Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Making Pasta With Morrissey

This is such an old story,

so predictable,

well trodden boards, and all that,

but I gather everyone I know and I tell it again anyway,

because my heart feels like she has never been heard.

I am currently attempting to live in the moment.

I am currently attempting to “have fun” and enjoy being young,

but as I knew before,

and as I already know that I will know after,

I am having a dreadful, stressful time,

because I’m the kind of girl who needs to know how things turn out,

so that she can decide if the inevitable heartache will be worth it.

There is always inevitable and unavoidable heartache.

I am trading texts with a man,

who has an deep desire to tie me up,

and fuck me up (and likely in various other directions) in his living room,

and I think that he thinks my hands are hurried inside my silk underwear,

but in fact,

I am not wearing underwear (please don’t tell him),

because I am home alone,

watching concert videos of The Smiths on YouTube and preparing pasta,

but we are in the moment,

so I play pretend,

in case he wants to fuck me in a more palatable way,

or maybe even wants to fall in love.

That would be nice,

but like heartache, disappointment is also inevitable and unavoidable,

so I try not to get my hopes up too much,

I try not to give myself a headache,

my heart warmed at the thought that I will at least have a hearty meal this evening.

The water bubbles with excitement,

but I do not.

When Morrissey muses about “Girl Afraid”,

he means me.

He might not know it,

but I’d know my anxious agony anywhere,

so, yes, I am girl, and yes, I am afraid.

Where do his intentions lay?

And what are mine?

When does “having fun” translate to having a good time?

I’m sorry,

but I will lose my shit if I have to say to myself

“Jennifer, Jennifer, it was really nothing”


because again,

I am having absolutely no fun,

in my summer of love,

where no love is actually found,

and I am profoundly worried about the safety of my body and soul.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


You crossed my mind on Monday,

too late to recall the remains of a burning flame that once kept me warm,


I woke up cold,

recalling the sweet shyness of your voice as you told me that you’d got glasses.

I recall the last time we talked,

like no time had passed at all,

like I had never broken your heart,

like you hadn’t kept a segment of my soul within yours for all these years.

Midnight struck,

but my life decided not to decline into the rags and pumpkins of the past,

because I used to be your princess,

and I like that you still treat me like I wear a tiara.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Chosen Family

We have never been in love,

but his name is neatly sewn into the lining of my long suffering heart,

and it is the only part that has always been hallowed ground.

Slipping his hand into mine,

with a chaste, close kiss on the cheek,

he knows the pain of my path,

and chooses to comfort me,

with no malevolence,

no malice.

There is nobody on this Earth that I trust,

but he is not of this Earth,

ethereal and empathic,

chosen companion,

spiritual siblings,

swept into the cyclone,

dreaming and dancing from Kansas to Oz.

Jill and her best Judy,

against the world,

against the wall,

watching the endless war,

and then writing verses from the vials of blood that surround us.

I keep his name sewn into my heart,

and I leave him all of my ill gotten gains in the will.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


Swallows in the forest,

silently searching for a branch to call home,

spying on me,

as I swallow my apprehensive affirmations.

I will tell the truth,

tepid tears,

shining, sweet in the moonlight.

Birds brush up against my reality,

and everything feels so final, but so new.

The night is unforgiving,

and I am understanding a little better,

why the mornings are so needy.