whispers in the night {poetry}

I worried I heard you whisper
into the night
into the wall
that you loved me
your leg thrown over mine
in a subconscious attempt to claim me for you
the buzz of siren of the city outside

The guilt sank in
There’s nothing wrong with you
There’s nothing wrong with me
but it’s not going to be enough
a perfectly plated meal
an earnest look
a wish for something more
that we both ignore

Your voice in the night
whispering something
that I never wanted to hear

XIV: inanimate objects {unedited chapters}

The journal was a thing, not a person. The journal should not have feelings, wants or desires. The journal should not speak, should not dictate.

But it did.

It was alone. It was surrounded.

It was hers, it was a guide to no where in particular. It did not tell the future and it was not meant to make her fortunes better. It was no decades old, passed down from mother to daughter to improve luck and win the lottery, there was no ritual. It had been made partially by hand, partially by factory, bought by the mother in a bookstore long ago.

It had dreams of being the conduit to the next great American novel or keeping the secrets of an heiress which would later become a memoir which would later become a movie on Lifetime. But it was empty.

It had been full of hopes and dreams and words that the mother had collected and saved from magazines written in the dark light of the morning or overheard in the grocery store. The words had fallen away and continued to fall away into the books that washed over the girl, her dark hair splayed on the couch, the cat purring itself in contentment. The words were never to be seen and would not be seen except sometimes the journal liked one.

It liked pennies.

It liked the light way it glanced off the tongue and how tiny yet important the shiny coper pieces were. It liked the double ns, the way you could let the eeeeeeeis slide up or down into light or dark or be as crisp as a autumn apple. It liked the word

So it kept it. It kept it from sliding off the page into the books collected about the ramshackle apartment like a hoarder or nothing but paper and lost love.

The journal cried for the girl who had been heartbroken twice over, somewhat by her own device. The journal cried words and sniffled punctuation marks. The journal lay alone, surrounded by the other books that did not feel as it did, did not talk did not cry words did not hold hopes and dreams just words printed on a page once written by a man or woman in a cabin or hotel room hoping that they had written the next great novel hoping that maybe the advance would be enough to pay the rent. The books were not like the journal. Not at all.

sinner {poetry}


Was listening to this…got thinking. Something quick to get it out of my head

Hanging on the edge
I got up and said “I have to go”
Too late to undo last night
Too soon to try and fix it all
In the silence of the morning
piling on sins to wash away it all
tearing everything I know apart

Come over
the words escaped my fingers
and then it was too late
just to get a hand on mine
an arm around my waist
piling on sins
to rush the forget
the more the more the more and it’ll all be OK.

I don’t like who I became with you
and I am only so sure of who I am
piling on the sins
looking for the needles
just to feel the pain
and find myself in their arms

Maybe just once
I’ll get it right
and I’ll forget
who I was with you.

Piling on the sins
piling on the sins
and in the ashes
I’ll be there.

XIII: fairy tales {unedited chapters}

This is not a story to make anyone feel better and maybe there are no fairy tale endings here, but there is something. The wash wash wash of the words and the spilling of letters onto white can ease. There is no moral, there is no overt struggle.

It is not easy, it is not hard. This is a story. Just a story about a girl, a boy, another boy, a journal and a life. Maybe there will be more people, maybe less.

Stop reading now if you want to leave with a better view of the world.

Mail {free writing}

I sent it back
I sent it back to you

I sent it back because the other day I found it in my bag and it hit me like a train. The anger and sorrow associated with it was too much. So, I sent it back.

I didn’t sign it. I could have, but I couldn’t sign the note.

Why? Because of the flowers at my door, because of the self-centered need you had to keep part of me, even when you wouldn’t have all of me. The words came out of your mouth slowly, like a dying man’s spittle. They still fucked me up beyond recognition.

I am only as beautiful as I imagine and my self portrait will never be the same. The older you get, the more you give, hoping, just hoping, that this time, this time it will stick. The more jaded we get with age, battlescars from trying to love the unlovable, the ones who deemed themselves unworthy to love others, but could not keep themselves away from someone warm next to them at night. I cannot change what has been undone, but I can build another sandcastle, one where it’s OK to take a day off and lay at the beach and OK to work until midnight because it makes me happy. A castle I can live in by myself. Or with someone who sees everything I am, yet wants me to be my version of better.

I sent it back because it hurt to look at it and realize this is what I’ve done to myself. Knowing it would work out like this, but willing to risk it anyway. For what? Exactly for what do we take the risks for? You asked me to bear my soul and took it for granted. So strange, the things we do to ourselves, pushing ourselves over the same cliff over and over again. Is this heartbroken? Or is this the worst sense of regret I’ve let myself feel in ages?

I am not in love with you. You shouldn’t feel smug in knowing that you have ruined me for others, that you were the only one who could break me like this. Life breaks me like this. I break my like this. I am not ruined. I am beautiful, intelligent and everything you never saw, nor took care to keep safe. You were reckless with the gifts I gave you, yet I am gentle with what I am sending back. This is not forever, and I know by sending it back that this is it. I am happy. I am happy in a storm.

It will be in the mail tomorrow. Sent to somewhere you might be. It might get to you, it might not. But it doesn’t matter.

I sent it back.

XII: Perfect {unedited chapters}

It was perfect. She looked at her three jars of pennies. Perfect.

She leaned back on the couch, putting her book down, awash in words of a fantasy novel – she smelled the leather and heard the clink of metal the sweat and the bodice around her ribcage. She lay down on the couch and let the words float there, like waves washing over her her as she stared at the pennies, shining copper in the afternoon light it was a mental health day or actually a day she just wanted to take off for no reason other than she could and something told her to.

She breathed in the hot air, the stray cat who now waited for her every night outside her apartment door purring as he lay on her feet. He looked up as she looked at him hoping she would not get up and then realizing she would not fell promptly back asleep but not after stretching the full length of his body.

She placed her hand on the catcalling him purr and then leaned back, the book on her chest and closed her eyes.

It was perfect.

XI: A distant memory {unedited chapters}

Kevin looked at her, the brunette at the bar.

She reminded him of something. Someone. He was old and tired and was not sure why he was at this bar full of twenty somethings trying to climb into each other’s beds, but he was here.

He drank his whisky slowly, savoring the spice.

She looked like….it was not her but the look in her eyes, the nothing. It was not a vast emptiness of lack of intellect, he could see the sparkle of intelligence, but it was a nothing a nothing he knew in eyes once years ago in the girl he first loved and who left without a word. A girl he somehow knew in his gut had been something special.

He remembered her dirty blonde hair, the look of her body unclothed in his button down shirt, the ends skimming her thighs in the light.

“This will never be, you know,” she said. He had not believed her. A man who did not love but had loved her. He had later married and done his duty, love his wife, loved his children but never loved again like that.

He had them to fill the space.

He remembered her wild hair, the nothing in her eyes, the intent nothing.

He looked at the brunette, laughing.

He downed his whisky, unable to be near her anymore. He walked out into the night, back to the hotel to call his wife.

IX: Ring, ring {unedited chapters}

Sorry, I desperately need to catch up on these.

He called.

He called her again, hoping against hope this time she would answer. He told himself it was because she was now unattainable that he needed her, he missed the smooth curves on her body, soft isn the right places and hard underneath.

He waited. He slept with other women, looking for what he did not know. He acted the same toward them and they fell in love with him. They fawned and called and sent texts asking ambiguous questions about his corporate life hoping he would come over and the shine was gone. The shine of being needed was completely gone.

Once his friend persuaded him to go to a boxing match and he caught sight of her near the ring, other fighters leaning over to whisper in her ear and he knew she must have forgotten He walked behind her later as she walked to the bathroom drinking in her scent and he realized he must miss her. She would return texts sometimes, never asking to see him.

He did not know what was wrong with him.


He stared at the blonde staring at him down the bar and he sighed. Might as well.

A love letter to Los Angeles

Chapters are going well, but wanted to take a break to write this.

Ups and downs
Hills and oceans
Where dreams go to find their place in our hearts
A city of wanderers and souls never found
Where the deserts and oceans meet hidden staircases and rainforests
Forgetting who we were before
To find someone new
A city of archangels
Driving with to top down at midnight on a Tuesday

A love letter to Los Angeles
Where my heart was broken
Broken and found
Mended by the elderly black man who told me good morning twice
And the stranger who stopped to talk about her dress
Forests to seas
City to wilderness
The side not on the box

You hate the tiny skirts
And lay pride in the man pasted on the building’s side
Where my vague dreams became reality
And everything else fell apart

A love letter to Los Angeles
Grime shining like diamonds in Hollywood
Swimming pools full of leaves from no where
The breeze on top of the world
A city of angels
Wounded and smiling.