Monday, July 25, 2016

sunday afternoons

He pretended he didn’t see her cry and she pretended she was ok.
And their kids grew up calling that love


Thursday, April 21, 2016

thank goodness for the pollen

because it's a lot easier 
to say it's allergies.


Wednesday, April 6, 2016

wednesdays and tuesdays and all the other days

Today was Wednesday and I didn’t even realize till ten minutes ago
I think my brain was trying to help me forget
Because if it was Wednesday then in four hours it won’t be anymore and then the day he was supposed to come would have come and gone and I would feel sad and down which I can’t afford right now

because yesterday it was Tuesday and
I cried to my parents for the first time since that boy asked my best friend to the prom a year ago (and I can’t believe that was a year ago) and yesterday was Tuesday

Yesterday was Tuesday and I finally caught my parents up on the good and the bad and
And I would’ve loved to talk to you about that but Tuesdays were busy being Tuesdays and Wednesday was being impatient like it always is and I just didn’t feel like you cared

And on Tuesdays I kept checking to see if you'd written about me or her or anyone
To see if maybe you cared, but you were just afraid to show it
To see if I wasn't so wrong about Wednesdays, shouldn't feel so embarrassed for caring so much

And about a month ago I wrote a post called Tuesday and saved it on my iPhone note pad and sent it to a friend because only two people really read my blog anymore and
When you want to write about one of those two people that still actually read your blog it’s not super convenient to write on your blog

So you write and write and write on an iPhone note pad and send it to your friend
Just to ensure someone out there can see inside your head
So someone knows what you’re feeling, how you’re pinning it all together

But you see my phone is running out of room for Tuesdays and Wednesdays
Running out of the 30-day/week/month free trial session that it signed up for,
To the Getting-my-hopes-up-for-you Magazine

Because the last time I wrote about Tuesdays they had hope for Wednesdays and lots of what ifs hung in the air kind of like mistletoe during Christmastime

But this time the tomorrow in the picture
Isn’t a Wednesday

and I never was that good at writing about Thursdays


Saturday, April 2, 2016

the power of a broken heart

This one is for the boy with the leather belt

For the fact that he thought it would feel better
Around his neck than around his waist

For the fact that he told a girl about the demons in his head
And she asked for space
Because hearing those things was hard for her

And it’s not her fault because she didn’t deserve to hear it

Didn’t deserve to be put in a position where someone was blaming her for the darkness in their heart
Didn’t deserve to be reminded that life isn’t anything like 90% of 80s sitcoms made us think it would be

But there she was
And there he was

People telling them it wasn’t that big of a deal
They’re overreacting
Move on

She should just stop being his friend “it isn’t healthy”
And he should just get over himself  and“focus on the positives”

But what no one could seem to understand is the power of a broken heart
The way it can change your life and steals the light from your eyes
The way it hurts

Because if you were walking down the street
And someone started choking you
I can guarantee you anything
If you turned to see who it was
And realized
It was someone you loved

Someone you would’ve given your life to
Someone you trusted,
taking the very life out of your lungs,

You would die of a broken heart

Before you ever had the chance to realize
You were becoming

Short of breath


Saturday, March 5, 2016


Because the thing about being human is,
If you’re sad but you don’t let yourself cry 

(because you're strong)

If you’re empty and you don’t let yourself feel 
(because you're busy)

And you keep telling everyone everything is good and ok and going well
And smiling

And living
And holding on
And hanging in there

The sad decides to make itself at home.
Decides to look around a little, maybe stay for a while

And without anyone ever knowing 
You realize you’re focusing a whole lot on swimming and breathing

You realize that uncried tears aren’t as forgiving as you thought
You realize your heart is drowning

And you’re not quite sure
what to do. 

And that's ok. 
Because it's ok 
To not be ok. 


Sunday, February 14, 2016

another one about the moon

When I was eight years old I reached so high
I grabbed a handful of the moon and decided to sew it into my heart

But wait. For a minute
Let’s talk about how the moon has phases and
Let’s talk about empty tired gazes
Because I didn’t know about those things at eight
Because full hands aren’t that different from full moons
And I can’t seem to ever remember what gibbous even means

But wait. For a second
Let’s talk about 4 am phone calls with exes
and the roommates who have to listen to them
About how they’ve talked about the same things for… since forever
And how both their hearts are at half and just need to orbit to new
Or full
Or anything besides half because halves aren’t whole and you’d think that’d be common knowledge
But every night at 4 am they seem to forget.

Back to moon-fulls and stitching hearts
Sometimes I want to blame that eight-year-old me for putting something so unstable
So changing
So inconsistent in my heart,
but I thought it was pretty and my mom had just taught me how to sew

A couple days went by and I turned 18
And the moon either disappeared
Or was staying in phase gibbous because I couldn’t understand it
remember it or
find it or feel it enough to even unstitch it

And I just put off writing this for a couple hours to register for classes and I can’t get over how ironic it was because
I ended up signing up for a class called Outer Space and I can almost guarantee they’re going to talk about the moon
And gibbous and phases

So maybe I should sit front row and take good notes and act interested and smile and dress nice
And maybe I’ll get a good grade in the class and be able to map out my heart a little better

The sun doesn’t have phases though
(as I’m sure I’ll learn in my class)
At least not on earth
So maybe me myself and eight-year-old I should’ve sewn in handfuls of the sun

But I didn’t

I still fall in love with the moon
I’ve written about it three times on this blog alone and doodled it on every page of my journal

And really, I think if there were a rocket in my back yard made of cardboard boxes and tin foil
I would be convinced it could get me to the moon

Because I would want it to
Because craters and mountains ranges and reflected light seem like the types of things that would make good stories and better friends and would add up for some good pictures
Because I haven’t felt at full for the last couple weeks and I’m starting to worry
Because I’ve had to reinvent my scale of self-worth thirteen times in the last couple months and I’m starting to worry
Because I want to show her how I know I can make her feel full because I can tell she’s starting to worry

I still think the moon is beautiful, even when it’s new
Even when it’s half
Even when it’s gibbous

And I think eight-year-old me knew that even when the moon disappeared,
It was still there, just waiting to take our breath away the next week

Maybe she knew there was something quite amazing about being able to say you’ve felt empty and half and yet,

To always know you’d make your way back to full. 


Wednesday, December 9, 2015


About a month ago some people knocked on my door.
Told me they had to run some mandatory tests that would tell me some mandatory things
Asked me what I thought I was good at and what I wished I was better at and what I knew I wasn’t best at
I filled out some forms and I thought it was pretty easy because I thought I knew what I was good, and ok and not best at.  

Turns out the machine knew more than my list of “thought-I-knew”s

Printing... printing... printing...
Barely above average in soccer 
Middle of the pack in school 
Normal in looks, decent artist 
On point sock game 
Good at church
Successful eater 

and a big fat, Helvetica font,

have a good day

At first I was shaken and I probably called my mom. 
She probably told me I’m special and probably told me it’s ok if I’m not, but I am so don’t worry.

So it’s ok. It’s ok. You’re ok.
And moms are supposed to do that. Supposed to say that. Supposed to believe that.
But there I was with letters looking back at me and I couldn’t help but think about them.

Because there’s a lot of soccer players out there. 
A lot of artists and Mormons.
And there’s a lot of blonde, 5’4’’, smile big, 
good at school (sometimes), sock wearing girls out there.
And we can’t all be special.

So I stuck the paper on my desk and stapled it to my heart till forever.
Some days I held a pity-party for myself.
Handed out a lot of “I’m not specials” just to hear people tell me I am.

Some days I hid the paper behind my shelf
Put in extra time, running, working, studying, prepping, cleaning, being.
Convinced that the next time the machine came around I’d score 5 stars, a 4.0.


But turns out emotions are circles and our hearts are downhill and that circle is really good at rolling
Really good at making the last month a rollercoaster of I’m oks and I’ll prove them wrongs and I’m specials and why am I tryings

Because I want to stop rolling
Because I’m getting dizzy
Because I’m getting lost

Cuz I was always the soccer player
The senior class vice president
The smart one
The smiley one
The one who was going to Washington to do something great

And now the only one I am is a one percent.
A slice of a city that never sleeps

And I’ve been thinking a lot about that paper all day today and I think I need to do something soon.

So tonight is different. Because I’m telling the paper I understand. Telling it I know I’m not special.
Not the best at anything.
That that’s ok because tonight I remembered that’s not what life’s about.

I remembered the way I look at people around me. Listening to what they’re saying and hoping and thinking. Not asking for their paper or test results.

Remembered that the people that mean the most to me aren’t the best at anything either. They’re all just a bunch of average, normal, middle of the packers who mean more than the world to me.

Who are really really special to me.

Tonight I realized for the first time the words on the paper were written in pencil
Decided to pull out my eraser and stop focusing on that word SPECIAL and the YOU ARE NOT before it

Decided to replace it with a list of the people that have told me they love me and told me they believed in me
Decided to stop living life for a better test score

And just start living