I saw a commercial today
and it made me think of you.
A bold line crossed the screen
it said, chuckles
it said:
“Jesus didn’t teach hate
He washed feet.”
Immediately I knew the sentiment would resonate.
If I called you in that moment
I predict the trajectory of your voice would lift,
a skit as you proclaim,
“Oh ohhhh little girl,
I just saw this ad, very amazing,
very important, watch it!”
The way you would preach,
the words dripping off your tongue
would sound so sweet it would make the naysayers believe
in the power of prayer and the washing of feet—
Then the bottle drops.
***** and vile words,
arrogance and liquor;
you’re both sweetened and soured.
Mixed with lemonade,
you grow your grandiose
your self absorption and your hate
like bunions, so you’ll need to wear
another bottle like a bandaid
to hide your insecurities and shame.
Your feet are ******* filthy.
They say “Jesus didn’t teach hate”—
but did he know you?
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 11:13 AM UTC
My husband is
a handsome man.
A loyal man.
A strong man.
And I mean strong.
He don’t need to throw fists
or measure ***** with the next *****
a sequoia in a thatch of
black walnut trees.
He doesn’t need toxicity to prove his strength, existing as
both a tank and a bouquet
of flowers—
I’ve never known a closer friend
to the birds, raccoons,
and men
Again, he’s a strong man.
What else is he supposed to be
when he’s fitted with an ain’t ****
father,
and a *** *** dad.
I can’t help but to
marvel at him and his
love, laid out like foundation,
set and sturdy,
when he was worthy of
so much more than you.
Your son is a strong man.
What else was he supposed to be
finding himself small, waking in the world
a beautiful, baby boy
Round faced,
smiling,
daydreaming about what it is to be a man.
His Doe ish eyes watching
your biceps flex, their innocence
skipping jovially over the bottle
clenched tight in your fist.
The same bottle you would
raise to your lips
without coming up for air
over and over
and over
again for 30 weak years.
He didn’t know how magic tricks worked yet!
He didn’t, he didn’t know your biceps are veneers
hiding everything pickled and bad inside—
No, he just said
“Your muscles are big ,dad!
I wanna be just like you.”
Apr 15
Apr 15, 2026 at 8:20 AM UTC
If I could measure my shame
in miles, I would walk for days
if it meant that I could
take back all the ways
that I ever hurt you.
But I can’t tip the hour glass
and my shame is limitless.
I want you to relish in that breathless moment,
I deserve it.
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 11:58 AM UTC
I packed up the rest of your things tonight;
empty flip top bottles
and brew pots
clinked over every pothole
as tunnel vision carried me and my car across town to your house.
All unpacked,
breathless from the weight
of glass and adrenaline,
I look back and the irony
of a pile of beer bottles
being all that’s left of us
is not lost on me.
Shaking,
I break 40 down the block,
away from your house,
dead end
turning to dust in my rearview—
So, this is it.
Apr 9
Apr 9, 2026 at 11:41 AM UTC
As I’m stepping into my midnight
bath sheathed in violet air,
in velvet black,
I wonder if
the animals are all out
of the fields,
noses twitching,
taking back the road.
Innocent and indifferent
to the nights and days
we spent laboring over the fences
intended to keep them safe.
My hair rises
as I slip beneath the weight of the water
questioning whether I know the difference
between leveraging freedom
and self sabotage.
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 3:56 PM UTC
Why do we wash forks
when it’s so much less tedious
to wash our hands?
Look in your sink!
…Tiny, silver nightmares.
For a split second, I fantasize
about a whole world where we
throw them hoes out our windows,
and ravish our food with our fingers.
Apr 3
Apr 3, 2026 at 8:57 AM UTC
I haunted the ground in search of
warm, beautiful things,
in search of home.
But the hardest lesson I’ve learned
is that not every room feels warm
and not every person feels like home does.
My bedroom walls lined with wishful thinking;
pillows stuffed with moondust
in hopes that I fall deep into dream,
but my body wasn’t my home;
Not until I found that warm, beautiful thing
would I dare fall asleep.
But then came you.
You made me want to sleep again.
My limbs beg to hold you like a prayer,
to carve out a piece of my chest
and make a home for you right there.
Let me garden you. I’ll work all year for one rare bloom—
I’ll keep watch from the balcony
perched on your head because
you feel like home.
For your arms have reconstructed my wings,
lowered me into the well empty
and brought me up full.
Even if this warmth proves temporary,
one golden hour in a year full of rain,
Forever my heart will carry a piece of you,
your name a refrain at the end of every line
in every poem of mine.
I can promise,
That when you’re long gone,
at peace and moved on,
I’ll sing your silly songs and
every warm room will bring me back to you.
Apr 2
Apr 2, 2026 at 10:29 AM UTC
I thought if I exhumed his words
I could rearrange the feeling—
Turn them to soft, yellow ducks,
warm brie and cranberry,
into pink cashmere sweaters.
Words can be soft if you want them to be.
They hold power to be carnality,
or a regality to love;
tenderness thriving on tranquility.
Words can be six holy oranges
or six missing harp strings.
With forgiveness,
they can be reinterred,
and given a sweeter burial.
“I met you, wish I never.”
Apr 1
Apr 1, 2026 at 9:19 AM UTC
Let your soft thoughts erupt
from your hurting heart’s mouth.
Remember what it’s like
to be tucked in, warm,
and unafraid. To trust
someone with your whole heart
to keep it safe.
Let go of Pain’s hand and
hold onto the reigns that
pull tight everything making you
into who you are.
Let the mourning doves
carry your grief
on their graceful tawny wings
if only for a moment.
Remember that no burden
is yours alone,
we carry It in unison.
When your soft thoughts erupt
from your hurting heart’s mouth,
remember.
Remember.
Nov 28, 2025
Nov 28, 2025 at 7:49 PM UTC
Why is it that
Borrowed time flies by
Even while you’re looking— but
a watched *** still
won’t boil when you’re hungry,
Or cold,
Or alone.
That’s why I don’t believe in
atonement.
Time is both a thief
And a father;
Setting the table every
Hour,
Teaching hard lessons
Over a dinner that’s always
too fresh and too hot.
But Eat up,
he demands it.
Don’t dare try to defy Time
He is always there
Over your shoulder,
In the air.
In dimly lit theaters.
“Now”
You swear you hear
As your date’s hair brushes
your ear.
This is
“First date numberrrrr…”
It doesn’t matter
Kiss her Or don’t.
Father Time will know.
When you get home
he’ll be waiting alone
At The table,
with a lesson and a plate.
Dinner every hour,
then suddenly every half.
But make no mistake—
on the days
Where suffering
And strife Rules your life
He’ll spread a
12 course feast
And make you eat
Until that plate is clean;
Empowered,
Somewhere
A clock tolls
Another hour.
China clinks.
The chair groans.
Father Time looks the same—
While your bones grew old
And Your tired frame strains
To lift the spoon..
Breath too short
to cool the soup..
But before long it is tepid
Just enough to sneak a bite,
Before Father
Clears the table and
sets it right again.
Nov 21, 2025
Nov 21, 2025 at 1:50 PM UTC