1. There is a woman on the horizon—  a woman rising.  The bones in her chest, branching, like the spread of leaves across empty skylines.  And the light of the sun has found love in the scope of her skin, though it be weak and in need of regeneration— a burst of something calm and the burning off, of all the things that made her feel so small.  

    But a woman is a growing thing… one that doesn’t stop.  And though she may falter, her years of growth will bring shade to those sun-burned places.  And in her old age, she will no longer seek to shelter those who need it, but to be a place of rest, for the ones who have already been regenerated.

    Love is where you sleep when you no longer need to.

     


  2. I’ve woken up before in a bed that wasn’t mine, against the skin of someone I loved, but had never been loved by.  And I’ve had dreams in those early mornings that only ever made me question my decisions— made me wonder what it was that I was so sorely missing.  The mind is really honest when you’re too tired to fight it and all of the excuses you’ve made… the stories you’ve told and desperately believed… become the very things that cultivate anxiety.  

    Bodies are meant for holding, but only if they want to be.  And, if we’re alone in our readiness, then it’s best we sleep in our own beds.


     


  3. She wanted to use his full name— all of the syllables and sounds that fused together to create his banner.  And she wanted her breath to be wrapped around it because it was the only embrace that they would ever encounter.  Their time was limited and with little allowances and, waiting beneath the electricity of their attraction, was the knotted up reality of what they knew could never happen.

     


  4. can’t quit the weeknd.

     


  5. We met in the dark
    across a long stretch
    of talkers,
    and in plain sight
    of all the others.
    We were a show—
    the kind of performance
    that begs to be known.
    A bright light on display
    in the company of our own.


    It was a fine hour in the glow of hope.

     


  6. I’ve galavanted across this sea, long enough to know that I’ve been alone in my journey. And so now I’ve built my home along it— on dry land, in hopes that it will venture forward. It’s been a long time since the gaze has been on me … a long time of me gazing at that restless, running sea. But if I believe it to be knowing— if I’ve known the kind of fight that accompanies devotion — then I know, some day soon, I will be the refuge for that restless ocean.

     


  7. I love the light at this time— coral tones painted across windows, like the blush of a peach in spring.  And I’m lucky to see it so regularly, at the end of every day and even sometimes in the mornings.  But no matter the frequency of beauty, I must always strive to see it newly, because our nature is to grow tired of what we know … to forget that life is, in fact, not slow.  

    I wondered yesterday, that if my days were numbered and proclaimed, would I cling to things more desperately?  Would I plunge into everything and bathe myself in bravery?  Would I revere my mortality and understand what it means to lose something suddenly?  

    It is our most terrible achievement—  to have love and then leave it.

     


  8. My father visited my dreams 
    to remind me what he thinks of me.
    And I woke up remembering
    what it is that I am worth
    and who it is
    that deserves me.

     

  9. Bravery in a Blue Hole, 2014

     


  10. I found a sick bird on a sidewalk and I took him home to make him better.  He had some missing feathers and it seemed as though he’d been mistreated.  His wings weren’t working and he was much too weak to attempt walking.  I knew that he was scared of me so I spoke to him very gently.  I promised he would be ok and that I would always keep him safe.

    Days went by and he slept by my side, in a tiny little bed that I had built for him.  I fed him tiny seeds and other things that tiny birds eat, until he was finally able to stand on his feet.  And when he began to trust me, I bandaged up his little wings, until they were finally free of injury.  

    But once he was healthy, I wondered if the bird I loved would stay… or, if the only reason he let me help him, was so he’d be able to fly away.



     

  11.  


  12. A father told a story about fear in the blood of man and how it travels so fast—  from a man to a woman, from a mother to her children.  And he held them so tight and cried, saying he was so very sorry for the future of their lives.  And, with the pinkies of their tiny palms, he made them promise more than once, that when the time came to hate him, they would instead understand.  

    "You see," he said "love is safe when it is unafraid, but my father never explained his mistakes, so I’ve remained this way.  But, the failures of others are not what love is … they are the result of never knowing it."

     


  13. I threw my clothes into the river on the last night of winter, in hopes that I would be delivered from the cold that I was holding.  But as I watched it fall downstream— all the things that had once covered me— I wondered how long I had been afraid to be naked.

    I remember that the light was blue.   My feet were bare and buried in the mud and my breath came out like steam.  The lines of my body and the light of the moon adored each other like lovers at the start of a story.  I shined like beauty, all naked and dirty, at the top of a midnight stream.  And I said goodbye to everything.

    But now I’ve got the morning’s forces in my blood; the coming sun and the glide of gold across my skin.  My clothes have long-since sunken and I’ve been absolved of all my sins.  I think I’ve been reinvented or, perhaps, this is what love is.

     


  14. I want to do big things!

     

  15.