March 27, 2013, 11:54 PM
-My jaw is aching from clenching my teeth
April 20, 2013, 1:03 AM
-He is perfect and i am drunk and he is perfect
June 11, 2013, 3:20 PM
-They tuck me in when I'm too ****** to feel the cold on my skin
July 8, 2013, 7:08 AM
-Don't forget he said "I wake up and I'm aching"
August 13, 2013, 1:07 AM
-**** I swore I'd never feel like this again. I swore I'd **** the butterflies before they landed.
September 16, 2013, 1:34 AM
-I miss home so much. I can't do it
October 18, 2013, 8:32 AM
-It doesn't scare me that I've forgotten how your voice sounds. It scares me that I don't care.
October 30, 2013, 3:32 AM
-What do you do when you're homesick but the home you crave so deeply doesn't exist anymore...?
January 25, 2014, 8:17 AM
-Five years is a long time. I miss you Kristyn.
February 17, 2014, 11:57 PM
-What if I could go back and save them
March 4, 2014, 9:49 PM
-Here you are inside my head again
March 9, 2014, 3:21 AM
-I hope I never forget the way biting my lip and swallowing a growing laughter made my chest ache, kind of like holding back tears
March 16, 2014, 12:50 AM
-I know Erick and I were drunk last night but I remember him saying, "wherever you end up is where you need to be" and I remember thinking that I'd do anything to believe him.
August 5, 2014, 4:04 PM
-I was standing on the ledge this whole time and I didn't even know it.

The schoolteacher had an affair in Santa Fe.
She was a schoolteacher and a tourist.
And an affair adds dimension.
It makes a place more than memory.
The notion of it inverts.
Santa Fe now resided inside of the schoolteacher.
The city had a cracked voice and blonde hair
and a slightly sagging belly and pictures
of a New York niece on its phone and
an ambivalent relationship with combing its hair
and an irrational fear of left turns.
She expected young artists with vague academic worldviews,
chainsmokers talking loudly about point of view and Heidegger.
Instead the artists were retirees, painting nothing but landscapes
of red earth, attempting to improve on the natural world.
The schoolteacher did not like this kind of art.
It was trivial.
Wholly unnecessary.
Then the blonde artist walked up behind her
in a stucco gallery. He said, "You hate it don't you?"

"Yes."

She turned. He appeared to be in his early forties.

"Tourists never understand it."

"I'm not a tourist."

"You are. You've never been within the land."

"Don't talk to me like this."

"This is how women prefer to be talked to."

"Not this woman."

"Even you. You want to be told you're wrong.
'I look fat' No. 'Everybody hates me.' That's not true.
I'm skipping the stage where we agree. I'm going
straight to the stage where we are opposites.
Plus and minus."

"The part where we *****."

"Or connect or lose ourselves."

"I bet you live in a loft. Dozens of half-finished
canvases strewn about. Dabs of dried paint on
newspapers."

"I live in my big sister's basement. She isn't home."

"There's not enough wine in the world."

"That's where you're wrong," he said.

he doesn't question my proclivity to absence, he accepts it as he does the width and length
of my mind and
I.

he rears away from the bone
of my hips, fearful of its
ability to puncture
and camouflages his skin
against the bulbs of my
******* and thighs.

he gazes upon me as he would
at a navy sealed sky
not searching for any stars,
not curious of whether an ability
to glow is apparent,
he understands that I am
unapologetically,
seamlessly, an unlit sky
he appreciates my stillness,
my inability to spark.

he accepts my absence
as I accept
my unaligned, navy
complexion.

The house I have built within myself for you
is not an empty nest
It's cupped palms that hold water just fine
a cool, stone cage for a hummingbird
the door is open
I am waiting for the right moment to fly