A realisation: I don’t want to write about you anymore.


(and just like that, the fever broke)


You don’t let go

You don’t.

The accumulation, the little gatherings. You open your arms wider to them. You hold one more, and close.

You don’t.

Fingers and slipping. Everything that falls through – you never knew how. Always scooping up the love at your feet. Until it is back again, and overflowing.

You don’t let go.

You let.

You let everything stay.

Everything stays.

You remember she said there is always room – it just expands. And you are a chasm now. Wide, wide open, and reaching.

You remember.

She said.

You don’t let go.

(This heart. It holds every thing)


And here I am again. Forgetting. Or remembering – differently. Something softer, something sweeter always pushing through … 


Do I scare you?

Is my music too loud? Can you sense the symphony under my skin, the cello and the drum beat? My own little march and invitation.

Is that why you want to turn me down.

Do I scare you? With words this long, and seeing through? With asking for your stories, too?

You scare me, it seems. Your dull charm and your possibility. The way my fingers itch toward your chest, toward ribs and the cracking of cages wide open.

This has always been my wild persuasion. A man buried as deep as you. And the promise of an excavation.

Joanne Piechota photography at body, remember

“Ordinary life does not interest me” ~ Anais Nin


To the lover after you …

I come with suitcases. Most people do. Mine are full of words and wounds, and that time he said it wouldn’t work. When I never once considered it was him not me that was broken.

I’ve been carrying this for years. All that heavy. Maybe I could put the contents at your feet some day? All the damaged things, and how they’ll look little in the light, because half of what I carried never really belonged to me.

His baggage weighed me down for years – but I’m lighter than air, you’ll see. Was. Will be.

And I’m looking for a safer place to land.

Rock Leaving

time for letting go …


You can be half a planet, half a country, half a block – or half a room away, and still hurt me with the arms that you impose.

I no longer wish to be part of the distance that you make.

Happy Holidays. Happy New Year. Happy Birthday. Happy every anniversary of every happy any thing that means something or no thing at all to you.

Happy any day that I’m not in, let’s say.

I will read your obituary and cry myself to sleep one day. But while you’re still here, alive, you get nothing from me. Ever again.

(I think they made resolutions for this).




All of her sorrow

I never expected to have the kind of life they put on Christmas cards. I knew there were times ahead as dark as the ones already gone. I knew I would not suddenly glide through life, as if on ice skates in some soda commercial. I’m the kind to bump, and fall. I knew I’d have many, many bruises to come. But I wanted them. I want them now. I want the stain under my skin that says things are alive and warm in here, and parts can die, but the rest of you lives on. I’m even jealous of paper cuts now, of all the sharp, surprising stings. The way every nerve jumps to your surface, the protest of it. The way that when you hurt, it means you are alive.

I’m not going to make it.

Time is its own slowing beat right now. My life before is being lived again, and the life ahead, the one I haven’t had a chance to reach yet, that’s playing for me too. I see myself two years from now, five, ten, twenty-seven. I’m not even old by then, by the time I’ve accumulated all that extra living. But there are entire lives I’ve lived to get there. A kaleidoscope of people and feelings and mistakes and love. I see it all ahead of me, and I know I am not going to get to live it.

I’m dying.

I am already dead, perhaps, in the way that parts of you die first, before the rest of you catches up. I can’t find any rope to hold onto, anything to pull myself along, to get myself back into my body. The body, it keeps the score. It knows and wins or loses without you ever really getting to say. That man has killed my body. I am untouched in other places, but my body is now splayed out on the rocks, and he has gone, and soon there will be a lonely girl who looks down and out across at me. I see her coming or see her already here and she’s sadder than I’ve ever been, because all of her sorrow is simmering still. It hasn’t boiled over and scalded her life, so she can’t say for sure just what it is that happened to her.

I am about to happen to her.

~ Alice, Into the After

I’ll still know

I’ll still know your birthday.

I’ll still know the date you said yes, still see the girl with her hand to her mouth and her back to the wall, surrounded by love and alcohol – these midwives who birthed her grief, and carried her, carefully, back into the world.

I’ll still know those next years by your door and its swinging. The calendar of words and reaching from either side, and the times we didn’t speak at all. How I left a trail of breadcrumbs all over the silence – and how you didn’t follow them home.

And I’ll know the times you did.

I’ll still know the last time I saw you, love. The last, last time, and I’ll count away from this day, as if it is my midnight, the end and the beginning of everything. Wondering still, in the dark of this hour, if the way you couldn’t love me – meant I couldn’t be loved at all.

~ Elliott, Into the After


Banksy Lovesickness
Banksy ~ Love Sick