It’s Nice to Know

I’m sitting in the
parking lot of Red
Robin and thinking about
how this whole plan
to have “peace of
mind”, even if it means
forcing myself to be
happy, actually feels a lot
like just happy.

I’m okay with that.

Driving down the highway,
picking up dresses
I have no plans for
(yet) and smiling
to whatever song
comes off the speaker,
liking the way I look
meeting the one person
who’s made an effort to see me
over this very chill break,

unlike the last time
I was here with
somebody who only
has ever truly given me

It’s nice.
To write some stupid poem
while waiting,
to appreciate
the little things,
the people who stay,
to grow into
your own life;
to know
after a very rough month,
you can be okay
after making mistakes.


Blabbing: 12-29

I know I don’t journal on here often but let me say this: that I have found peace again. That this funk I’ve been going through for weeks, the heartbreak and the loneliness has subsided. God has given me a newfound peace for His plan for me and I found that I was holding onto someone never meant for me. Letting go of him and that image of us will be hard, but I know I can do it, I can find the right people and love in my life only if I love myself first, only if I see my worth first.

Somebody who I loved told me I could never fully love someone until I loved myself. And then I didn’t. Even now, I’m still learning: I care too much what other people think and do and I don’t just live my life. If you’re reading this, you were right. So now I’m taking a time out from life and people to do just that.

And I will be okay.

I will learn about myself and love all the nooks and crannies. I swear.

It’ll take time, but I have peace on my side. I have a peace that one day I will feel enough on my own. And that’s more than enough for me. 

Every crack lets the Light in 

To write again
with less names on your lips,
less fingers entwined with yours,
less reassurances,

More breaking apart,

To begin again
with so many chances,
so many meetings,
so many adventures

just waiting…

what a beautiful sadness,
what a joy to be alone
and know the coming of bliss.

Future Realities

like a stain on your lips
that doesn’t come from kisses.
Like the first ray of sunshine
that signals spring.
Like believing this life is not the end,
like hoping for bliss.
Like kindness.

like a sugar rush.
Like constant laughter
running like light
through an open floor plan.
Like children falling to the floor,
rolling on their backs and giggling.
Like sanded furniture.
Like wild flowers,
fresh flowers
springing from every crevice.

like silence,
like an honest promise,
one that’s kept.
Like moments where it is you
and God
and the birds singing on the window
and maybe you’re in that townhouse
or that cottage
but you’re smiling easier
and in awe of the littlest of things
like the way ice cube press together,
share space with tea
with citrus
with everything that represents simplicity.

like possibility.
Like this life you’re living,
like what the future could hold.

like waking up
and realizing
this world
is your dream.

I Love YOU More…

Part of you
is waiting for the poem
where you don’t write about him
with love between the lines.

A boy who spent the majority
of your friendship
trying to get you in his bed,
is not really a friend.
You’re ashamed it took you
this long to see that.

You are mad
that you only realize
how much he’s failed you
after an argument,
a disagreement,
about how this time
in the company of friends
he is not looking away from you
and biting his lip

about how this time
he barely hugs you goodbye
because others are watching

and you remember that time
he told you, you could be something
but not there
and not in front of mutual friends
and somehow,
you still made time for him

you still put effort in—

all of you
wants to stop pouring out love
for people
for “friends”
who will never be worth it.

Unexplained Sadness

The void uses your body
as a cave,
a hiding place
when the first second guess
creeps in.

It fills you, deep,
the way a lover might be able
if you let them close enough
to touch you,
if you didn’t feel the urge
to bathe yourself when their
hands make contact.

You don’t trust,
Not even yourself.
Your tongue is too coarse
and you eyes are too raw
and you wonder if the hate
you feel for yourself
is as palpable on your skin
as is the dryness of winter.
The way everything smooth
shrivels into something other.

The empty
holds you like a home.
The ugly kisses your cheeks
like a child,
promises to nourish you away
from awe,
talks about misplacing your wonder
as if it were a toy
to go back in the box.

The sunshine
is grey here.

The bed feels so big
when you cry.

1 Year after Coming Clean 

Your ex-whatever
pops up on my
“people you may know”
and I remember the poem—

only girls who break you
get a poem written about them—

and I remember you leaning
against a truck in B lot
and telling me
that to her,
you were “too happy”.

I remember telling you
“I never liked her anyway”,
because that’s what I usually say

in these situations
where you’re mad at your heart
for getting hung up on a rose of a girl
with words that cut like thorns,

mad at yourself for falling,
for getting a poem written about you
with a cliché simile.

And this girl,
with the quirky eyebrows
and sanguine smirk,
never can be caught smiling
in any of the photos she shares with the
the world

and that might not
justify me not liking her,

but it sure makes me feel good
when I can get you laughing, teeth bared
in the moonlight.

And I thank God
for your broken heart;

for a poem where
you compare her to smoke,
to coke,
to everything that kept you
at the brink of falling apart,

she’s gone now
and I’m sitting in a car
with your hand tracing circles on my hip
in pure silence,

and I know when I told you earlier
“I want the very best for you”,
not only was it sincere,
it’s because I believed
you deserve it.