Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Disappointed, Devoted



I drown my sorrows,

in dark fruit cider,

a dramatic Luis Miguel playlist,

and a bed that is so used to my heartbreak,

that it has learned how best to hold me,

so I don’t entirely fall apart.

I can’t remember who I was,

before becoming your plaything,

and though I strengthen as I sleep,

awake in dreams where I am enough,

to satisfy myself,

I always fall back into the next day,

weak and weeping,

waiting for you to want me again.

Held in my heartbreak,

comatose and crying myself in and out of sleep,

wondering what will become of me,

if there is nothing more.

There is just enough of me left,

to be disappointed again,


but who knows,

after then.


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, Personal, Writing

Summer Nights

The summer nights are long and light,

I used to love them,

sitting with the sun,

but now,

the never ending daylight won’t let me rest,

keeping me awake,

and aware,

of how solitary the summer becomes,

when my heart is a hostage,

that can never come home again.


one day,

the sun and I will sit together again,

but by then,

I will be scarred,

softly spoken,

a new kind of broken,

with nothing sweet to say.


Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing


Without you,

I could have wings,

and see the world,

standing atop the Eiffel Tower,

before I found my way to waves,

waiting for breathtaking,


without you,

it would just be places,

faceless things,

that just happen to pass me by.

I thought about you,


as I stared out my window,

at more of the world,

and I felt empty,

except for the small part of my heart,

that still has your name written on it,

which beat faster,

and with more urgency,

as your face appeared in my dejected reflection,

your eyes reaching mine,

as I reach for your hands.

It was just my imagination,

but your name is still there,

all seven letters.


Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Being Vague To Own The Libs… Wait… But… I’m The Libs D:


It’s complicated.

For a lifetime,

it will grow and change,



I just want something real.

I just want something passionate.

I’m not sure if I even have a point.

I don’t have any more to say,

because being vague is the only fun that’s free,

in the grotesque but glorious world I woke up in.


I hide behind the pillow,

like a child,

full of fear,

as I get all I ever wanted,

because I don’t know what to do with it,

and I don’t know that I ever did.

I just liked to dream.

I just liked to imagine myself,

somewhere else,


I still do.

Do you want to go to lake placid,

my love?


I’m changing the subject,

so you won’t dwell on my despair.

I didn’t mean to make you or I cry,

but while we’re here,

let’s plan a trip,

and promise we’ll go,

so I have something to hold onto.

I prayed for it.


Save me,


Save me,


Save me,

Father John Misty.

I guess someone heard me.


I don’t have any more to say,

because being vague is the only fun that’s free,

in the grotesque but glorious world I woke up in.