All posts filed under: English


I like words and how they communicate feeling but there are some feelings you can only communicate by touch; like the feeling I get from playing with your hair when your hands are too busy to humour me – or how your body always curves so perfectly into mine as if we were once two halves of the same whole. But I have no words to describe the ones you take from my mouth when you tell me we’ve been living in a haze; even with all the pretty words that I’ve learned to string together, I still have no words for this feeling.

What You Take From Them

I hear you lingering outside my door and I wonder: how much of your life have I stolen from you in all the times you’ve had to worry about me? Are there dreams you’ve let die to keep me alive? Did you shut yourself off in hopes of opening me up? If they gave you the world, would you give it up to stay? What else did you give up? What else are you going to have to? Will our world ever extend outside of me, or are you stuck with me forever? You always talk about the magic of watching your kids grow, but what’s the word to describe the light that leave your parents’ eyes, gradually, over time, as they try to fill yours?

This May be Wishful Thinking

…but maybe one day I’ll be able to look down at my hands and see hands instead of pointed fingers.I’ll look in the mirror and instead of fingerprints and bruised skin, I will see my body for all the wild it has survived. Every time he walks by with his world so barely touched, I won’t shrink for him, no, not me, I won’t shrink for him, not this time. I mean, I may not stand too tall or maybe not even at all but he won’t be able to miss the lights under my skin, still twinkling where he used to crawl, he won’t be shaking me of this worth I scratched and climbed my way to build, and he for sure won’t miss these medals now wrapped around my neck, engraved– THIS USED TO BE HIS HANDS.


It’s not me, it’s you. Tell me when will you stop blaming the length of my skirt for the courage of your hands? One day, you’ll have to take a break from looking through my shirt and maybe look deeper through my chest instead – look and maybe find all of the mess you’ve left behind. I would have thought that day was yesterday but I forgot how tightly daddy taught his boys to cling to their ideals. Wait – I’m getting mixed up with all the boys through the years that have taken the liberty to make themselves comfortable under my shirt. Who is it this time? Doesn’t really matter. Doesn’t matter if you’re high or half asleep in their bed, doesn’t matter if you’re home and awake, tucked safely in your bed – there’s always someone waiting in line ready to break what feels safe. But I guess I should stop before I roll too much dust on your crisp, clean shirts but I can’t be the one holding on to this dirty …