Thursday, August 25, 2016

i came home 
and saw the remnants 
of half ripped apart
cinnamon rolls,
dried up frosting smeared on the 
counter.

-it reminded me that you are 
an amazing dad
honestly, 
it wasn't because i was blind 
or i couldn't see.
those were just excuses. 
i was just being a 
coward.

-crutch

Monday, August 22, 2016

forbear∙ abstaining from the 
enforcement of
a right. 
patient endurance;self control. 
to keep back; withhold
to endure

Saturday, August 20, 2016

 em-pa-thy: the action of 
understanding, 
being aware of, 
being sensitive to, 
and vicariously  experiencing the 
feelings, 
thoughts, 
and experience of another of either 
the past or present 
without having the feelings, 
thoughts, 
and experience fully communicated 
in an 
objectively 
explicit manner

apples&honey

chelsea picked out 
two long slender cigars
they looked 
just like my
middle fingers, 
brown and textured.
she said they were flavored, 
and i mustn't worry 
about getting addicted.
the brown cashier,
who we had visited before
let the last bit of change slide
as he pushed the cigars 
and candy bars 
towards us.
chelsea pulled us outside that night,
pushing two white 
elephant shaped chairs
hung low to the ground 
next to each other. 
the moon stared at us in curiosity,
it seemed as though 
he wished to join us
on the patio, 
he was lurking so close. 
it had been years ago
since i had first smoked a
cigar, 
[the only one ever]
it was under the warm milky 
south carolinian sky, 
similar to this night here,
i was only a 
gangly teen 
back then,
now, i was here, 
a girl in a 
30 year old woman body,
and i was eager to 
relearn this 
gentleman's pastime..
chelsea's peach colored fingers
lit the first one with a 
tiny red lighter, 
teaching me softly 
not to inhale, 
but to 
let the smoke 
e s c a p e. 
i followed her instruction 
and took a long pull, 
the soft apple and honey smoke
trailing from my lips 
like a white flag of surrender.
it tasted marvelous. 
i lost track of time
as we sat in the lull of the 
quiet evening, 
pulling air through the 
golden embers,
letting the flavors of 
smokey cinnamon, 
bits of dried apple, 
and rich red wine
slip past our teeth,
trapping it in our throats
if only to let it linger just a 
bit longer,
then reluctantly 
exhaling as the 
tiny clouds 
disappeared into the 
universe. 
we washed it down
with splashes of apple orchard brew, 
a perfect compliment
to that tender evening,
i kept thinking to myself,
i will never forget 
this night.
the company of my 
very best friend, 
the warmth of the 
Florida air,
canopied beneath the umbrellas 
of lush green palms 
and black diamond sky,
the fragrance of honey beneath our noses,
no where else we needed to be.
it goes down in the history 
of my small 
mere life,
as a sweet and tender memory
that i will always take 
with me..





the shield

she grips the shield 
slammed against her chest
her knuckles tight with 
blood and muscle
people often mistake the metal glint 
as though she herself 
were made of it,
the bitter hardness, 
her own.
and no wonder, 
the metal shield
has practically fused itself to her,
glued with fear and 
caked with 
sticky wounds that have only
just begun 
to stop bleeding. 
she wants to climb out from behind it,
beckon them back,
explain.
she has been hurt, 
accused, 
cast aside,
battered in too many battles,
wounded in too many wars
she trembles at the thought 
of not 
hiding behind the shield. 
can't they see the wounds?
can't they see the scars. 
i want her to know.
she IS seen. 
she is NOT defined by that shield,
behind it is an 
incredibly soft and tender thing, 
eager to love 
and be loved,
she is made of the softest flesh,
a vibrant and living 
beating heart.
she knows she has 
[impulsively at times]
pulled out her own sword
welding it, 
slashing it, 
drawing blood in 
others.
she does not fill the air with 
excuses or
shy away from 
battles 
she blazed herself into. 
but here, now. 
she lays it down. 
she is tired. 
of fighting.
of being emptied of 
blood and flesh
and clinging to 
fear, 
hurt, 
rejection. 
she is asking 
quietly.
humbly.
is it possible for me to 
lay down my shield, 
my sword
and begin to heal?
is anyone out there
willing to help me 
clean out my wounds, 
sew up my cuts 
and tend to my scars?
i am soft. 
i don't even like the smell of 
blood and metal.
i am tender. 
i am sorry for the hurt 
i inflicted.
now i am standing here, 
exposed, 
with nothing to 
hide behind,
no rusty shield to 
cover me,
someone please help me
make my 
softness sing
and my tenderness 
shout for 
joy. 



Monday, August 15, 2016

i have climbed
 into the hearts of 
many women
in order to tell 
their stories. 

-a good writer can