Wednesday, February 25, 2015


He was mad as hell. 
He wanted so badly to be the straw that broke her. 
He wanted to see the agony creep across her face as 

She clocked that she could never escape him. 

But instead she stood straighter. 
She held her head high in the air.
And spoke not to him, but around him.

"I am the strength of my own power.
I am the source of my own love. I am whole.
I am not a part of you or anyone.
I am a woman; blood, sweat and emotion,
And I will tear through your influence like the razor blade promises you cut me with."

He was speechless.
She was afraid no more.

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

I Hope That She Knows

I hope she knows that we see her. 
We, the masses, standing two steps to the left, but evenly by her side,
 Out of the corner of our eye, we see her. 

And we understand that she is learning, as we all are, 
She is trying to fill her life with meaning.
There's no meaning otherwise.

And I know that she cries when she feels broken, 
Tries to hold it in unspoken, but we hear her.
Because a heart like that beats loudly. 
It drowns out the sounds of sadness, 
And screams out into the the air of missed opportunities.
"Just try me" it says.

A heart like that beats 90 to nothing 
- stopping at nothing short of greatness.
All she wants is a taste of how forever feels.

I hope that she knows that she's the light when the night rolls in. 
The voice that we hear when we're unsure of our fears and our dreams.  
She's the one who shows us the goals that we want to reach, 
and each one of us is grateful. 

And even in the silence, when no one bats an eyelid, 
We know we're not alone, because her soul is far too strong.
And she is love - we know this.
If only she knew. 

The Victim

She is a fucking warrior -
This girl with rope burns around her wrists.
She’s been constrained for twenty-two years,
And tonight she will sever the ties.

She will not walk away empty handed
For the tension in the room
Could be knifed out, scooped up, and pocketed.

His broken promises have left splinters on her tongue
And his fists gave bruises to her cheeks.
She knows she deserves better,
But she will thank him anyway.
A man must be compassionate to stop when he is begged.

Her heart is black with dust.
He has left it sitting there on the counter-top
Since the day that she forgot to iron
His Navy button-down.
Her knees are dry from kneeling before him
In apology.

But one foot in front of the other –
She will walk away from this.
She will attempt to belie the affect that he has had on her.
Claiming that his reaches are not never-ending.

She will wake up one day,
Without his fingers wrapped around her throat.
Using a voice that is hers, and hers only. 
Even “Goodbye” sounds better with freedom.

And when she goes,
She will find her way back to me –
The thump-thump-thump of my heart
Beating out the path for her to follow.
Because I never left.
And I never will.

I will apply bandages to the things that are broken.
I’ll apply pressure to open wounds,
But none to her decisions.

I’ll allow her to find herself in open space.
Watch as she collapses
For the fiftieth time.
And will use my heart to soften the blow.

I will love her, as she has loved him.
I will hold her in my heart, as she has held him.
And I shall long for her, just as she has always longed for him.

Entirely and without return.
A servant to the heart.
A victim to the fall.  

Sunday, February 22, 2015

Midnight Serenade

She was a novel.
A well-written tragedy.
She had been used.
Her pages had begun to curl at the edges,
But what remained was still captivating –
Even after all these years.

I was in love with the sound of her voice.
There was a rumbling in its depth
That carried all of her afflictions,
And I was swept up in the echo –
Hoping to drown in the wave.

It was through loving her
That I first learned to love myself.
Heart to soul.
Finger to cheek.
Lip to neck.
Tongue to clavicle.

Layer by layer she unwrapped my insecurities
And found me lying bare-chested
In the moonlight.

It wasn’t until after she left
My secrets strewn across the bed
That I realized
I’d have to tuck them all neatly in again.

I tried to analyze my parents. 
Story by story I would break down
their decisions and reactions and
I would try to compare them to my own
Hoping to find clarity in my mistakes.

But I am not my father’s quick-step
Nor my mother’s bleeding heart.
I am flesh and bone.
Foul mouth and crude humor.
I am a lady.
I am also a tramp. 

I am the definition of a fixer upper.
And I wear it proudly.
Because sometimes when the moonlight
floods in through the windows
I hear her deep whisper,
“It’s ok to feel broken.
It’s alright to survive.”

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Just So You Know

I spent part of twenty-two living in a Harry Potter sized closet.
My father left us when my mother was in labor.
I guess I consider both tight places to be in.

He came back when I was two.
And then again at twenty-two.
I enjoy having him in my life so much now that it hurts.
I never forgot the years that he was gone,
But greatly appreciate the years he’s been present.

I prefer black socks to white.
It blurs the lines of my ankles.
Which I will always compare to cankles
Thanks to a girl in the fifth grade
Who had a complex given to her by her older brother.

Speaking of, mine:
Trust is something that shouldn’t be given away.
And neither should forgiveness.
Not to those who tear out parts of your inner child
And display them for the world’s most broken to ponder over.

Attending a women’s college the best decision I ever made.
The worst was Palm Springs.
When I was sixteen I passed out in the middle of a beauty pageant.
I woke up long before they realized, but was too embarrassed to admit it.
Because my high school sweetheart was in the crowd.

My mother and I aren’t as close as we used to be.
It’s unlikely that she will ever read this poem.
But I’ll say it anyway - I am disappointed
That she never held herself to the same expectations she set for me.

I am sensitive… But I love that about myself.
I watch Disney movies when I’m sick.
And a very deep part of me still wants to be a Princess.
I think about wearing a simple white dress every other day.

I don’t know how to tell you to disappear.
It hurts when you’re around,
But I love you so much I had rather save your heart than mine.
So I agree to call you on Thursday.

In my fridge I have California Pizza Kitchen, red wine, hummus,
and a soup that I infused with way too much garlic, but I am learning.
And this practice will make something perfect.
Or it will make someone really, really sick. 

My favorite poem is “The Type” by Sarah Kay.
It reminds me of you.
Someday, they will hold out their hand - offer seventy five percent -
And ask “Is that not enough?”

But know that it isn’t.
Because you each have two hands. 
And they should all bring something to the table.  

Missy Higgins just came on
And my heart wavers.
I am convincing when I say that everything is fine
But what I mean is

-       I will never give up

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

On The Street Corner

She stands there with her back pressed firmly against the red brick wall.
Her breath swirls into the smoke emitting from her cigarette –
The two dance wildly together through the cold night air.

She appears to be impatiently waiting for someone,
But you know that she’s not,
Because she stands there every Friday night around this time.

No, she’s alone.
She’s simply worn “unapproachable” like a sweater
Since she was fourteen years old.
Because invisible feels a lot less lonely when felt on purpose.

You almost spoke to her last Friday
As you watched her drop a dime into a parking meter
Just in time to deflect someone’s parking ticket
And spark fire in the meter maid.
“Rebel with a good cause. “
You almost said to her.

But then you realized how ridiculous it sounded,
And it took you far too long to think of.
So instead, you sat quietly inside the coffee shop
Sipping your tea.
Because that’s as rebellious as you‘ve ever been.
But tonight feels different.
She looks nervous.
You clock the worry on her brow,
And innately you stand.

As a child, your mother accidentally taught you
That you should fix all that is broken.
So your legs carry you out the door,
Poetry in hand, to greet the woman you’ve only
Admired from afar.

“Los Angeles is cold at night.”  She says aloud.
Not really to you, or anyone.
“It is.” You respond anyway.
Aware of your presence, she glances at your hands.
“Still reading that one?”
And your heart pounds
As it settles in

That she’s noticed you too. 

Monday, February 2, 2015

The Thing About Me

The thing about me is that I would have waited.
At least a month.
Maybe a year.
Possibly ten.

The thing about you is you never stopped searching.
Not even for that long.

I was never surprised
when you tried to cram everything you were looking for
into a cranium attached to some asshole.

You would open them up, spill all of your secrets inside -
only for their bodies to reject you like a bad drug.

My contents rested openly visible on a shelf collecting dust,
but you never explored them for fear that you might like what you found.