I’d Really Like to Stop Writing About You | Let’s Mend, September 2015

Things I want you to know

1. I used to fall asleep with your memory for a pillow every night, my heart handing out solutions to every single obstacle that prevented us from being together. But my soul, she stayed away. She knew I was the one who destroyed us. She knew the reason I kept writing was because being hurt so much, you just have to write about it. I just never thought about the way my words hurt you. I’m no Joan Didion, and these past 15 months were definitely not my Year of Magical Thinking. Time didn’t heal my heart or soul—it just kind of made them numb, making me feel like I’m in a dream and I’d really like to wake up now.

When an MFA brings Tears | Slice Magazine, July 2015

The first time I cried in public, I was on the 6 going uptown just pulling into the Bleecker Street stop.

It was the summer of 2012—my first New York City summer, sandwiched between my two years of grad school in Los Angeles—and I was blissfully ignoring the question that was so quick to fall off people’s lips.

On Living With Darkness | Medium.com, Human Parts

The first time the lie slipped out of my mouth, I knew I had found my way out. The words simply rolled off my tongue and popped out into the world. I told everyone I left New York because I needed the change. I answered every question like it was no big deal, like, “Yeah, it was time for a change.” As if my heart started to yearn for something new — started to yearn for another adventure, one that would push me into the unknown once again.

On Living with Darkness | Draft One

The first time the lie slipped out of my mouth I knew I had found my safe haven. I told everyone I left New York because I needed the change. I answered every question like it was no big deal; like, “Yeah, it was time for a change,” as if my heart started to yearn for something new—started to yearn for another adventure, one that would push me into the unknown once more.

On Writing and Love | Entropy Magazine, 2015

I remember a couple of trips I made from Grand Central to New Rochelle; it felt like nothing could go wrong in my life. It felt like I really had it all—a great job, health, and the love of my life. Now I find myself waiting for the train in Surbiton station in Bumfuck, Kingston-Upon-Thames in the pouring rain with a useless umbrella—the train that will get me to Waterloo Station in 15 minutes—and think, Did I really leave New York for this?

 

Read the rest over on Entropy Magazine

Words for You | January 2015

And your lips shone a light

on my ugliest scars

and kissed them goodnight.

Forgive Me Father, For I Have Sinned | January 10, 2015

Sometimes you want to write but don’t feel like writing. So you sit down and write anyway, but all you see is the ugliest of letters forming the ugliest of words, that sick wrongly in front of your eyes.

I think this is one of those times:

One Last 2014 Haiku

I used to believe in love.

But then I realized I was just an airport,

and you were a plane.

Where I Stood [Updated, December 21, 2014]

To the one who stands where I stood:

I once slept by her side, too. Your side of the bed was once mine.

You Know I Call That Home | Draft One

There is a New York City apartment right around the corner of 84^th and York that I call home.