But five minutes can feel like a lifetime when you're waiting for the final beep on the microwave. 

Maybe we aren't always meant to purge the weight of the people who have sunk their feet into the soft places of our heart.  

I am heavy with the weight of one thing sure

Next time the earth makes its orbit around the sun

I want to be standing next to you

on love and cigarettes

Sitting on sidewalks underneath golden glowy streetlights

Smoking cigarettes and telling secrets to the night sky

i l l u s i o n

the weight of your soul pressed up against mine

making love in midair

But we are alive in this quiet suburbia

And every piece of you, stitched so tightly together, comes undon


You keep apologizing, but I ask you to stop

I want to tell you that I'm not afraid of everything that you are





I want to see all of you

Maybe someday we will move in freedom

Lips and all

I really hope that whoever I end up with loves books so that he will understand my references to literature and we can lay in bed together and read and have a huge library created from the combination of two individual lifetimes

The Garden of Me

The pockets of this neighborhood are well worn with nostalgia. I walk the streets at sundown and listen to the wind, and the birds, and the volume of the world alive -- cars vroooming down side streets, the leaf blowers familiar racket, children laughing, dogs barking, and the sound of my high-tops lightly trodding on concrete.

And in this outside space - full of so much normal that, sometimes, I forget to listen - I exist so freely, and the dream narrative that runs through my mind becomes something possible to create.

I am fully awake in this fresh air suburbia, and I am writing my own story in the clear blue of my mind. And all the things I want to be, and do, and see are penciled in on the pages of time stretched ahead of me. And I realize now that it’s up to me to place these seed ideas into the soil of my life garden.

What I put into this earth matters, so I’m doing my best to sit in this planting place each day and tend to the precious life that is growing here. I never want to stop stopping to smell the roses or stand in awe of the bougainvillea, because I understand, now, how long they took to grow.

Someday, when I tell my kids these stories, I’ll start by describing the way the sunlight felt as it poured onto the garden of me.