Wild gusts bitterly batter my one-bedroom haven
And I sit within, drawing parallels between wind and water and woman.
How easy it is to disconnect from the force of terror that surrounds my shelter
As I exist warm and quiet, apart from it.
It’s not gone, I hear it whip and push things subject to it’s whims
And while I’m cushioned from the reality of it,
It’s still there, still hurling debris at my door;
And it buffets everything, not just me in my little home.
It is not calling for me,
It is not trying to push it’s way in to toss my hair and brush my face:
It is a storm passing through,
And I am desperately caught in the middle of it.
There is a pull inside of me–
It wonders what the wind would feel like,
Chafing skin;
All the wild intensity of the phenomenon entices me
And yet I say to myself,
“The storm will leave you desolate.
Stay in the yellow glow of your ceiling lights.
Stay where no breeze blows.
Where all is still and safe.”
As the wild wind flows around me,
Close enough to want
But far enough to deny the desire,
I sit
Drawing parallels
Of you and me.
Destined to be beside each other,
But to touch
Is impossible.


There is always a reason to not love someone.

There is always a reason to hold back; to conceal the full depth and breadth of feeling that I hold for them. The space in my heart, though a grandiose, echoing chamber full of richness, such precious things that can nowhere else be found, it is often reduced to a small cozy room; a false wall is constructed to block its inhabitant off from the overwhelmingness of the space. The room is furnished to appear unassuming; to make this person feel like a guest that may come and go and the home will be no different in presence or absence. And perhaps the home is convinced of this too.

There are two things that exist to direct everything in this world: head and heart. The former is structure, traditions, stereotypes, archetypes, logic; anything with defined lines, with expectations, that can be measured, reproduced, built; everything that works as long as all of the pieces are there, and if one is removed the whole idea comes crashing down. It is infrastructure. The latter is not so easily defined; its lack of definition is what makes it so. It is flowing, moving, changing; it is energy and force; it cannot be measured or replicated, because it is infinite and always new, always different, yet always the same. Heart is what we are taught to bury under the confines of Head. Head wants to spell it out, wants to apply logic, wants to put it inside some sort of framework. Head wants to change Heart into Head. 

In my heart, there are people that I hold space for, whether they take it and use it or not. The head that I’ve been taught to use is the one who constructs the wall, that forces a large space to become small. Head teaches that people do not want to be in this large space I hold for them. Head teaches that it’s not right to hold this space for them. It’s not appropriate. It’s not reciprocated. It’s not normal. It’s crazy. It’s stupid. It’s a fantasy.

So these spaces stay vacant. Because the funny thing about heart is that even though space is held, it never runs out. There’s always more room for more. There’s always space. 

And I think this is why so many people feel empty, because they hold vacant mansions inside themselves, all because their head says that no one wants to see heart. Not heart in its fullest form.

Last Night

You came to me in a dream:
You touched me, you kissed me with such gentleness
On my head, my cheek;
You said, “I love you.”
I said,
“You don’t even know me.”
Upon waking,
Upon holding the vision up to a mirror,
I realize
That this existed in my head;
My heart.
Our minds are glassy–
Rippled and reflective.
We distort the things that float through our hearts.
We, afraid of our own selves, throw them at another like our fingers burn.
This dream is delusion:
It was my lips that grazed your brow,
Then softly touched your cheek;
My warm breath that betrayed forbidden secrets
And yours that reminded me
“You don’t even know me.”

On Sharing Works

This discomfort of being bathed in an unwanted spotlight is what covers me now.
But underneath the glare are the emotions that culminate into this feeling:
To have my heart, these pieces of myself pared down and the shavings kept rather than the core–
That feeling of all the wrong things being seen when what is right and true is tossed away.
This fear of misunderstanding:
Do not think that I present to you gleaming gifts to suggest wealth, or love, or depth, or intelligence that I have a need to be acknowledged;
No, these are all the flesh and skin and not the seed.
These are not the things that burrow into your soul,
That lodge deep inside of you,
That generate growth.
This is what I desire:
To not be seen, to fade into the background, to merely be the screen that contains pixels or the paper that retains ink;
To be the nameless messenger of tidings long awaited;
To stand aside while the feelings you uncover within yourself because of something I happened to produce does it’s intensely beautiful work.
So, underneath this feeling of discomfort, understand that I do not speak of false humility,
But rather of complete satisfaction in being the thing unnoticed.
For what is love if there is expectation of return? What is feeling that needs to be reflected rather than absorbed?
To see someone who is deeply affected not by who I am,
But who they are:
This is what I wish.

Written for a Friend

What do you do
When you have life and love to share–
When it’s pouring over,
Freely flowing, never running dry–
But the heart you once pumped life into
Straight from your own
Rejects the transfusion?
It drips in the dirt;
It soaks the ground at your feet
Until you’re standing in a puddle of the best of yourself
And trying to contain it–
To save it–
Will only cause you to burst.
So you let it flow to the undeserving earth:
The same earth that supported her steps as she walked away from you;
The same earth that composes the distance from your place on it to hers;
The same earth that keeps the home that you shared from crumbling around you;
The same earth that holds her when that used to be you.
This undeserving earth,
Softened by your sorrow,
Keeps you from crumbling as well;
And while it may not seem so now
As you sit in muddy heartache,
This earth will support you
On your way back to love.

To All Who I Have Loved

I think of all the people I’ve loved
And my heart is full; overflowing.
There have been so many
Who have helped me
In such subtle ways,
Such gentle ways,
Such effortlessly generous ways.
These people have been guideposts:
Lights unto my path,
Lanterns in the dark,
Will-o’-the-wisps leading the way to myself.
I have never asked for love,
For what is love that is not given freely?
And so many have given freely to me.
There is an abundance of dear souls
Who just want to love and be loved.
I thank the glow that has illuminated my world
And shared the burden of life
In the simplest and loveliest of ways.

New Bonds

Drawing deep courage
For daydreams come true;
I open my mouth
And speak out to you.

Pulling dark veils away–
Bid blindness adieu;
I open my eyes
And look out at you.

A weak spot in this chrysalis:
Pushing limbs and wings through;
I open my hands
And reach out to you.

Cracking open like earth,
My chest splits in two;
I open my heart
And bleed out to you.

Oh, to be enveloped
In acceptance anew–
I draw ever near
In embrace with you.

Thoughts: Regrets

“For everything you have missed, you have gained something else.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Though it is easy and natural to consider the past and focus on regrets, what I want to do is to acknowledge the things that I feel as though I missed out on and incorporate them into my future.

Growth is imperative and I can’t bear to backslide. I don’t want to retreat to places and situations and feelings and thought processes that I’ve already had. If I feel like I missed out on something, and feel that pang of regret, I want to transform that into energy that pushes me to change the way I operate so that I can still have that thing I desire. “If only”s do not have to stay “If only”. They can be part of who I am.

It also helps to realize that while I was supposedly missing out on some experiences, I was still experiencing other things and I’ve grown from that as well, and there is incredible value to that.

Many of the experiences that I feel like I’ve missed out on will not only be enriched and more valuable because I know what it’s like to be without them (there is no taking for granted); I’m also at a further point in my journey and have a greater ability to navigate and really get the most out of seeking and creating these experiences than I could have in the past.

Regrets are good, even the pain of them. They reveal exactly what you want; something you couldn’t be sure of in the moment but is painfully clear in hindsight. They can serve to finally generate the momentum previously elusive yet necessary to obtain what has been missing.


I long to hold the secret of the universe–
To harness the energy released at the opening of a bud;
The wisp of air moved at the unfolding of petals;
The vibrancy of a tiny fern opening it’s soft fingers one by one by one.
Oh, to channel that!–
To be the soft thing that grows in fields.
To not be the conifer that I am–
Holding life in capsules–
Cutting myself off from the world which offers resources to sustain me.
For I am not a tree– I have the free will to move about.
I can draw up my roots that I’ve burrowed deep in barren earth.
I can pour my energy into vulnerable vegetation which withers and dies with the waning of days.
I cannot bear to stay evergreen.

The Girl Who Wears Flowers

Soft and silent as the hum of electricity
Running through cords and powering necessities;
Invisibly visible as photons only made apparent by the way they illuminate everything that’s not them;
As ready as a lamp at midnight–
As unobtrusive as the glow in the fridge
That you take for granted until the bulb burns out.
But when you realize that she’s the crack in the sky that rattles your windows
And sets things ablaze;
When you realize that she is made of the same as the ever-burning orb that all life depends on;
When you realize that she combusts with such intensity
That the distance she keeps
And the portions of herself she decides to share
Is still enough to support and power you in the most needful yet unimposing way:
Then you wonder how something of such magnitude
Could go so unnoticed–
The girl who wears flowers.