Waiting for inhalation.
I take the air.

I see the puff—
My warmth escaping.
Displaced by


Each breath pierces minutes.

Gone are concerns,
Arrived are hairs,
Standing as icicles.

I blow the puffs—
Seeing how far steam can travel.

Gone is loss’s misfortune.
Arrived: clarification.
I shiver, opening to solitude.

Cold slows the quickest minds.
Toes protest.

Gone is suffocation.
Arrived: exhaustion’s end.

Cold burns with wind.
Blue tipped fingers.

Gone: dexterity.

Snow descends.


It reminds you of the viable worth their dismissals chipped away.

I’m not very good at being mad at people.
If nothing else, this is what I’ve learned this week.

Someone I once knew has been mad at me for over six months.

After my 5 days of anger, I’ve come to revere his steadfast ability to maintain the same level of fury for so long.

My anger doesn’t turn into power. A breed of revenge waiting for the opportune moment to show the source how much they deserve to be momentarily hated.

My anger presents itself in heartbreak.

And every moment it goes untamed. Every moment that follows the ill-attempted apology that sounded half-breathed on one hand and disgustingly self-obsessed on the other. Every moment where I slowly realize nothing remedial awaits.

My heart breaks a little more.

My Gram (a very smart lady) would probably tell me this is why anger is pointless. It’s drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.

And although I know how badly I do anger, I realized the importance of this awful feeling.

On a normal day, for a normal week. One when life doesn’t fall in on every side. When you don’t wake up tired each morning, have a bad hair day that won’t dissipate, knock everything over in the grocery store when you really just can’t take it anymore, get tossed aside for a fun experiment, desperately fail at your job.

On a normal day, I don’t hold anger. I get mad, I talk about it, the other person apologizes, and I let it go.

Which. Don’t get me wrong. This is a good practice for 90% of the issues that come up in the world. You spilled my coffee. You disregarded a comment I made. You didn’t even offer to pay. You forgot to tell me you weren’t coming to visit me and instead are going to see your boyfriend.

These are perfect situations to let anger go. Get the apology and move on.

I realized this week however. That there are times when anger has its place. It may eat you alive. But it provides acknowledgment that forgiveandforget lacks.

It validates your much deserved feelings. If by no one else but yourself.

When someone openly disregards you, your emotions, your thoughts, your friendship, your worth. Repeatedly. It’s a disservice to dismiss your anger.

People (I don’t know which ones) say that the hard step is forgiveness. But for me, that’s the easiest. I want to forgive so I don’t have to live with the pain of indignation. Even for a moment. The burn that emerges when you realize your feelings fell on deaf ears.

If nothing else, allowing yourself to be angry provides the recognition you had hoped the other person was going to supply.

It reminds you of the viable worth their dismissals chipped away.

I haven’t held anger toward someone in almost 5 years. In that time, I changed my name. I deleted their numbers. I erased their faces from my memory. And on the rare occasion when I think of that anger, I know it never completely extinguished.

And maybe this is okay.

I learned this week how terrible I am at being mad. Every moment I can’t look them in the face, I can hear my heart shattering.

But each piece that falls rejects the notion that the anger isn’t deserved.

I can begin with begging.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a poem. I wanted it to be strong, distant, in control of itself—the attributes I also wanted for myself while I was writing it. I started by declaring that my propensity for depth and affection were selfish. That I knowingly and purposefully “drown myself in the warmth of giving away parts of myself. Even to those who don’t deserve it. Especially to those who don’t deserve it.”

Sounds nice right? Creates ownership over heartbreak and the necessary foresight to not feel foolish.

“I knew they were going to take complete advantage of my feelings. IN FACT, that’s what I was planning for!”

Okay. I even laughed as I wrote that. Because why. oh. why. Does it seem so much better to anticipate, wait for, and actually want someone not to care?

When Tessa edited it, she put a large red x through the entire introduction. “It’s throat clearing. The poem starts with ‘I beg.'”

I didn’t want to beg. I wanted to control. I wanted the world to know that I had complete power over my resulting feelings of hurt. I directed it. I decided when it began and when it stopped. It was mine.

But it wasn’t. It was my burden to bear. But it wasn’t created or given by me.

Since this poem, I’ve been mad at myself, sad with myself, learned from it, made some new mistakes, and learned from those too.

I also stopped believing that if you expect to be disregarded, unseen, and unappreciated, it will hurt less when you are.

Have a poem.

It begins with begging.

I beg
to shower you with affection.
Feel the heat radiate from your skin.

Breathe the sounds of lungs and hearts.

I’ll forgive travesties and vile
for a pair of eyes to fall into.
to devour the sentimental.

I’ll ignore the words throwing boulders at my fantasized version
of you.
As you cease to be yourself.

 I’ve purposefully forgotten
each of your unwanted edges.
Circuses will exist where boredom sat.
Adoration will replaced the callous.

And I’ll swim the pools of perfection
I’ve created.
To substitute the shallow.
Until the edges of my imagination have stretched.
Beyond its admirable potential.

I lost my hero.

Robin Williams has always been my hero.

And I’m heartbroken that his laughter has been silenced.

I feel like mine has been too.

I loved his silliness. I love silliness.

And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve either watched or have casually thought about his roles in each of my favorite movies. His standup acts. His interviews. The silliness. It makes me love the world so much more than the moments before I’m graced with his laughter.

Robin Williams helped the world realize it doesn’t always have to be So Sensible.

And it was also him that taught me I didn’t have to be.

That I could be free to be weird. and silly.

Hook. Actually. Was one of the first movies I ever personally owed.

My dad bought it for me as a gift. I can’t remember how old I was. But it was my favorite. Until I saw What Dreams May Come. and that was my favorite until I saw Dead Poets Society. Which was my favorite until Patch Adams.

I think you get the idea.

When my dad died, I didn’t want to talk to many people or do many things. My world stopped and watching Robin Williams in all his roles helped my life find happiness again.

When my life was falling apart, I made a list of all of his movies and watched as many as I could.

I, like millions of other people, was lucky enough to be warmed by his contagious laughter.

And while this laughter was juxtaposed by the world’s darkest secrets, I appreciated him that much more.

My worst moments. My hardest losses. My ugliest truths.

Could always be shadowed with lighthearted silliness.

Even if only slightly.

Some things sound funny. Swearing at inappropriate times is liberating. Changing our voices to make them squeak and sound like people very unlike ourselves. is entertaining.

I rejoice in our sparks of madness.

And it was Robin Williams that helped me realize that this was okay.

That it should actually be celebrated.

My heart is broken. But that’s the way it should be.

The world lost one of its greatest laughters.

And I lost my hero.


Deep breathing returns
our even spell of sanity.
But in its pause—

I appreciate
inappropriate appetizers,
backward glances,
awkward stances,
time retold,
and mistakes redone.

Stolen syllables
and feigned excuses
anticipate our alliterations
and readied followed rhymes
but while our code

is drenched in silence
and stumbled laughter
forms us dual liars,

tangled words distort believing
no one can hear
(not even the other)

excessive thumping
artery pumping
or see quadrupled fire

of hoping. of wanting
dreaming of loathing.
fashioned of craving.

I woke up with my love beside me.

I was rereading a few of my old things. poems. scribbles.

And I found a poem/minddump in an old file.

It doesn’t have a date on it. Because, for several weeks last year, I irresponsibly neglected to include dates and thus have no recollection of when exactly some of the pieces were written.


I remember writing this one and being so frustrated that I couldn’t figure out how to make it sound the way I wanted it to.

But when I read it a couple days ago, I actually liked how it was in its half-poem-half-rant form that really has no rhythm or flow at all.

Instead, it has personality.

Here you are:

i woke up with my love beside me

he’s large and black,


and a dog.

he keeps his head on the pillow next to mine.

interestingly enough-

the pillow had belonged to his namesake.

occasionally, he snuggles under the covers– but he’s not suppose to do that.

when i wake up, i can put my arms around him

and remember how he’s more snuggly than any other person who has lied in the same place.

to be honest

this probably isn’t their fault.

with my habit of pouring gasoline on the parts of life i actually care about

and freezing out the people i don’t,

well. you can see why i wake up with my dog to cuddle with every morning.

i don’t resent this

i actually prefer it.

i dream and scribble while he lies at my feet

he always goes back to bed after we’ve woken up, and i’ve made my coffee and let him out

so he can smell the dirty city’s morning air. 

really though- he’d be okay with any morning air.

he’ll sit on those steps out back, and when he realizes how long it’s been since we’ve talked,

he comes back inside to be my shadow.

i type. he snuggles.

he doesn’t know 

how terrible i am at being next to people

as i wrap myself in all my own thoughts

and resent anyone’s misunderstanding

of how i have to be.

he doesn’t mind 

my secret soaring and crashing

the way my mind resembles a poorly flown airplane.

he doesn’t beg 

for my attention when i just don’t have the time

to give it.


yes he does.

he’ll sit there and whine and cry and bark

until i give him every ounce of everything i have

but for some reason

i don’t mind this as much. 

he’d never use

me for my extra words and 

my spare moments of affirmation

he’d never forget

me on the corner of some dark and dreary memory

he’d never neglect

to say goodbye if he decided that life 

just wasn’t for him.

he’d never lose


in such a way

that would prevent me 

from wrapping my arms around him

from snuggling my feet under him

from cuddling next to his hot breath.

from hearing his loud heart beat. 

that reminds me 

of what it’s like

for someone else 

to exist next to me. 


it’s filled with your hands

…can you see

that the way you move

unnerves me.

(it continues).

and that

the way you breathe

reminds me

of what it’s like to be


i stumble around

for short phrases


i can’t even remember

the words.

they’re hidden somewhere

behind the


filling my ears

(i think they’re mine?)

but as

i miss each step

each silenced word

attempts to remind me

how to


string letters

. to make the curl of the s

the lines of the L

the cross of the–

–and then.


my pen stops as my entire mind

runs out of ink

it’s filled with your hands

and every sentence

i could only wish to complete

is interrupted.

by your eye color

i don’t even know what to call it

since language


has stopped.

i try to practice




but your warmth

tricks me

into omitting syllables.

my cursive falls to the floor

along with my rationality

i think yours too

has fallen

somewhere in the pile

of forgotten bits of

paragraphs in

all my lost

adjectives and each


my neglected nouns.