It’s a golden age I’m in. With sage hanging in my window and a warm mug in my hands. My phone lighting up from messages from a charismatic, handsome, kind man.

This golden age has to be made. The stones turned over until I began to find little nuggets of that gold I was searching for. Heaven isn’t where you are, it’s what you make, and oh Darling, from my skin, gold pours.

I’m in a golden hue where the whips of icey wind don’t chill my skin. I’m alive, I’m magnetic and I’m burning flames within.

A fire sign wasn’t meant for wallowing waters but for a spark to catch, a golden flame that will climb higher and higher. I am flames. I am fire.

I’m in an epic era of a life I love to live. A small smile because I know the Universe had to let me drown so I could learn to swim. I am grateful for all the pain She has had to give.

I am ages older somehow and the things that hurt me seem so small now. When they come to me seeking soothing I have to remember they are paddling in shallow waters and I am pulling water through my gills.

I am the ocean, now. The waves come in and I am their ebb. I am their flow.

I am in my own golden age and the Universe has taught me how to let it all go.


Sorry Again.

That bended knee never seems quit as humble as what you had hoped. It never seems as charming when it’s real.

In your dreams it’s dashing and handsome, an apology that makes your broken heart start to heal.

But when it’s in your face, or on your phone, it seems so small. Shallow. It’s not what you had hoped for and maybe that’s because you’ve grown.

You just needed reality to settle in with a crooked smile and a half ass “I’m sorry.” A dirty boot on your clean floors. You just needed this moment to be real to remind you why you showed him the door.

It’s not his fault I don’t do second chances anymore. It’s not his fault I hate the word “sorry.” It’s not his fault he couldn’t be right, it’s someone else’s, it’s not even mine.

I needed that feeble chinned apology when I was laying in the dark wondering how sick a man could be. I realize now that I just don’t accept anymore “sorry’s.”


Life is short, they say.

Save all your worries and fears for another day. Live your dreams and follow your fears. Don’t stop trying until you’re gone from here.

Life is short, they say.

I didn’t know what that meant. Then you were killed September 28.

Life is short, they say.

Live loudly and boldly. Always hug your mother and always say your prayers.

Life is short, they say.

Forgive the past and let it go. Allow happiness to guide your souls. I knew they were crazy for spitting all this positivity into my face.

Life is short, they say.

Then you were killed on September 28.

I didn’t know 29 was young, because you see, I felt like we were growing old. I let you go, like we always did, I knew you’d be mine again. We always ended up together without being told.

He was mine, you see. He was always part of me. We did this insidious thing where we’d drift apart but we always came back, him and me.

Life is short, they say.

I didn’t know what that meant until September 28. Part of me died that day.

Now I feel the shortness in my bones. I live my life as if I didn’t turn to stone. I let my skin soak in the sun and feel every feeling I can until I’m dripping with emotions and the sun has long gone. I had to cut off the rotting parts I had let grow into my soul, I’ve made a point of living as if I won’t grow old.

Like him.

Life is short, they say.

Don’t forget to live your life today.


Peace settles into the finest cracks that have riddled my body. It lays like a blanket over the cold parts and softens the calloused ones.

Letting go has led me here, to a place where my mind has come to terms with the loveliest parts of my soul.

Briars and thorns are part of the tapestry, as are sandpaper vocal cords and dried salt water from over the years.

So are little fingers tangling in my hair, now big kids with arms around my neck. So are flower dresses that whoosh in the wind. The smell of coconut and smiles, a photo reel of all the places I have been.

A heavy tapestry that decorates my walls and tells the story of who I am, was, imperfections and all.

The peace that is now wholly a part of who I am has sealed the fabric that was wearing thin. This peace that I had to teach myself to thread has saved my very life again and again.


I’ve been sober for four months. Four months without a hit. I’ve written it all down to keep me from anything less than quit.

Four months without you and I’m doing fine. But being sober doesn’t mean you don’t miss it sometimes.

I crave the way he could make me feel. I want the feeling of him being needles in my veins and under my skin. The ownership he had, the control of him.

I itch for the scratch only he could reach. That drug just out of site, only four months deep. But I’ve quit him four months ago and I’m itching for a fix. Put down the phone, you’re sober now, quit.

Four months of sober doesn’t feel like much. These months without your insidious waste feels like maybe I’ve forgotten how good it can feel. Four months sober from you makes it hard to keep this even keel.

Sober doesn’t always taste like winning and sometimes I’d rather be an addict than keep living what is real.


I need to acknowledge it out loud. It’s time I let this insidious secret out.

I am a liar. I lied to myself for far too long. I lied to myself and thought I could let time tick my feelings away. A lie, I thought, would finally stick; finally stay.

I tried to bury them deep, I tried to place them under piles and piles of dirt. But I lied to myself, which in turn was a lie to everyone else I loved someone else more than I cared about being hurt.

I will always love him more than I’ll ever love anyone else. I’ll always love him more than, I think, I’ve loved myself. I accepted his flaws when I ignored and hated all of mine.  He fixed everything I hated by drowning it with green eyes.

I loved him when he was distant, I loved him when he was close, I loved him always, even though silence was often how he spoke.

I’m a liar for trying to fool myself into thinking I didn’t love him anymore. My lie died with him. One year ago I realized that with his death, came the death of part of me. The part that I’d been hiding. A lie I knew he’d always seen.

He died a year ago and so did my one biggest lie. I’ll never lie again. I learned my lesson and it only took the death of the biggest love I’ve ever been in.


Funny how fickle summer nights can be. How shooting stars and tents can weaken my knees. How the weather changing changes me, too. I still want to be the one who makes you laugh, but I am no longer romanticizing you.

Funny how your first lust after your heart was annihilated somehow Big Bangs all that dust back into your chest. How that simple explosion brings life to your unrest.

Funny how your rapid beating heart under my cheek soothes me off to sleep. That we aren’t remotely meant to be. Yet, somehow it makes me wildly happy we exist in this same bed, no strings for you or me.

Funny that you make me laugh until my lungs can’t fill up; that you’re so much more than the labyrinthine hell I came out of. You’re the fresh air I’ve been dying to take a breath from.

Funny how feelings fade as seasons change. Funny that I knew it was the smell of fire and wood smoke filling my nose, not you, but the impression you made. Funny how, even at thirty, summer is the best time to misbehave.


The thing about luck is that after awhile it doesn’t seem like a enough.

I’ve found money on the ground, I have the sun shining on my face, I’ve a fist full of four leaf clovers, so much love I don’t know what to do… but I miss you.

I stumble over the cracks but I don’t fall. I’ll drop everything in my hands but nothing breaks at all. I’m spinning straw into gold and get praised for being so bold.

I have everything and even more than most people do… but I miss you.

The shadows don’t stay in my corners for very long. Somehow I manage to feel each part of the song. I hold onto love and sometimes the pain, I let go of what doesn’t serve me and I up the game.

I land on my feet even when I don’t try to…But I miss you.


Why did I have to cry my way from the bed to the floor? Why did I have to yell at him to stop to make him understand I was in no place to be fucked from three in the morning, let alone four?

Do most men need tears and pleas of “what the fuck is wrong with you” to ensure that I’m safe at night? You’re a “good guy” for stopping. Great job, you didn’t commit rape tonight.

Did curling up and squirming away to the hardwood floor not say the words I was afraid to say? Because that’s where I ended up as I apologized to keep him at bay.

Tell me how hard it has been to be a man. Tell me more about how “no,” is so hard to understand. Tell me more about how you definitely understand.

Tell me how you’ve been terrified of using words. Tell me about how you hope turning away will make someone stronger not want to make you hurt. Tell me how you’re afraid saying “stop,” will make someone quiet their own sense of adrenaline fueled mirth.

Fuck you and the dick that you bear. Fuck you and the dried tears I pretend were never there. Fuck you for treating any of us like we are just a hole for you to use and toss in the trash like it was never there.