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.



Thick as blood

Tied to the vows of the womb we shared


A woman’s bond through 

Heartbeat and good intentions

Hailed from a broken ceiling,

Caused by a closed door.


Spread into rivers,

Deltas of the divine

Carry me to your Sirens,

Lead me to my sister’s.


String me in your Fate

Wrap me in Being

Tell me a love story

And wake me when my roots

Have finally touched the sky.

Orders for The Fourth Wave Brigade

Fertilize the Feminist for the Fourth wave.

She is needed for the brigade. 

Arm her with mirror

And tell her to call it Goddess.

Arm her with an audience 

And tell her to call them Sisters.

Arm her with a voice

And tell her to call it Ancestor.

The Fourth Wave rises in Her name.

Arms unfolded, fists up in rage.

Steady as you watch her days.

Mother moon plays tricks on the tide,

Tempting one to hide.

She is needed for the brigade.

Unfinished feminism forms in the wake.

She drifts closer a little each time,

But you must show her the prize;

The Fifth is on the rise!

Complexities and Cosmos

But have you heard her voice?
Angry as the caged bird. And somehow she whistles stardust into my sands of time.
Her voice picks up the sea and smoothes it like fresh sheets in the morning. Full of complexities and cosmos of which I consume. Bewitched. Bothered. But always begging for more.
The purpose of her walk has never been more memorable as when she stumbled in after that Tuesday night. Hair risen on her thighs. Arms lifted in the air to expose her essence through unshaven pits. She growls a purr of exhaustion and I leap to help her limbs. Tumble meaningless words between tongues and wait for the fire to burn out.
Today she gives herself a new name. She breaks the rib of her father and pulls it from her cage. She uses it to carve new letters of independence with rage.
With a roll of her eyes as a punctuation of pride, she laughs a charming tune of the caged bird.
And I watch her like static, anticipating and appreciating the rare glimpse of clarity through all the noise.