Blessed is she who comes across,
A man so pure and full of love.
Who devoutly reveres his beloved,
To miss out would be  a vast loss.


A man like mine,
Perfection in human form.
Oh how he is flawless,
A personality which endearingly shines.

He posses a touch to admirable to be factual,
A voice that makes you feel at home,
A smile that says you’re not alone,
A body so desirable, so ****, so practical.

A love like the finest of wine,
Each day it gets better,
Nothing but better,
A love so sensibly divine.


When you have a love like ours,
You’ll learn there is fate,
None of this is fake,
Days seem only hours.


Blessed is she who comes across,
a man such as mine,
A love so divine,
to miss out would be a vast loss.

"The best people possess a feeling for beauty,
The courage to take risks,
The discipline to tell the truth,
The capacity for sacrifice.
Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable
Yet, they are often wounded,
Sometimes destroyed."
- Ernest Hemingway

She was always counting her blessings.

When starved for misbehaving:
'I was wrong. I should have listened to Mama. At least I took a full lunch in school today. If I sleep early I would not feel hungry.'

When bullied for being the most quiet girl in class:
'Maybe I should talk more. Maybe I should look at people in the eyes when I do so. I was wrong. It's okay. At least they will leave me alone for now.'

When scolded for not doing her housework well:
'I was wrong. I could have done better. I should not have taken a break. At least I still have Mama to yell at me. Anne has none.'

When hit for playing the radio too loudly:
'Dadda was in a bad mood. I should never have turned it on. I was wrong. At least the radio is still around so I can secretly listen to it in my room.'

When slapped for her grades dropping:
'I should have extended my studying hours from seven to nine hours a day. I was not good enough. I was wrong. At least I still have another three months till the next test.'

When ***** by drunk father:
'I do not understand what happened. It was all just pain and darkness. Dadda said I am not allowed to tell anyone anything. But it's okay. At least he promised me more pocket money for school.'

What made you think that,
Just because you have strong hands,
Which look like they were sculptured by God himself,
You can touch the most sacred parts of my body,
Then leave me,
And leave my skin burning and yearning for more?

What made you think that,
You can look into my eyes,
And shakingly hold my face in your bandaged palms,
And whisper lies to me on your hospital bed,
Telling me that everything will be okay,
That you would fight for me,
Then months later give up?

What made you think that,
I was joking when I said,
I would get married to you,
And have our favorite songs play at our wedding,
Once we get our lives figured out?

What made you think that,
I would ever let you die,
Unacknowledged,
As a victim of drunk driving,
With that murderer still unarrested?

What made you think that,
I will ever be fine,
Seeing everyone else going on with their lives,
Hardly unimpacted,
When my life after you feels like,
A two-dimensional black and white documentary?

What made you think that,
I have celebrated enough birthdays with you?

this is an open letter to anyone who has the audacity to try and love you like i did.

dear whateverthefuckyournameis,

i apologize in advance for spilling my boiled blood on the hem of your skirt. what you need to understand, is that you are standing on ground previously reserved for my feet, so forgive me for any bitterness that seeps through the cracks in my clenched fists. i don't hate you, but i can't be your friend. you probably don't know about me, and if you do, let me commend your bravery. i have a tendency to set my problems on fire, and in my bouts of anger everything looks flammable, especially girls with paper complexions. i'm sorry. i have never been one to walk away, so i don't know how to explain to you the holes in the bottoms of my shoes. but i have been further than you will ever go. this is not supposed to be an angry letter, but lately that's the only thing coming out of me. i don't even know your name but the thought of your hands reaching for him makes we want to break them. i will douse your dreams in gasoline and strike the match against your cheek. but i know that's not right, see, the poison crawling out from the end of my pen belongs to a scarier version of myself i try not to know. my heartache is an insatiable war cry in the dead of night, that will stop at nothing to shatter all your windows. it shames me to admit that i've found a sort of twisted satisfaction in using passive aggression to breach your armor. i am sick with missing a set of arms i was not privileged enough to know. i speak with all the grace of an atom bomb and wonder about the rubble at my feet. you are white picket fence and i am barbed wire. some girls are lions, some are lambs, and i learned to love, teeth bared and snarling. one of the only things that keeps me going is the hope that one day i'll learn how to love something without making it bleed. i may have never been his, but for a time he was mine, so please understand why i taste acid when i think about your mouth on his. again, i am sorry. i know it is not my place to be so full of resentment, but there is a part of me that sincerely hopes it bothers you to know he dreamt of me before you were even a thought. there is a side of me that thrives on the image of the color being drained from your face when you read this. but i am trying to learn how to be softer. this letter is the manifestation of a self-inflicted war that has been raging in my chest since he first told me about you. you will try to be good to him, and you might even succeed. if you ever find yourself singing him to sleep, like i did, don't ask if he wants to hear another song, just keep going until his breathing slows.

- m.f.

If humans had wings,
I would fly off mountain tops.