A short poem about being a plant mom.
Moments way before this one stung with my loneliness. My entire adolescence, the wake of disappointments in college, the year I moved to another city and it didn’t work out. … Continue reading Notes on Loneliness
The world is facemasks and ventilators. We are a globe of 7 billion six feet apart. CDC updates roar in as the US leads the COVID 19 virus totals. Busy … Continue reading Privilege in a Pandemic
The hardest part wasn’t surviving it, but convincing my brain that it’s over.
An essay that way overuses The Great Gatsby as a metaphor.
I want you.
I crave you.
The thought of you permeates all the passive, dormant musings my brain lulls in its resting state.
You waft into my lazy Sunday dreams. I don’t summon you. You’re just there. My skin embraces your notion like bees to pollen, like its my cell’s job to marinate in the thought of you.
I want you to want me.
Like a little girl begging her dad not to leave, I want you.
I want you like water in a dessert.
But I don’t think you want you.
That’s the problem.
You have to want you before you want me.
I’m asking a flight risk to stay on the ground, and he doesn’t know how to land.
He has to learn to land first.
You can’t build a home if you’re still outside of yourself
In the sky.
We inherit the way we perceive our bodies. We chose to raise the next generation that way.
Unless you understand what Pride means.
We’ve gone too far on the cancelling, and it needs to stop.
Thirty years ago today, a marine married an FBI employee. They said it wouldn’t work. They told her he was rigid, and to move across the country for him was … Continue reading Small, Sacred Things