Tag Archives: reflection


My neck’s grown tired of always
holding up all the darkness in my head
but I am accustomed to backstroking
against this current; the absentminded
muscles I’ve developed tell me so.

Once I was a baby,
once I didn’t know the ache of unhappiness
but only the forgettable way my small mouth
formed words no one understood.

When I turned into a woman
my heart went all soot and damp earth.
People made it so. The ones I chose to love in fact.
Each unhinged my ribcage and stuffed it with warm deceit.

I’m a modern day Medusa
stuck staring at unwell-adjusted me,
busy chiseling the corners of my mouth
into the slightest of smiles.


Filed under Writing

the grower

it was spring and

my mind had withered to

hydrangea petals

all blue

twig fingers

scaling corners

of all the things

they could not touch.


i tried to say all

of where i’d been but

the earth pulled

at my elbows

and knees like

silk kite strings i

struggled to unravel

from around glass ankles.


taking flight was

a greenhouse pipe dream

i’d hidden in the

brightest pot

before i

placed petals where

my eyes used to be

and one behind my ear.


let them come, i thought

the grieving


might make

them think

of me

struggling to grow myself

somewhere out there.


Filed under Writing

The Versions of Me

Girl with the Pearl Earring.

Girl with the Pearl Earring.

there’s a silent art

to the versions of me

that pass like sunlight,

like seasons ,

like cigarette ashes


in the same speckled mirror,

in the same dim hallway,

in the smallest pane of glass

I am Picasso

a hurricane of eyes and mouth


in the night I am a fixture of Dali

draped over my surroundings

like cheap linen,

an examination of angles

and a questionable experience


on Sunday afternoons I am Van Gogh,

all honest emotion

and rough imagination,

blurred lines on canvas

beaming with coffee rings


but sometimes, oh sometimes

I am Vermeer’s girl;

that pearl swings from my

ear like the Queen of England

and suddenly I am romance in moonlight


I keep all of my selves

upon the wall with rusted nails

like antiques in a backwoods shop,

where I am beautiful in hiding

between wool hats and brass knobs


sift delicately through the versions of me,

be careful of rough edges,

think deeply of history and life,

long for the meaning,

sit me above the fireplace.


Filed under Uncategorized, Writing