The whir of a blade

A half-checked list

A cake made to savor

Someone’s misfortune

That swings in your favor

The clock on the hour

The run of the mill

Love that has soured

The close of a fist

The start of a book

Whatever you wish

Motherhood

Your name is the second one

your mother gave you

Love was the first

Who You Are

He has you, words tangled, wings clipped, folded at your breast. Trapped within yourself thinking, how did I get here? With all your promise and intellect, how did I get here? Whittled down like this, reduced to something you swore you’d never be. Now, how do you tear yourself away from him without ripping your life to shreds? You no longer recognize yourself, but sweet girl, that means you still know who you are. And while there is still a glimmer of hope behind those sad, tired eyes, know he hasn’t worn you down. And while there is an ounce of fight left in you, know he hasn’t won just yet. And while there is a chance in hell you get out of this, you come out swinging.

More a Poet

I fell asleep to the rain last night

And the sun came to me in a dream

Beaming down on me, sweeter than anything

More real to me than skin

A voice I knew as yours said to me

One day I woke up and with every breath

I thought of you

And I wanted to tell you

I thought of you too. You said

Nothing went wrong with us; we just let go

But you and I—we are eternal—okay?

By the time my eyes fluttered open

It was already daylight. And I found myself

Drenched in poetry. That morning I was

more a poet than I had ever been

Outside my window, it had been raining forever

And then the sun came quietly back

Always Will

Here we are, fantasizing about normality. Our world has turned on its axis and we have all been thrown into the air, not knowing where we’ll land. Wondering if there will still be a place for us among the ruins. Yes, we took it all for granted—but isn’t that such a blessed thing? When you’re not even thinking about what you have, because you never imagine you someday won’t.

Why I Write

I write without knowing

whom my words will find

without thinking further

than the next line

When my heart grows

too heavy to hold—I write

from the depth of my sorrow

to dizzying heights

I write without dreams

of awards or applause

but for the joy of rendering

my soul into words

To hold tight each feeling

I am blessed to have felt

I write not to be known

but to know myself

Limbo

When you wait for a man to make up his mind about you, your life cannot move forward. You can’t put your whole heart in anything else if you’re betting on something that may not come through. You can build the life of your dreams without him. You can start today. But first, you need to take your heart off the table. You have a few precious years to do what you need to do. Don’t waste them on him.