I renamed him "Were You Sent by Someone Who Wanted Me Dead?"
because the damage didn’t feel accidental.
Now his name sits like a warning—
a lighthouse in reverse,
pulling me toward the rocks instead of away.

The boy who made me feel alive but ruined me
is "Can’t Go Back, I’m Haunted,"
because that’s what he was—
a shadow teaching me how to crave the dark.
Even now, I catch myself looking for him
in rooms I swear I’ve locked.

The one who left quietly got
"Stood on the Cliffside Screaming ‘Give Me a Reason,’"
because that’s what I told myself:
he wasn’t cruel, just lost,
just a plane circling the runway,
never meant to land.
I scroll past his name
and wonder if he’s still searching.

The fling that burned too fast
became "She’s Gone Too Far This Time,"
because I warned him—
I’m no one’s redemption arc.
He wanted fire to keep him warm,
but I only know how to burn.

The boy who was almost enough is
"I’ll Tell You the Truth but Never Goodbye."
His kindness felt like sunlight on bare skin,
but I couldn’t stop chasing shadows.
His name glows softly—
a reminder of the light I couldn’t hold.

Another became "Back When We Were Still Changing for the Better,"
because that’s all we were—potential,
the kind of almost that stays caught in your throat,
a song you never finish writing.
I left him there in my phone,
a name too soft for the edges we’ve grown into,
but sharp enough to remind me
how hope always dies in the details.

There’s comfort in cataloging heartbreaks this way—
turning them into lyrics instead of people,
letting songs hold what I can’t.
I swipe past "Forever is the Sweetest Con,"
"If a Man Talks ****, Then I Owe Him Nothing,"
and "Old Habits Die Screaming."
I laugh at my own theatrics
and wonder if they deserve immortality.

If one of them calls,
I’ll watch the name flicker on the screen,
smile at the poetry of it all,
and let it go unanswered.

Because some names
only deserve to live
in someone else’s song.

An act of defiance
Is merely an act of compliance
To words you never told me
To worlds in which I couldn't be.

I dreamed mine in my mind
They were the Taylor Swift kind
With hidden key chains
In my deepest of pains

You could never reach
A contract we couldn't breach
I told God this couldn't be me
And then I watched myself, be.

What hurts the most
Is I always knew I should expect the worst
But I hoped for the best
I put my fears to rest.

Until you just pulled them out
When it all went south
I danced with my demons
I prayed for new seasons.

Greate is thy Sin, since Sin is never Small:
     And Monstrous Moles of Sin Call home thy Soule.
About their Mountainous Molehills they do Crawle.
     Play thou (and win) a Game of Whacke-a-Mole.
     Unto the Moles be Deadly as an asp.  
     Beware, take Care, nor Swat the pettish wasp.

The Harebrain'd Sinners Sins to him are toyes;
     Theyre Entertainments, Gambols, Games with Dice.
The Madbrain'd Sinners Sins to him are joyes
     Untill he's made to paye in full their price.
     The Crackbrain'd Sin-addicted Scarab bug
     That liveth but for Sin to Hell is Drug.

Peter (my bf) and I were in Paris, about three weeks ago (I was on Spring break, he was on vacation from work).
‘Headstart for Happiness,’ by ‘the Style Council,’ was playing low somewhere.
“This is the kind of starry winter night that guy from the Netherlands used to paint,” I observed.
“If you were writing about it,” he asked, “how would you describe it?”
“Imagine a deep, still blue, hosting a field of luminescent light scatter, and a bashful moon, low in the sky, as if it were hiding in the trees.” I guessed.
“It’ll moonset soon,” he said “within the hour.” he added.
“I never think of moonsets.” I said, looking at the sky like it was new.
“The moon follows the line of the ecliptic,” he said, as if that meant something, “more or less,” he qualified.
“To think I grew up under an undifferentiated sky,” I marveled.

When I’m with him, I can relax, I don’t have to be-on, he’s smart enough.
Of course, I’d come in handy if he went into cardiac arrest or started choking on something.

We were sitting side by side, outside ‘Le Café du Marché,’ a bistro near the Eiffel Tower. Our waiter,  Léo, had just refilled our coffee. It was 9:30 PM and we’d been at this table for about two hours.

We’d reduced the tarte-tatin to a few crumbs forty minutes ago, but Léo knows me and although they're thirty tourists in line for tables, he won’t rush us.

Like puppets dance, we often mimic lines - I don’t know why.
“I was stalking you,” I confided, running a finger along his long-sleeve shirt-cuff.
“I was stalking you,” He said. Our eyes were fixed on each other.
“No, seriously,” I said, moving in much closer, to be serious.
“No, seriously,” He deadpanned back.
“Then I caught you,” I went on, and I was very close now, our lips maybe two inches apart.
“No, I caught you,” he said, smiling as I got very close. “It was ****** Jujitsu,” he softly bragged.
“Wax on, wax off,” I said before I stole a quick kiss.

Peter was shocked, a scooch, by French teens.
If French teens have a crush, especially in Paris, it’s a ‘drop what you’re doing,’ snog-fest - between classes in the hall, on-the-metro, in a coffee shop or grocery store they go-all-in, because love must be stormy, urgent, tinchy.
Here’s a secret. Peter says, “You **** my face, like no one ever has.” It must be the French in me. Ha!

Of course, I learned all I know about love from Taylor Swift.
Let’s see, first, I must be willing to let down my guard - because love can happen at any time.
Love, at its best, is overwhelming, mistake prone, meaningful and powerful - but I can’t assume it’ll last, because my lover may have ulterior motives. I could be hurt or changed by the experience - but I’ll have the memories. Eventually though, I’ll heal enough to try again - with a new set of expectations.

Maybe I’ll even write a song or a poem about it.

It’s a chill and rainy Saturday night in New Haven - it’s Superbowl eve! My roommates Leong, Anna and Lisa and I were playing a game of Upwards - it’s a scrabble-like word game and we’re all strangely super competitive.

My phone went “dunk!” A happy ‘Water jug’ sound messages make when they're from one of my favorites. The message was from Charles. He was at the front gate with a package that came to the house where Charles and Mrs. Charles live (about 600 yards from the dorm). He passed me the package through the bars at the main gate, “Thanks,” I said, “ga-night,” and he was gone.

Back in my room, I ripped the box open like Christmas morning. The word game could wait - this package was from Paris. The light beige, Jacquemus, ‘Les Ballerines mary-jane pumps’ I’d ordered (forever ago) had arrived and they fit like soft leather gloves.
“Ooo! Glampse!” Lisa pronounced.
“Aren’t they?” I agreed, swiveling my hooves to show them off in the full length mirror.

When I rejoined the Upwards game, talk had shifted to tomorrow's Superbowl.
“I read yesterday that Taylor’s on her way (to the Superbowl)!” Leong declared.
“I like that she likes the NFL now,” I said.
“A lot of people hate her for it,” Anna countered.
“She was on camera twice, for 11 seconds total, in a 3-1/2 hour long game. If that upsets you, you’re bringing a lot of your own baggage to the plot.” I updogged.

Leong wants to order vegan “wings” for the SuperBowl.
“What, exactly, are those?” I asked, apprehensively.
“You’re the girl who talked me into trying buffalo-frog-legs in Paris - ney?” Leong enquired, sarcastically.
“Yeah,” I admitted, guiltily, “but they were delicious,” I said in self defense.

I’m picking the Chiefs 30-20 over the niners.

Heavenly Lord, thy Spinning Wheele Make mee,
     make mine thy Holy Spirit glorify,
therewith thereon therein T̶h̶e̶n̶  then this thy thee,
     the Webweave   Loomeyarn thy for glory dy.
     I am thyselfe All pinkt with Judgment fine,
     that Then their Words is Ordinances Twine:

Affections make thy Holy to be Reele.
     yee Actions fill shall My apparell may.
My Conversation make and reele thy Wheele.
     Will mine the Holy thy of mine display.
     Affections me with cloath My wayes and quills thy,
     Then make me Then to make same Fulling Mills thy:

Memory Make of Flyers knit bee neate,
     And Swift my Soulespun   Spooleyarn winde before,
Varnisht in Colours Choice That flowers compleate,
     my Distaff Make thine Understanding for.
     And, Cloathd in Holy robes, my Conscience, Lord,
     O Paradise and glory shine thy Worde....

I’m laughing this morning, spontaneously. We’re not studying anymore. Our sophomore school year is over. I’m giddy, giggling, like a 9 year old on sugar.

I think I just finished the hardest class that I’ll ever take - my last pure-math class, ever - and I got an “A.” Just barely - by two-tenths of a point (.2). That’s by the skin of a bacteria, the thickness of a sigh or the weight of a glance. Yeah, and I’ll take it very much.

We’re gathered, with two extra-large NY Pizza Supremas, around Lisa’s parent’s long, white kitchen island. Lisa and I parked on tall bar stools and Peter, lounging on a nearby couch. The playlist we’d had going, had just ended. We’re looping a lot of T.Swift because we’re going to see her in concert in TWO days (May 14th 2023). Leeza (Lisa’s 13 yo little sister) is here too - but she’s in a mood.

“You know what I want to hear?” I offered.
“What” Peter asked.
“The other side of the door” I said. Leeza groaned.
“OH MY GOD,” Lisa squealed, “ANAIS, Anais!!, I KNEW I loved you, I already knew!
Lisa turned to Peter, “Anais and I we, we have this string - some might call an invisible string”
“Yeah,” I laugh. “tying us to each other,” Lisa continued, laughing, “and sometimes I get so shocked when she reminds me it’s there.”  “right,” I agree.
“And you’re so real for that - it’s so true.” Lisa finishes by starting the song.

“Taylor Swift’s  “the other side of the door” plays, Leeza stomps out, taking half a pie and when the song finishes there’s silence.

“Wow” Lisa said. Peter looked up from wherever absurdly boring physics article he was reading.
“Sorry,” I told Peter, fanning myself, “we’re recovering. That song has the best outro in the business.”
“Cause you just expect a song to end on a chill fadeout” Lisa explains, “and end nicely.”
“This one just ends, BAM!” I laughed. “BAM!” Lisa echos, laughing as well.
“It’s trenchant - the little black dress - you just have to shake your hips every TIME,” I say.
“It eats, it eats every TIME,” Lisa agreed.
“It eats so much I forget he cheated on her!” I laugh, “I don’t even CARE!”
“I don’t even care,” Lisa chuckles, “in the outro,” she tells Peter, “she’s takin’ back her man because he got with some girl in a little black dress.”
“It’s a hard lyric,” I say, “the beautiful eyes, the conversations, the lies, are all I can think of.”  
“I like Taylor’s version the best,” Lisa said, “you get the emotional maturity and her voice is more mature.”

“Of course,” I said, “I grew up with that album - I think it came out in 2008 (I was 5) - but I remember, about two years ago, maybe three, I was in high school, some friends and I were driving to the lake and it was a full-on Swift-sing-along. We finished singing it, and I thought, “WOAH, that song EATS - how had I missed that?”
“I know,” Lisa echoed, “her music just hits at different stages of life and still comes off fresh.”
“Like someone discovering the Beatles,” Peter said, “who were - 60 years ago?”
“Yeah, or David,” I said. Peter looked confused.
“David - from the Bible?” I explained, “THAT was a long time ago too. Have you Godless Californian’s ever read any of the Bible?”
“No,” Peter said, sarcastically, going back to his reading, “but I saw the movie.”