dear ex-lover,

I thought that you should know how often I think of you. The first snow is melting, and I can’t help but remember the snow on the ground the first time that you kissed me. The cold reminds me of you, and I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. I still can’t say for certain whether my memories of you are shrouded in the warmth I once felt from you, or if I’ve yet to remove my rose-tinted glasses.

I fell in love with your handwriting before anything else. Then came your seafoam eyes. Then your hands, dancing along the fret board of your guitar. I still remember how it felt when you ran them through my hair, grazing the back of my neck. I fell in love with your lips, and I can’t tell you how many times since last June I’ve remembered how you tasted, and how heavy your heart was. I could tell so much from the way that your lips felt on mine.

I fell in love with you on the couch in my parent’s basement. I fell in love with you in the backseat of your car – I fell in love with you beneath the lights strung above our heads. I still can’t turn on those lights without feeling your ghost blow across my body.

I fell so deeply in love with your heart, but still – I can’t say that the earth shattered as our eyes locked. I can’t say that the earth recognizes our steps. And how lucky we were to have nothing expected of us.

I couldn’t count the amount of women I’ve tried to put in your place – you keep coming back to me like an old melody, floating up behind vodka sodas and new dance partners. And in the time that I’ve spent without you dancing in my presence, I can’t say that much has improved. I still lock myself in my room and paint for hours, but I no longer show you my paintings. I don’t call you when I can tell that you’ve had a bad day. I just let the feeling pass. Maybe someday, my heart won’t be so inexplicably drawn to yours.

I want you to know that I wish you nothing but happiness. You are one of the best people that I have ever had the honor of knowing – of loving. I hope that you find someone who can give you the things that I can’t, and love you in the ways that I never could.

With the purest of intentions and more love than I could ever express –



the call of the city (between the dead and the living)

I have a habit of dreaming things into existence and though I couldn’t tell you how it works, I know that it does, because

I’ve watched it happen before my eyes.

But this time is different-

this time I am dreaming into existence a future for myself, one that takes place in a city between the dead and the living-

a place where something about the rain sends shivers down my spine

and I can finally feel the blood running through my veins and know that

I am


I exist in more than the no-name town I have grown to resent.

The familiarity is sickening; I need something more.

East village or Brooklyn, I would think.

Where my great grandmother spent her final years would be ideal, but I’ll take what I can get and

I can see you there.

I can see us there.

The blood in my veins is that of strong women who existed between the dead and the living


they knew how to live

and I intend to do them justice.

profound human nature

I can’t say that I remember exactly when your lyricism turned to profound loneliness

nor can I remember the reasons as to why you had plastered your bedroom walls in shades of green.

But what I can remember, darling –

the constellations I found on your body in a room lit by nothing but us

they were never ending

and I could never help myself from wanting to understand the galaxies you held within.

See –

I had never known much of wanting

until I had known you.

i never said that punk was for lovers

I have for many years felt the disconnect between my mind and body,

let myself look down through periscope eyes.

Somewhere between nothing and everything I find myself

and you-

How particular my fondness of you. How fervid. How violent.

I could leave these parts of myself on your lips and see the world through eyes of ocean blue

and it’s the thought that we could do this forever

but I-

I was the one that cared too much, not you.

pour croire a se; to accept oneself (ages 8-18)


I am no longer afraid to touch her. Magnolias have sprouted from my chest as an atomic bomb; a mushroom cloud of my purest thoughts. I have always been this way. I have always been capable of this.


He’ll grab your wrists and lay hand on your waist, spinning you madly about his shoulders and ridding you of any purity you once felt. But you will never hear him call you beautiful.


Pecola Breedlove is the purest representation of your innermost thoughts. You are driven to mere insanity at the thought of who you are, of who you are becoming, and you will pace back and forth within the blackness of your own mind, wondering if it will always be this way. Remember that stars cannot shine without darkness. I could feel the chains of Cetus piercing my chest from millions of miles away.


I think I look like a raccoon by 11:45. No dimly lit bathroom could make me shed this skin. I writhe like a snake, but I have never been able to rid myself of this veil over my eyes and body.


At least he was honest. Could it be that this isn’t real, that this is something I’ve made up in my head; a result of external influence? Stifle it. I didn’t know it yet, but it would take me years to even say the word out loud.


She said that friends don’t hold each other like that, and I guess she’s right. She looked at me, and I swear that I could feel elephants dancing inside my body.


The man in the purple glasses said that there is nothing abnormal about me. I’m not sure that I believe him.


The boys frighten me. They’re far too intense, too driven for this.


I keep drawing ballerinas; elegant lines and arabesques gracing the shining white pages in front of me.


I think I can tell by the heels of his shoes. I’d never met anyone else like me before.


I’ve never felt so different.


I posed an existential crisis at 17, and I let myself fade into black at a single tug of the chain. I am Andromeda, the lady in chains, and I lost myself between the can’s and the can’ts, the should’s and the shouldn’ts. I have written an epitaph to who I no longer am; I am no longer afraid to allow myself to breathe.

Qui vivra verra.

I am, I am.