for someone you can laugh with
even when you’re sad
Someone you can be at
peace with, even with
a stomach full of butterflies
And as you are searching
the great sea of darkness
for a flicker of light
there is someone who is
searching for you
One day you will find refuge
in another, and they will learn
to know your heart
like it was their own
My Poetry
They accuse me of never putting myself on a page, that I distance myself from my poetry like an old lover I have lived to regret. They say I’m dishonest, inauthentic, that I don’t know heartbreak the way I write it. But there are other ways to tell my secrets, and I have many. Like apple seeds buried deep in my bones. Cinnamon and cyanide. Blood pacts and promises. There are so many versions of me splashed onto a page, like a carnival of mirrors. I wanted you to know my poetry, but I never meant for you to know me.
God
I couldn’t put a word to the thing I was searching for
that divine earth-shattering crash with divinity, anything
I pleaded, to knock me off my ill-fated path to self-destruction
on my way to meet with my desire—stop me in my tracks
At first, I thought it was duty, and I wore my hands
down to the bone working for scraps—I was grateful
Next I thought it was creation, the building of worlds
and I raised the dead for my stories, told all there was to tell
Then one day, I believed with every ounce of my being
that it was a man and I was out of my mind for him
yet my body wouldn’t let go in my ascension to heaven
I fell back down so hard, I almost thought I’d found it
And then on a quiet Sunday I had nothing left to give
I was still my earthly self—ashamed of my wanting
When I noticed a crack in the wall above my kitchen sink
from where a row of ants had emerged quietly one after another
Marching in a line, tiny antennas twitching, searching the ether
and all at once, a deep and profound understanding shook me
In that moment, I knew without question to be alive
is to seek and thirst and hunger. For the first time
God showed his face and I was compelled by a voice
unlike any other, coaxing me to make peace with my desire,
to remain wholly intact as I was intended—gladly imperfect—
with joy give myself up to the inevitability of my life
A Love Letter to Poetry
There is a voice inside your head
With whom you speak every night
And this voice you hear in bed
You often hear without a choice
And it sings to you as sweet as song
And will ask you nothing in return
If you’re alone it stays by your side
a part of you that will never tire
And when you write, it will rejoice
For poetry is a love letter to that voice
Ask the World
When you can’t find a single soul to carry your poetry to him—you must ask the whole world instead.
Mistress
His work is his mistress
He goes to her
sometimes for hours
sometimes for days
I know where he is
the minute I lose him
in mid-conversation
She’s never far from his mind
His fantasy girl
Stitched from memories
of past lovers
real and imaginary
Someone
The work is sweeter when it’s done to the backdrop of love. The ambient glow of knowing you are safe. Someone to bear witness to your creation. Someone to hold your hand.
Men
Men possess us like demons
like demigods
We revere them
We despise them
We chase them
We run away
than our desire
but we let them move
into our bodies
occupy our minds
bleed the strength from our bones
drain the charge from our spines
Men make us or they undo us
like time
like life
like love
they give us everything
They take it all
To Understand
I am only writing to you now, my sweet, because it is such a sad, sad time. And when I am sad it seems, you’re the only one on my mind. The only who knows the truth depth of the deep dark sea, who has traveled as far down as me.
From the start we were bound by sadness and everything else—but you cannot live with someone who is so much like yourself. So, I am reaching out to you again, with my small, anxious hands. Because today I am not looking for kind words or platitudes—but for someone to understand.
The End of Love
Somewhere on a sidewalk
you kiss a girl hello
and the world collapses
around me as you fall into her
Somewhere on a bathroom floor
lying among the ruins of our love
I am trying to pick myself up again
Somewhere in an old abandoned house
on a distant star—they’ve just heard
your voice for the first time.
And if sound can go on forever
Then why can’t our love?
After Thirty
For many women, turning thirty is something we are conditioned to dread. As though we are born with a clock already ticking, counting down. From our first breath, we are in a race against time.
I clearly remember my race. Looking at how far everyone had gone ahead of me, feeling panic well up in my chest. All my life, I had thought the clock ticking away inside me was a time bomb. But when the time came, I realized the clock wasn’t counting down—it was counting up. And just like that, my whole life came together, and I knew it was just the beginning.
Everything good that happened after that would have happened anyway. But after thirty, I learned that when you confront your fear, it will no longer have power over you. And when you are no longer afraid, the possibilities are endless.
Night and Day
There are those who say
that love is bright
that love and hate
are day and night
Yet there is light
when darkness looms
and shadows
in every sunlit room
When grief foreshadows
the blackened moon
joy is a counter
to her doom
May we see ourselves
in every star
that sets to remind us
who we are
The Chase
I have grown soft—forgotten what it was like to go hungry. Love has spoilt me, but I don’t miss a man I have to chase. Does that seem sad to you? That I don’t miss you? I wish I could tell you about my life. Paint a picture of everything you’re missing. Sometimes I still feel you, looking out from behind my eyes. There was a time when I would have given it all to you. But not anymore. The truth is, I loved our love more than I loved you.
Moving Time
Like love, loneliness is a nocturnal thing
when I’m missing you all night
You snatch away the sleep
You take so much time from me, my love
And what is love but a heartbeat, ticking over
What is a heartbeat but a ready and anxious clock
What are you but minute hands and hours absent
Only you can make time move for me, my love
Only you can make it stop
A Single Word
To be a poet you must hold nothing back. In poetry there is no room for ego, nowhere to hide. You must write under the pretense that no one will ever read a single word.
When We Love
Why does it hurt when we love
When love is so painfully present
Like a sheet on a line
warmed by the sun
Or when I take your hand
A simple, sweet thing
A miracle every time
You ask me why it hurts
and I breathe you in
Ever so slowly, I breathe love in
Hold it for as long as I can
and I say, ask me again
if there is tenderness in love
If there is too much of it
On Being a Muse
I need you—your warmth and despair. I want to be the word that curls around your tongue. The body that curls around your words. Sometimes it feels like a curse to be this intimate with language. To admit I am not the only one you have touched in this way.
My Love
My love calls to me
Says, when will you come back
like you promised all those years ago
When you miss the shoreline of your motherland
When you’ve had the world so many times over
and found it more walls than wonder
My love says I have grown old waiting for you
Don’t you miss me—
not even a little?
Does this not feel like
a kind of slow death
Tell me now before I go on waiting
if I should die waiting for you
Something Back
The moment you look at me will be the end of my life. The second your arms open up for me, everything will fall to dust.
There is no such thing as happiness like this. My lips pressed into your palm. Joy tearing through me like madness. Your tongue drawing circles down my stomach. Nothing this perfect can come from God. It must be borrowed from a place so dark, it would make your skin crawl. It doesn’t come without wanting something back.
The One She Loved
She lived her life hiding from herself
Trading one abuse for another
Weighing every wrong with
a feather and stone
And every man she wanted
Wanted her all to himself
and the one she loved
left her alone
Ten Things
There came a time when you were allowed only ten worldly possessions
Down by my feet, were the things I had chosen
The first was a clock to tell the time. And to feel a heartbeat that was separate to mine
A pencil, eraser, and book of blank pages, words written on sand through all the ages
A spoon and bowl my fifth and sixth, a phantom meal for me to lick
My seventh a cup to catch the rain, to quench my thirst and dull my pain
A pillow in the place of my bed, to rest my head
My ninth, a quilt against the cold, something to hold
And when I was down to one, I couldn’t choose
between a knife and a picture of you
Shame
Is it truly possible to live without shame? If not inflicted by others, then self-imposed?
Some Loves
I think of our love as a door left slightly ajar, like a magnifying glass that my hand must shield from the sun. There are some loves that are soft and gentle like the caress of summer rain and others like wild animals trapped in cages, that will devour us whole if we let them.
Those That Come
The things you want
beyond reason
how will they come?
Will it be all at once
Or one by one?
When you arrive
at your heart’s desire
How will you fair?
Will it be as you imagined?
when your dream
is standing there?
There are dreams
that take a lifetime
Others—merely a day
Only those that come
too swiftly
just as quickly
slip away
All Love
It is time to do what you’ve always wanted. It may be the best or worst thing, but it will no doubt be the bravest. You are young enough to build your life from the ground up, old enough to know how to do it. So, close your eyes and listen to the drumming of your heart, the ringing of your soul whispering now is the time, this is now your time. Do what you must, what you must do. For those who act out of love needn’t ever be afraid. I am all love and you have nothing to fear.
We Were Loved
We were loved in ways
We couldn’t know
Loved with gladness
Loved with sorrow
We were taught to meet
the demands of others
In the name of love
they hurt our mothers
They kept us close
and held our hands
Gave us more love
than we could stand
And still we plead
and still we doubt
whether loved within reason
or loved without
To Yourself
Pick yourself up. Get it together. Not because others have it worse than you. Not because you owe it to anyone to put on a smile. But because you have your mother’s blood flowing through your veins. And even if you think otherwise, you matter to so many people. But first of all, you need to matter to yourself.
A Reminder
People want to know you
All you have to be is present
People want to love you
All you need to be is yourself
Written
When you have written all you had to write
there is nothing left to write about but yourself
Among the Stars
A girl from nowhere special. With a fistful of dirt in her hand. And an irrepressible fire in her belly.
Who looks up at the stars and knows them by heart. Who is patiently learning the language of The Universe. And believes in something greater than herself.
That loves her unconditionally.
And will carry her always.
A girl who looks up at the stars knowing one day, she will be among them.
Show of Love
I want to buy us a house
with red roses in the yard
and a skylight above our bed
Raindrops dancing on the glass
A house made of bricks
an address that I can write to
anytime I wish
A fireplace roaring
against the long, cold night
and a blanket big enough
to wrap around us both
I think shelter is the ultimate
show of love
and I want to protect you
from everything that hurts
All the Things
You are made of the all things you have loved
. You are made of the all the things you have lost. And both contribute in equal measure to your beauty and your brilliance.
Your Poetry
If I only knew you through your poetry—would ever only know you through your words—I think I would have loved you just the same.
My Version of Love
You gave me so much—I didn’t know how to hold it. The moment you stopped, I was down on my knees. You said my version of love could not exist without conquest. Maybe you’re right.
All my life I have fought so damn hard for every single thing I have.
If you make it too easy for me, I won’t believe it’s real.
This World
I love this world so very dearly
Even more so now it feels
I am losing my grip on everything
The sun came up for me even
though I never asked it to
And most days I wouldn’t give
a second thought to everything
that was going right in my life.
The pure joy of waking up
with somewhere to go
something to do
and someone to love
I used to worry in the pointless way
one does—one who never had
to question her place in the world
Not knowing the fragility
of this place
Be a Poet
What is it like being a poet? You open yourself up like a big, ruinous chasm and everyone sees inside you, but no one understands who you are.
Palm
I drew on the back of my hand—all my plans. Things I would never say out loud. I stared at the words and what they meant. For myself, and everyone around. I unclenched my fist, held my palm up flat like a mirror, looked at it long and hard. I took a deep breath; my finger traced the lines from end to start. My life line. My fate line. My heart. It was all there before me like an open book, but I still didn’t know what to do, even though I already knew.
Every Other Heart
Will you love me enough? Love me so much that your heart can barely hold it—that it would break every other heart you’ve ever held?
Good Enough