the fairytale of being yours

is merely an echo of an unwatered heart

and though your words drench me in hot apple cinnamon

the meaning is quick to depart.

the ”I love you’s” are soft, but unforgiving

your love waits, i linger desperately

warm by the fire, but only an object of desire

clinging to what used to be me.

my fulfillment was mindful artistry

now it’s serving myself on a platter

your adoration fit snug in my pocket

flattery that achingly mattered.

my words are tainted with dramatic irony

knowing how the story will always end

as i hold onto you for the “very last time”

over and over again.

the fairytale of being yours

is merely an echo of an unwatered heart

i sip on our memories fondly

i place down the glass to start.

In terms of ideal places to cry, the women's restroom on the ground floor of the psychology building was truly unparalleled.

Now, it's not that the restroom was particularly nice. One of the stalls was always out of order, the paper towel dispensers often got stuck, the doors creaked, the walls were a disconcerting off-white, and the building itself resembled a poorly-kept hospital. If you wanted a more beautiful place to cry, you'd try the gardens. If you wanted a more secluded place to cry, you'd try your room. If you wanted a quieter place to cry, you'd try the upper floors of the library. You won't find beauty or perfection in the women's restroom on the ground floor of the psychology building.

But that's what I liked. The imperfection matched my emotion, the ugliness mirrored the feelings inside. The women's restroom offered a refuge for me to relate to the building, for me to release my emotions before they suffocated me. I cannot count the number of times I sat in that restroom, biting down on my fist while silently sobbing, expelling tears of frustration, stress, anxiety, sadness, and despair. I sought respite between the dull green walls of the restroom stalls, I shattered my porcelain heart and glued it back together before opening the door and pretending to be okay. There was a certain comfort in knowing the restroom would be there for me, in knowing there was a place where I could cry without judgment.

There were moments of happiness and peace within that restroom, but I rarely visited the women's restroom on the ground floor of the psychology building if I was feeling good. It was when I was sad, when the floor was giving out from under me, when a dark tidal wave was crashing down on me, when shadows were obscuring my senses and I was sinking into the quicksand of despair, when my throat was wrapped with barbed wire and my stomach was full of writhing snakes, when I felt the beginnings of a torrential outpouring of emotion in the form of salty-sweet tears, when the pull of gravity became unbearable and it took every ounce of willpower to remain standing, when I felt the call of the void—that was when I visited the women's restroom on the ground floor of the psychology building.

I haven't been back to the psychology building for a long time, and it's been even longer since I visited the women's restroom on the ground floor. Sometimes, I wonder if they've changed it—if they fixed the toilet that was always out of order, if they repainted the walls, if they made it spotless. I hope not, and there's a certain comfort in the knowledge that fixing one of the less-used bathrooms in the psychology building is likely not at the top of anyone's priority list. It's silly, really, but I will be eternally grateful for the emotional sanctuary of the women's restroom on the ground floor of the psychology building.

And it seems once you leave,

you’re left out to roam

in a world full of people

that can’t find the way back

and the porch lights are no longer on.

One hot summer day

you’re just packing your clothes

and looking back at the trashcans

lined up in neat rows

knowing pieces of you are stuffed inside- time to let go

and the porch lights will never come on.

You couldn’t walk around

this new house with your eyes closed

and the empty, unfamiliar house smell

made you feel exposed

All the light switches did the wrong things, it wasn’t home.

and there were no porch lights to turn on.

On the twelfth day of Halloween,

my true love sent to me;

Twelve Vampire Bites,

Eleven Skeletons Skating,

Ten Wolfs A-howling,

Nine Zombies Lurching,

Eight Monsters Mashing,

Seven Ghosts A-haunting,

Six Witches Witching,

Five Skull Rings,

Four Crying Bats,

Three Freaky Frogs,

Two Slimy Slugs,

And a Potion in a Cauldron.

Treetops stain orange and brown.

Vibrancy settles in the hills.

Red wine stains above the sky;

black clouds tuft into raven wings.

She stands with inky hair,

long strands curl down

like snakes that await pray.

Still, yet elegant.

He towers with a quiver

on his lip.

Wet eyes beg her to run.

He clutches danger in his hands.

She closes in on him.

The way she walks is

an autumn breeze

and a slow tempo.

Lips caress on his skin.

The target on her drifts.

He falls for the daunted.

Falls for the spell,

the one he convinces himself

he is under.

The spell is just her.

She will not burn

he thinks.

She is his but cannot be.

He clutches her wrists.

He begs her to run.

She steps back and

leaves him in curiosity.

Heat chars her skin.

She steps in the gap

where he lacks to

finish out his hunt.

Occult boots scuff firewood.

Ash stained fingers trace

beautiful edges and lines.

She was love.

It’s dark outside.

The world slumbers, all too comfortable to wake up, yet.

Some like you though, battle the waves of sleepiness for they have work to attend to.

Work, even if it’s still dark outside.

You grab your phone to just stop the incessant ringing.

I’m up, damnit.

You sit up as the world returns to blissful silence.

The cozy moment lingers for a second, when your face is hit by sharp air.

Shivering slightly, you rub your hands together to warm the frozen digits.

Time to get up.

You get out of bed, even as your entire body protests against it.

Quietly, you pad into the kitchen to put on a pot of tea.

The tea boils as you sluggishly go through your daily activities.

Pouring the tea into your favorite mug, you sit down for a moment.

Cradling the mug with both hands, you allow its warmth to seep into your fingers.

And for a while, it’s just you and the warm mug of tea– as you steal a few peaceful moments before the chaotic day begins...

The new moon, bright

in its darkness

like an eye's iris,

widely shut

but to those

that know,

those that practice

calling to the moon goddess

and her open arms

of the new moon

light their candles

and state their intentions

and manifest the

desires and wants

of the day to day

in their mortal life

today I’m from Paris

having wine on a side street

tomorrow I’m from

Wyoming

where the world isn’t

burning

and in two days

I’m flying

today I’m from everywhere

sipping martinis and

yelling obscenities

nowhere contains me

and when they ask me

what do you do

I say I’m a writer

who else

makes up stories

about their identities

When I was a child

I found a clearing

In the center of the clearing

Was a tree.

In the center of the tree

There was a plaque

That I did not see.

It mourned someone named Chris,

Someone that I never knew,

And in my ignorance and bliss

I picked the flowers that lay.

There must have been a whole bouquet

I scattered them in the woods

Along the way

And when I returned to that sweet clearing

I saw the plaque I’d been ignoring.

I saw the words and began to panic

Afraid of supernatural vengeance.

I searched and searched through all the woods

But no flowers grew that season.

Years later in the hot summer breeze

I returned on a whim.

I remembered the tree and the flowers I stole

I remembered Chris and the debt I owe.

So I wandered through the blooming woods

And picked a few flowers that I could

I laid them down at Chris’s grave

And apologized for the mistake I made.

A debt finally repaid

You got my book wet and began apologizing profusely.

Although I couldn't really be angry because you were absolutely beautiful.

You were the kind of pretty that people have to take a second glance at, the best kind.

You asked if you could buy me a new copy but the book was just a paperback and it was my third time reading it, obviously not a big deal.

I said sure.

Sure led to “okay” which led to ’here’s my number”

Followed by “how bout a trip to Barnes and noble next weekend?”

Life was set.

Do you remember that trip?

It led to my greatest love

And my greatest loss.

I wish we could discuss it but you have moved on to another life.

By the way, my love, I never got rid of that book.