Dear Mr Maybe, It’s been a weird day. I spent too little time sleeping, too much time in my head, and now I’m feeling antsy, irritated and unsettled. Would you be the one to tease me me out of my directionless anger? To playfully provoke me until I’m so distracted by your infectious smile and […]
“You might be wondering, given the fluidity of my sexuality, why I’m addressing this to Mr Maybe. You may not be a Mr at all and if that’s the case then I hope you’ll keep reading anyway. I suppose it just seems unlikely, given the bulk of my experience/trust issues with women, that we’ll share a gender. Either way, I hope you’ll let me share your hoodies….”
“It’s the middle of summer but the night has a chill that has me breaking out in goosebumps while I wish on stars.
There’s a powerful lunar event rising amount the clouds and if the right person comes along once in a blue moon then you should be here tonight, a solid warmth at my back while we wait for the eclipse.”
Or will you let me hide my face in the hollows by your collarbones sometimes? Will you let me take tiny, shuddering breaths against your throat until the scent of your skin overpowers the bitter taste of my sadness and I can breathe a little deeper, a little easier.
Someone asked me why I have a blog when I hate journaling, posting schedules, sticking to a theme, and maintaining anything resembling consistency. They had a valid point, I don’t sound the type, do I? Perhaps it’s because my writing is so conversational, I like feeling like I’m talking to someone other than myself, […]
My tongue tastes like blood and ash, the aftertaste of an annual bender I haven’t started yet, (though perhaps my hangover would beg to disagree). I woke up like this, smudged, sickened, & so damn sad, though in truth that’s nothing new, I’ve been sad for most of my life. The calendar says it’s been […]
Tonight is Christmas Eve, arbitrary to my faith but incredibly important to my social conditioning. I’m sitting between my boys, watching T play Xbox while R makes us cocktails, listening to T’s tipsy babbling and R’s quiet laugh. There’s something warm and contentedly understated about the glow from the fairy lights in the haze of […]
I can’t help but wonder if I was a better writer when every part of my life and psyche was still an interminable mess, back in the before days when I was still living in an Ani Difranco song and a Warhol film and Cobain’s diaries.
When I was the cliche and the metaphor and the lesson not learnt….