Why do I have to feel so much?
Want so much?

I just end up eviscerating everyone,
tearing out their insides,
and devouring them like candy,
and I wonder how anyone
could still want me.

But they do.

So many
love me,
want me,
desire me,
need me,

and all I am is
dust and bone
and pieces of broken flesh
smashed into a body I don’t even know.

It’s strange to let myself want,
to let myself be okay with wanting
a different kind of love.

To be okay with

But I do.
I want it.

I want you
and your cottage in the woods.
Your rough skin
and those light eyes
hiding under dark hair,
dark thoughts.

I want you more than I thought I could
after him.

I loved him (still do) in a way
that aches in my bones,
and missing you feels the same.

I think I could love you
in a way that


all other attempts
even though I pretend
they make me feel
like you feel.

Even though
I know
all I need
is you.



Beautiful Nightmares

I have these nightmares
disguised as dreams

where we are cooking dinner together,
music playing, loud,
and your laugh fills me up
each time it rings out;
we dance and eat
and make love until we are
blurry and exhausted.

Or where we are driving up
some country road lit with dappled sunlight
falling through the canopy of trees above;
you’re holding my hand,
and you bring it up to your lips
and kiss me soft.

Or the two of us,
old and white,
reading in some warm room
with a bright, crackling fire,
your arm around me
as you read me a line or two
that struck your heart.

Nightmares disguised as dreams
where I am yours and you are mine
and things are how they’re meant to be
long before we knew it.

They are beautiful which makes them sad.

Impossible is always sad.


Stupid Things: A List

I keep thinking about stupid things like:

throwing my laundry in
and regretting washing your scent
from the clothes I wore last time we touched;

how I haven’t yet washed all of them
so I can remember any trace of you
that remains;

wondering when I’ll have showered enough
to no longer feel your fingerprints
on my skin;

doesn’t your dermis completely renew
every seven years? So eventually it will be
as if we’ve never known one another,
as if we’re strangers.

the way you talk to me
in broken sentences,
half lyrics, half poetry,
your voice filling every syllable;

am I changing this suddenly,
this drastically,
all because of one day,
one man?
Because that’s how it feels;

how scared I am to want
the words,
the talking,
the pieces I never had,
the parts I crave more than sex;

wondering how I am supposed to go on
pretending I am not changed
by knowing you,
by feeling you inside me,
body and mind.


Confessions to my Therapist: A Real Conversation

“I did something stupid. Again.”

“Tell me.”

“I spent the weekend, well, twenty-four hours, with this man.”


“At first, it was a way to get over that last douchebag.”

“So, it didn’t stay that way?”

“No. It was…different.”

“How so?”

“It was more. It was like I suddenly knew how it should have been all along. To have someone to talk to, who believes in me, who listens, who can understand what I’m saying and who I am.”

“So it was more than physical.”

“That’s the worst part about it. It’s both. I’ve only felt both once before and I have an entire blog dedicated to that man.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure. You know, stories paint these pictures for us. Movies, songs, you know?”


“So, they show us the way out, but fiction isn’t reality, right?”


“So why does it feel like I’m in a fucking Chopin novel? And I know this is true.”

“How so?”

“The day I left, I could smell him on my skin, taste him on my mouth. I wanted to tell him, to exclaim how much it made me miss the touch of his hand.”

“And did you?”

“No. I thought he’d think I was crazy, stupid, dramatic, but then, the next day, he sent me a short message. Five words.”


“‘I can still smell you.'”

“Oh, god! Really?”

“Yes. Like a fucking movie, he pulled the words from my lips and delivered them to me. He turned us into a tragic romance, a doomed pairing. He made me love him, just maybe, in that moment, and I’m not sure what to do.”


In case you were wondering, she didn’t give me an answer. I still don’t know what to make of all these feelings.


Stupid Girl

The potential glides against me,
opening my eyes
to a life I didn’t see possible,
to a love that could be everything.

The future stretches out
against a new canvas
I never new existed,
and I wonder
if this is what I’ve been looking for,
if this is what it means to be happy

because I was,
for the first time in years,
I was happy.

For twenty-four short hours,
I could feel the possibility
vibrating against my skin,

“This is how it should be!
You stupid girl!
This is what you’ve missed!”


Your hands
and the water
and your mouth,

your mouth

hovering above my skin
right before you devour me,
taste every part of me.

Your tongue pushing against mine,
as you hold me close,
wanting to be closer,
so there was no air between us

because inside isn’t close enough.

Nothing could ever be close enough,

and I can still feel the jerk of my body
each time you touch me,
each time you enter me,

and I’m trapped now,
sprung on every piece that makes you.
I can’t get away or make it stop.

It was only supposed to be sex
but it’s more.
You’re more.
I’m more.

And there’s nothing to be done
but remember.



I can still smell you on my skin,
and each time it happens,
I try to hold on so
that I don’t forget
the taste of your lips,
the scratch of your cheek against mine,
the beat of your heart against my ear.

a dream in a day.

Maybe it was just that–
a photo of what could be,
one we will always carry.

Like a shoebox of letters
sitting on a high closet shelf,
we will take out that day
and remember every inch,
every touch and whisper and pancake,
the warmth of our mouths and bodies
floating in that sea of fantasy.

And then we’ll close the box
because looking too long
hurts too much.

I miss you.
And probably every day
from now on.


Idyllic Lies

A 24-hour imaginary world,
a bubble of
love and sex and freedom
to just be,
to just smile, laugh, feel.

You held my hand in the dark
and picked an apple from a tree
and played your favorite songs
while you kissed every inch of my skin.

And you held me,
touched me
like all of it was real,
like today we would wake up
and eat breakfast
and kiss and watch TV,

and it would all be
so normal,
so permanent,
so real
instead of the bubble.

I could touch your face
and know you were mine.



We sit in separate rooms,
living separate lives,
never realizing we’ve become
shadows of us,
ghosts of who we were
when we were
young, brazen, hopeful.

How do you save something
that never truly existed?
Something that was only
ever imagined,
never real,
only wants and desires,

needs plastered on paper walls,
dreams transformed into nightmares?

How do you save a figment,
a phantom of what we both wanted
but could never quite grasp?

Do you feel it?
The hollow?
The empty?

Or is it just me
who has destroyed us?

Is it only me
who yearns to be touched
like I’m magic,
to love like he creates
each breath I breathe?

Or do you feel it like I do?

Does it devour your soul,
your will like it does mine?

Because I love you
but not like I should,
not like I want to.

And I can’t figure out
how to change it.


Mind & Body

It’s funny
what your brain can do
to your body,

how a broken mind
equals broken body.

My thoughts
creep around my head,
waltz with the dust mites
in the back corners,
seduce the closed cupboards
into opening and letting out
all the secrets stashed inside.

And then my limbs stop functioning,
my feet stop walking,
and my body is filled with you
because so is my mind.

I feel you in my hands,
taste you on my lips,

and I wonder when the pain
beneath my ribs
will dissipate

because the thoughts
still climb around my brain
and take their pain out on my skin.