Sometimes I wish I had a sister.

I haven't done one of these in far too long...

Happiness Is...

seeing a baby sit herself up for the first time.

having a slumber party with your best friend for the first time in years.

clean flannel sheets.

new music.

recognizing your strengths in the middle of your weaknesses.

finishing the first draft of your graduate school personal statements.

Thanksgiving dinner with your family of choice.

being appreciated at work.

Christmas lights.

learning to love your family for who they are, and who they aren't.

I still have important thoughts.

I do.

Just sometimes, they don't seem worthy enough of a post.

Sometimes poetry is the only thing that can make me full.






she showed me that.

Sometimes you just have to write bad poetry

She said one day all we'd have left is a trailer, and a dog, and a sestina.


but who thought i'd be there at 24,
and it's an apartment in the city,
and a cat, not a dog,
and free-verse, not a sestina,
but you get me.

and she said we'd have paper and pen
and i'm writing on my computer,
because this is now, and i'm me,
not one to write my poetry
on paper, but still.

she was right. i'd write.

though i never thought
i'd write about not writing,
then again,
i never thought i'd be 24
and lacking a good line
or a perfectly placed rhyme.

or be as corny as this,
(well those last two lines, with the rhyme)
but here i am.

i've got nothing.
i've lost passion to predictability,
creativity to caution,
motivation to money.

i've lost me to you,
but that's a lie.
there's no you,
just a me, wishing there was a you.

but that's a lie again.
sometimes, i just get lonely,
and think a you, would make me,
less so. you know?

but anyway,
i'm here, in this now,
without a trailer, or a dog,
or a damn sestina,
so she was wrong,


but still right.

I Want a Kipton, or a Reid, or an Ed...

Ok, I'm embarrassed. I watch the Bachorlette. I don't watch the Bachelor, but when the Bachelorette comes on, damn, I'm there.

And tonight is the finale. And I'm watching these three men tell Juliette that they love her, and I'm watching her turn Kipton down. I'm watching her turn Reid down. And I'm watching her say YES to Ed. And I can't help but think, "I want one man to be in love with me." I want to be in love with one man. When will I get that?

On a day-to-day basis, I'm not searching for love. I don't care that I don't "have someone." I'm okay with who I am; who I am alone. But I've spent so much time by myself; I've spent so much time learning to be whole, to battle my demons; to figure out what I'm looking for, for who I want. I know I'm young. I know I'm a baby. I know I want years, and years, and years with someone before I marry (if I decide I want to go that route) him. I know that.

But I also know that I am ready. I also know that I want someone to be in love with me. I want someone to think the sun rises and falls on me. And I want to think the same about him. I want someone to turn to in my most joyous moments and in my deepest heartaches. I want someone who cares what happened during my day, just because it affects me. I want to curl my body around someone at night. I want someone to call when I have exciting or devastating news. I want someone who cares about me--mind, body, and soul. And I want to care the same way.

I want what so many people have.

And though I try, it's so hard not to doubt that it will happen for me. That somehow I'm exempt from the possibility of that happening. That somehow, for some reason, my body, my traumas, my passions, my whatever will keep love from coming my way. That I will forever be without that experience. I will be without love.

I like to believe that I can survive without having "someone." I like to believe that all I need is myself. And sometimes, I believe it. And sometimes, I am all I need.

But, I want more. Even if only for a short amount of time, I want love.

I want love.



(And at the most romantic part of the show, the ice cream truck goes by. SO perfect).

Every Day

I come up with something new to write about every day. And then I decide it isn't worth it, or I'm too tired, or I get caught up in something else. I don't even wonder why I have such a hard time writing anymore. I no longer question why there's a hole, a longing, in me that can only be filled with the written word; why my "soul" feels emptier and my life seems heavier. I know why. I know that I don't take the time to nourish what kept me alive for most of my life. I know that I've let responsibilities to others come first. I've let things I don't even really like come first. I've tossed writing aside and told myself that it'll always be there; I'll always be able to come back to it. It'll never leave me. So, instead, I leave it. I leave and I let myself get a little bit further away every day.