You have my word

One word can change your life.

Will you sit with me for a while?


She calls me “love” like I have her home beneath my skin – like my veins are somewhere she could crawl up into and never leave. I call her “beautiful” like she has gold dust beneath her fingernails – like everything she’ll come to touch cannot remain as it was. But she will remain. She will stay. She will say she is homesick and I’ll know that she wants to be kissed gently like “Will you sit with me for a while? Will you hold my hand like it’s only you that’s keeping me from falling apart?” So I welcome her lips and her fingers like I’m opening the door.

I adore her.

I don’t know if my skin is good enough for her to live in. There are marks on the walls and stains from other lovers and if you run your fingers along certain parts you’ll find dust and memories that haven’t been moved in a while. There’s an attic where I keep the good times and I know if she ever opens it she’ll doubt how good she is. The basement is dark and cold and I hope she never wanders down there alone. I keep my monsters chained up there. I know when they need to feed.

I will never ask her to offer herself for their appetite.

Some say love, it is a river… and there is too much water under this bridge to think of coming up for air. So I breathe her in. I do not think of drowning because this tumbling is immersed in her. We are the other where limbs meet; we are no longer two – too entwined to swim apart. A part of me has always known that this will be our end. A surrender to what is, a dependence on what will be. We will endure. Here. In this home – with both our heartbeats in my bloodstream.

Perhaps this is love.

For the times I didn’t say sorry enough


Sorry is a flock of foul feathers sitting beneath my tongue. Sorry mom. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry I’m not strong. Sorry it’s been so long and I can’t bring myself to come home. Sorry I’m not ever coming home.

Sorry. Sorry. I hope if I say sorry enough I might just fly away from… everything. Flight not fight. I fight only with swords of sorry. So sorry. Sorry is a less painful stab than sitting with the truth. Sorry the knife is deep. Sorry we don’t speak.

Sorry for the times I didn’t say sorry enough and the times I should have said sorry but… Should’ve. Would’ve. Could’ve. Didn’t. Sorry. Silly. Shame. Sorry. Sorry means not doing it again. Sorry I did it again. Sorry for the pain. Sorry.

Sorry I didn’t tell him to stop. Sorry I didn’t scream. Sorry there was a wolf in your bed. Sorry the wolf lives in your head. Sorry I can’t stop saying sorry. Sorry I can’t stop. Sorry I can’t. Sorry I. Sorry. I’m sorry.


Love is just lying down and taking it


I cannot call it abuse because I did not say “no” – because my silence was just as good as asking for it. Because at 13 how was I to know that love was not something to define by another man’s touch.

Love is just lying down and taking it. Love is not moving. Love is not making a sound or a scene. Love is not drawing attention to myself. Love is losing my body between the knotted knuckles of someone else’s hand. Love is being ok with never understanding why he just wanted to hold a good thing but didn’t think it beautiful enough to fuck.

Love is the monster when I am in the eighth grade and I do not feel like I’ve ever finished school. Stuck in the class of bleeding out my own shame not just between my legs. Stuck in the class of trying to be anyone but myself so he would find somebody else. Stuck in the class of Stuck in the class of Stuck in the Stuck Stuck Stuck— fuck!

Love is saying “yes” just because I didn’t know if anyone else could ever love me after that. Love is saying “yes” because I thought I deserved it. I deserve love, don’t I?

There are stars under your tongue


You are a universe of stories – constellations of metaphors. The glory of your ever-expanding mess; the inevitable collide with a story of mine takes my breath away. Then I remember, there’s no air in space.

Your mind is an orbit of psalms and prayers all synced in a mantra so loud I can hear it from here. What are you thinking? What are you chanting with stars under your tongue? The light from your sun is altogether too beautiful to only give light to one. So…

Share a little. Share your story and in doing so share your light. Give me a little light, love. And I will burn in you – this moment – till I catch on fire too. Till I am ablaze. Till I forge my own universe of stories from the flames. I will strike iron hot meteor and double edged sharp so I can cut my name into the dust of Mars.

It doesn’t matter who wrote their name here last…

Perhaps the dust here is like a prison cell or a prison yard – you write your name on the walls to prove you were there and got out… whether dead or alive. The name on the wall is not a claim of space or fame, it’s a story in its own way – a galaxy behind bars.

They will see the stars from their windows. Maybe yours, maybe mind. They will pray to us, not their gods. They will ask for light. Just a little light, love. They have already carved out their names and they’ve stored stories in the soles of their shoes.

But that has never been enough; they want the universe too.