Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Patron Saint of Painful Regrets

You are my home.

Though you elude me,

I am still thawed,

awed by your warmth.


glimpsing at your form,

never forgetting the way you towered over a trembling child,

that was lost to the loneliness of life.

You are miraculous snowfall,

sent from God,

to replace my mistakes,

keeping me safe,

inside a crypt,

where I can recover,

doves dancing on my lips,

as I sleep sweetly.

I asked you once,

if you’d forgive me,

but I wonder,

if I can forgive myself?

I wonder if I deserve damnation,

for all the things,

I always thought I’d never do.

I wanted to be young forever,

the way you remember,

the way you saw me last,

when life was just learning,

and growing.

I want to be pure,

but I’m afraid,

there is no such thing.

The knives in my sides,

are not Roman,

but of my own making.

You are my home,

but I don’t know

if I’ll ever return.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Daddy’s Girl

I called God last night,


with everything he has going on,

I figured he’d like an update,

from his messiest,

most dramatic daughter.


I said,

without a hint of irony,

knowing full well,

that he had watched me give that title,

to another man,

I was willing to worship.



He sighed,

but seemed to do so lovingly,

as if I was a mess,

but one he hated to watch unravel,

because he always wanted more for me,

and though he was frustrated,

watching me walk,

with my eyes closed,

into danger,

on a daily basis,

he was slightly comforted,

that I always came home in one piece (so far).



I whispered,

my voice wavering,

before it was lost,

fumbling to be free from floods and flurries,

overpowered by the sound of my heart,


splintering inside me,

when I thought of you.

I cried all night.

He sat on the other end of the phone,

ignoring the world burning in the background,

telling me that time heals everything,

and for everything else,

there is vodka,

telling me that nothing lasts forever,

elation or eruptions of pain,

telling me that one day,

I’d look back and laugh,

and that was when I snapped.


No longer asking,

but telling.

Begging for relief,

to feel something new,

to forget just one of the things about you,

that keeps me a prisoner,

so I could find myself closer to freedom.

Daddy knew what was in my heart,

but he couldn’t grant my wish,

because praying never worked that way,

not even for his favourite girl,

and sometimes,

suffering is good for the soul,

or at least good for writing material.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


It is 4am,

and once again,

you are camped out,

on the bathroom floor,

as I educate the bubbles

about all that bothers me.


My hand is held,

as I hold your attention,

with my endless,

anxious monologues.

Hoping aloud,

that my autopsy pics,

will be aesthetically pleasing,

made for morbid moodboards,

in soft sepia shades,

played on YouTube,

with a content warning,

and a cool soundtrack.


I hope my mother doesn’t cry,


when I am not around to disappoint her.

I have lived in her eyes,

running away in the rushing rivers,

that leave her red and despondent.


I ask,


and shaking,

if you enjoy being in love with a dying girl.

My hand is held,

as is my breath,

and you,

a non believer,

are next to me,

on your knees,

praying to a Goddess who doesn’t know how to be worshipped.


I feel I could fight death,

for the rest of my life.

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