I hate that
you show up uninvited,
as always.

I thought I had you
washed away,
but the sand that fell
out of my purse
said otherwise.


Never date a writer

Time machine,
take me back to when things were sweet,
like the taste of flights
on your lips as we were about to take off
into your heart.

Fly me back to a time
when I was beautiful enough for you,
smart enough,
silly enough,
good enough.

Crunch me a number
where I was the solution
to all your problems
instead of just a hole
to bury them in.

Take me back to a time
when you dove into my swimming pools
and found treasures;
instead of an empty vessel to hold
your self-hate,
your masochism.

Lay me back down on the beach of a thousand isles,
where the sun shone as bright as my smile.
Waves became walls,
hard and tall
stained from humiliation,
Protecting the sanctuary within
from a burning fire disguised
as desire with no intention to stay.

I watched the skin on my fingertips
sear off
as I tried to cool your rage
that incinerated all the memories of
my sweet elixir
you drank the day we met.

Take me back to a time when
you placed sunflowers
into my hands.
The same hands that caressed
your hurt,
your anxiety,
held you with love,

Drag me back
to before I became the enemy.
Before I was someone to blame,
push around, shame, put on display,
carry the weight of your hurt
that you couldn’t contain.

You pushed it on me.

You broke into my castle,
stole every jewel every crystal
that made up my light.

Why can’t I commit?
Because no one ever stayed.

Why can’t I trust?
Because the last one told me it was my fault, my mistakes.
I wasn’t good enough, smart enough,
too naive, took too much time,
didn’t think enough, react enough,
do the right thing, said the wrong things,
couldn’t commit enough, be enough,
love enough, try hard enough.

I’m fine. I’ll just sit here and hold your hate until
you are ready to take it back.

You probably never will.
But I’d rather hold your hate
in my delicate hands
than look in the mirror
each morning and hate what
I can’t stop.

Don’t worry about me. Just let me rock.

come clean

go to her instead of me?

Were you not finished?
Was she better?
Did she make you happier than I did?

What flipped the switch in your mind
when you turned her on instead of me?

Was it the old you,
wounds still fresh from her loss?
Was it spite? Did you want to hurt me?
Was it your insecurities?
Did she know how to comfort you better than I did?

Listen to you better?
Hold you better?
Did she love you better than I did?

When you had to choose
why did you go left instead of right?

Were you afraid of me?
Surely you know what that looked like:
me saying all the wrong things,
pushing you to be better,
caressing all the mistakes
you’ve made over a lifetime
of not feeling good enough.

Instead of calling a friend,
a parent,

you called her.

Instead of repairing us,
you called her.

Instead of choosing to love me at my worst,
you chose her.

What good was this well constructed castle,
ornamented with the crystals of my love,
tapestries of my trust,
if it decayed from the inside out?

And the worst part is
I can own your mistakes,
but you can not.


I was always supposed to be right there;

dancing on the tightropes of your insecurities and secrets.

You let down the bridge to your tall castle you built for years, keeping everyone out.

How is it in there?

Are you lonely? Is it cold?

All thoughts I ponder as you stare at me through the crack of purple window curtains;

like I’m a wild animal, a stray on the streets.


But I’m not a stray, I’m a person;

and I get scared just like you do.

But tell me why give someone a key if every other day you change the lock?


Giving a woman flowers when you have hurt her is an insult.

Women don’t deserve flowers when you have messed up, they deserve them at all times.

Why? Because they are beautiful. In all ways.

Like the way she makes you lunch and cooks you dinner, and gives you an extra for your freezer.

Like the way she does your laundry, and folds it to perfection.

Like the way she smiles, laughs, and exists in the world. Her tenderness is a phenomenon that is unmatched across the seas. She is pure light.


Giving a man flowers is not an insult.

Men deserve flowers because flowers are beautiful. And they are beautiful to admire. Just like the women who love them.

They work hard to fill a paradoxical glass of success, created by someone who is not them.

Men deserve flowers when they are upset, because they are human and they are allowed to be. The world has no mercy, it is cruel to everyone, and it’s not fair that half the souls who occupy it aren’t allowed to feel.

Men work hard to protect the women who love them, for softening their hearts for their children, for being compassionate and thoughtful.

They deserve beautiful things and beautiful souls.