Her Make-Believe

Coral smiles

deep as sea

Eyes that grow

in worlds unseen.

Cacti roots and

butterfly wings

She’s most beloved

in her make-believe.



A few of my best days are those when I lived alone.

I woke up at 7:12 a.m. when I knew I had a 30-minute commute to work. This was validated by my lack of decisiveness regarding clothing. It was healthier if I just wore the first thing I chose – for time’s sake. Breakfast was sometimes almost nonexistent. Belvita biscuits and some coffee followed by a late morning yawn and raw mixed nuts stuffed inside a mason jar. More coffee.

Life was great.

No orders or expectations. Except from my cat. Must feed cat.

I washed dishes when I needed to, scraped the pot of my homemade dinners, and left the new bedroom shelving right where I dropped it when I brought it home. I was in no hurry. Except to buy cat food. Must feed cat.

The more I lived alone the more I believed I truly knew who I was and what I wanted. More and more, I would receive compliments stating just that.

You seem to know what you want.

Good for you for doing what you want.

But the truth is, some of my best days are those when I lived alone, but I was alone. Lonely. Showers were quiet. Mornings were slow. Even the cat began to bore of my rituals. Even more so, masturbation and laundry began to feel like the same long, hot chore. Except for my pussy.

Must feed cat.

Eight Years

I visited an old friend yesterday. We had not seen each other in eight years. That’s quite a lot these days with social media. We hugged, we laughed, we stared, then he began with, “You’re so grown up.”

I was floored. Grown up? Had I not been grown up for all those years too? Year’s when I had to have that job to take care of myself and my sister. Times when I began drinking black coffee for the first time. Busy mornings, sleepless nights. My first big love and my first big goodbye. Had I not been grown up then?

No. I was fighting for my skin, but not understanding the one I was in. Nineteen felt like 25 and 25 felt like 40. Today, in the crux of my 20’s I believe I am almost the full human I set out to be long ago. One part still remains; that soulmate.

We say our goodbyes and we turn to leave and he asks one more thing. “What ever happened to that guy you were seeing? I know you were together for a while.” Like a sound from another mouth I replied, “We had our differences and chose our own paths.” His heart look like it melted as the smile wiped from his face. I nodded as if to say, I’m OK.

Walking out the door I remember those days in all their glory. When did I become this woman people now see? And how do I refine her with grace and sensibility? Another eight years, I tell myself, and drive away.


I stare among the women in crossed-legged seated postures and wonder if I’ll ever get there. Smiles strung along their faces. They’ve made it. They have found some place to call home. They pull love and compassion from places I’ve never heard of; from some chakra of the month. I still pull my tears back. The only colorful line up are my excel spreadsheets during fundraising campaigns and no one seems to care how long I haven’t been smiling. Breathe. Count to three. Allow the inner critic to wash away. I need more inner goddess, that’s for sure. Do you get that from kombucha? Taking pictures in a yoga pose? Can you see me now? Calling for help. Breathe. Maybe I’m just jealous of all the love they seem to receive. An internal healing from tailbone to sun salutations. I wish there was a bandaid big enough to cover the wounds I have. The sands of time have only stung like salt ripe on my flesh. “Moving forward” was silly advice. I now exhale my problems onto the next person. Deep, cursed excerpts of my ode to humanity and love and family and relationships and him and… breathe. I guess maybe I am jealous of those smiles stretched across their faces. And maybe… just maybe, I’ll find my own love in my crossed-legged meditation too.


My shadow leads me.
The “past has passed” has passed me now
forcing me undressed.
Stripped of a black, long sleeve turtleneck that
Forever blindfolds my eye.
Arms stuck in Chinese finger trap portals.
She leads me down planks and into rooms of self defining doom.

Whips me around blindly like loss makes us do.

Caught in the newest room.
She whirls me in love potion and lights me on fire. Rebirth of my shadow found on the moon.

From the light of my steps moving forward.

Remind Me with a Post-it

Trails of Post-its are pulled from my pockets that scratch out the symbols of yesterday’s eternity.

Written in whispers from nights you promised to cup my overflow of water with both of your hands.

I can still hear the scratching from the first time you wrote one, reminding me of our year. Now, that sound has faded into the crinkling of a Post-it note in my pocket.