Confessions in black and white

(I've cancelled my subscription to your humanity).

The light at the end

I got married on New Year’s. I’m expecting a baby with my husband

After all the bad, after all the hurt, it finally feels like all the cracks are healing.

I feel like I found home.

Creep in with me.

To the followers who have been loyal and care, I have a P(oetry)log going right now, It’s the precursor to what will eventually become an amalgamation like this blog was, but in a different context.

It’s and I would love for people to follow me there.


I just want you to know that I’m happy for you. I’m glad that you were able to work it out. And your new baby boy is beautiful. I’m incredibly, unbelievably happy for you. Because you’re finally kissing her like you mean it. You’re kissing her like nothing happened. And I know that I was just a midlife crisis. a small mistake. I finally know that you never loved me, and I’m so grateful. Because I don’t have to live in limbo anymore.

I was just an easy target, and I’m grateful that I finally know that.

I think this will be my last post here. Thank you all for everything. but I’m being called on.

I will try to erode you.

There are things I cannot voice, because the words don’t exist. The things you took from me, the absence of something that was never mine to begin with. The loss that comes when you willingly give everything you have, everything you are, only to get so inexplicably torn apart.

It’s a feeling I can’t recapture, a memory I can’t quite recall. When I close my eyes, I can remember the weight of your hands upon my skin, the heaviness of your guilt upon my chest. I remember the moment you first kissed me, my mind a haze of drugs and alcohol and the color of your eyes. I remember the way you pushed into me, desperate for contact, I can finally taste your need for absolution. I remember when we were weightless, hearts beating in tandem, the first breath of love from your air to my heart.

I look back on it all, trying to hold on to the moments, freeze time in my head, figure out where it all went wrong. And I want to believe so many things that I don’t know for sure anymore. I wish I had a piece of you, something tangible, something that would make this real. I don’t feel real anymore.

And I wish  I could hate you. I wish that I could blame you. I wish that I could take back everything. I wish I still recognized myself when I look in a mirror. Everything just keeps going numb, bit by bit, piece by piece.

You destroyed everything that was good in me, and even worse than that–I let you.


Your hips are pounding into
mine relentlessly,
and even though you’re not even
halfway to climax,
I’m already 20 minutes past present.

you could be anyone,
a mere conduit for the emotions
I can no longer voice.

I like that you are the kind
of boy that disguises passion
as violence, treats pleasure
as the most festering of wounds.

It makes it easier to pretend
that you are just another
nameless, faceless body I use
to shadow the things I’d rather feel.

It is not your name etched silently
upon my lips when you finish.
It is not your bruises dug into my hips.

It is your face in the morning, though,
when I open my eyes.

You make me eggs and I wonder
if you know that your eyes are the
wrong shade of blue,
your smile the wrong parabolic curve.

I wonder if you recognize what
I let you take from me.
If you understand the devastation I am faced with.

You kiss my cheek when you say goodbye,
but you do not waver.

‘Take care’ sounds more like
a curse than a blessing.


First Valentines I’ve been single in decade, and I’m happier now than I have ever been. I love, and hate, my job. I love, and hate, being single. I love, and hate, my living situation. I love, and hate, my dating situation.

Everything is in a constant state of flux and duality. I don’t know where I’ll be year from now, let alone a week from. And I’m ridiculously blissful. Everything is awash with white, and the frigid cold has set into my bones. But I know that it doesn’t matter. The snow will melt, spring will wilt with summer, summer will give way to death and autumn, autumn will give way to the ice that creeps into all of us. And the cycle repeats.

I am not the only one stuck in repeating parallels. We all are. We are all stuck in the same unforgiving universe. We are all going to wake up dead some morning, some evening.

And none of it matters. The destination is now. So stop running, stop breathing, stop looking. You’ve arrived, you’ve lived, you’ve found it.

Where is my lobster?

So I’m out on Tinder hookup on Saturday with someone I was able to do some reference checks on (Yay for mutual friends), and in the middle of hanging out I figured out why I’m still single– I was physically attracted to him, but intellectually attracted to his friend. And I realized, that’s how it almost always is for me. The men I want to fuck, I have no interested in cultivating a relationship with. And the men I want to cultivate a relationship with, I have no desire to see them naked. And the rare man that happens to fall into both categories, is either physically (married or in a committed relationship) or mentally (PTSD, just got out of a relationship, peter pan syndrome, etc), unavailable.

And that, my darlings, is the issue.

The Remnants.

-Write me letters and quote me poetry. Remain faithful. Be willing to give into whimsical adventures. Understand the way my world ends every day. Kiss me like we’re dying–but we’re living too. Don’t be a ghost, but don’t be a barnacle either. Love me like it matters. Leave me like it doesn’t. Come back like it was always supposed to be. Write our story on bar walls and old napkins; Never forget the sound of a broken heart, and cling to the superglue of repaired fractures. Be my mirror, but never match my smile. Let me be your mirror, but never let me match your eyes. Let our fingers say the words our mouths never could.

Hold me when everything falls to ruins and tell me everything will be okay.-

maybe yes? maybe no?

-Banking everything on faith is for fools and romantics (Somewhere along the way I became both).
-Love is for the hopeless and optimistic (I’m neither. Isn’t that just fucking ironic?)

the impassable abyss

upon waking, she becomes acutely aware of the distance between them;
the large gaping chasm masquerading as something so seemingly innocent–
two bodies in the same bed, facing different directions, never touching.