I once knew a man who wanted to hold
his sadness closer than he ever wanted
to hold me and there was no way I could win.
I can pretend that I have forgiven him
for it but the truth is, I never will.

Yet sometimes you find that you want to
hold your crazy closer than you would
ever want to hold anyone else.

But then you find yourself
standing on a rooftop and a man
is there holding your hand.

And you lose hold of
your crazy long enough
To hold him accountable.
To hold his attention.
To hold him tight.

Sometimes a woman wants to hold her crazy
closer to her than she wants to hold you
and although it’s hard to believe, it’s true.

Sometimes the beginning comes so suddenly.

Sometimes you understand that
you don’t understand anything

except that you are
hot to the touch,
that the breeze is cool,
that it takes all you have
to hold to this moment
and that you’d let go
if he came with you.
I started this poem in my head a few days ago, and had every intention of dedicating it to the man who inspired the original poem on which it was based. But as I said to someone just a few days ago, nearly every poem I ever write is about at least 3 people at the same time, and this one is no exception.

The end of July is a rough time for me, historically speaking, and I am so glad to say that this July 31 finds me in the oddest circumstances I could have ever thought possible. But that man who holds his sadness too tightly seems to be learning how to loosen his grip, little by little, and the man currently holding my attention is a puzzle I’m having a great time solving.

At the end of the day, I’ll always be the woman who holds her crazy closer than anything or anyone else. Take it or leave it.


Ghosts in the Wires

There are ghosts
in the wires
I see them
clear as day.

and her
and what

was said
wasn’t said
was done
wasn’t done.

Sage advice
from a girl
who’s not here
and complete
by a boy
who came back.

And now there are
ghosts in the wires.
I see them clear as day.

I don’t want to
but I want to
beg them
to go away.


Leftover Possession

I will always reach
for your hand and
I will always dig
my fingers through
your hair and my palms
will always rest on the
small of your back
because they are
manifestations of the
way I attempt to
give you comfort.

I just want the next girl
who falls in love with you
to know from the start that
she may walk into a room to
find my legs draped over yours,
but that you’ll definitely be
going home with her with
no argument from me.

That it doesn’t mean a thing.
That it is only a comfort.
That you are no longer mine
any more than I am yours.

Which is totally
and completely
and always.

But only in that place
of leftover possession
that holds me hostage.
This one has been sitting in the queue for awhile and I’m tired of looking at it.


The Truth

Run your hand
across my knee.

Tell me again
how beautiful I am –

How anyone would be
lucky to have me,

While the sun
bounces off of
the stone in
your wedding ring.
– 7/23/15



I am surrounded
by thinkers.
And I don’t want
to think anymore.

I don’t want to
work through
this problem
by going over
every detail
of it until the
trees become
a dense forest
to get lost in.

I don’t want to be
lost anymore.

I want to be found.

I find myself in
any number of
sticky situations
and I am done
bumbling my way
out of them.

You want to
block my path?
I’ll step on your foot.

You want to talk
around this problem?
I’ll get in your face.

You want to vacillate
over your next move?
I’ll take hold of your shoulder.

And I will push you

in whatever direction

I decide

I want to go.

You don’t have
to come with me
if you don’t want to.

But I will leave you
standing on the crossroads
knowing full well what it is
you are leaving behind
by my hurried footprints
and the view you are
treated to as
I walk away.