sometimes it’s a saturday night

sometimes it's a saturday night

Sometimes it’s Saturday night.

To take that long hot shower.
To shave those legs.
To soak the hair in some strength-inducing formula.
To put that face mask on.

Sometimes it’s a Saturday night.

To drink chaga mushroom tea.
To take a luxurious walk with the dog with no destination or clock ticking.
To have soft 90s music soothing in the background.
To steam up some bone broth.

Sometimes it’s a Saturday night.

To give yourself the luxury of space…
To think, to reflect, to process, to dream.
Oh, what’s to be next!
Wait, savor this moment.

Sometimes it’s a Saturday night.

And suddenly, 10:30pm feels like 1am.
Where does the time go?!
The overwhelm of being alone
Swiftly turns to holding on to this me-time for dear life.

a curse (not really)

a curse (not really)

Dreamy.
I love you oceans.
She says, not just to me.

It’s hard to hear from her.
It’s like the sting from rubbing alcohol.
Why didn’t I matter?
No return phone call.
No response
No reaction.

Silence.
The worst punishment.
Punishable by death.
And I’m in the chair.

Talented, skinny, sexy, confident, fun, adventurous, a killer IG account.
I know, superficial, but JesusChrist does that count in my brain.
Pride envelopes me.
Fuck you, on heated lips, on repeat.
Thick black ash in my heart.

A curse.

No!
Those things work.
Stop that.
Don’t be a child.

A curse.

I mean it!
God.
What is this, medieval times?

A curse?

Not really.
More like blessings beyond reach, an avalanche.
I do.
I wish you,
the best.
Cuz you’re fuckin’ talented and I love you.
I love you.

holding

holding

I hold a cup of black tea in a Starbucks vintage mug; the tea is not their’s and tastes way better. There’s a chip on the cup. I should dispose of it but I chose not to.

I’m feeling a joyful glee in my heart cuz my partner returns home tomorrow. How four weeks has fast forward and slowed down all at once. I recall his warm soft lips and how they just fit mine.

I sit still as the sun beams down on my skin. It’s warm with a cool breeze reminding us winter is around the corner. The critical mind tells me to pull away (wrinkles, remember), but I don’t. Fly kisses from the sun reach the smile spreading across my cheeks.

I’m wondering if this is what they mean by “bliss”. This moment. On my own.
That hop-skip-and-a-jump feeling, that “skip to my lou my darling” pep to the step.
I try not to choke it; surrendering is a joy ride.

I sip.
Eyes closed.
Fly kisses to the sun and back.
Smiling.

what will you see?

I haven’t seen you in 15 years.
To think. I bet you look exactly the same.
I find myself slipping back into a daughter role, aching for her father’s attention and approval.

Oh, approval.
God, I wish I was… I was… so much more.
I want to impress you.
To be a statue, shining its significance into your daily brain.
Like a quality stamp not worth much but in a book.
Permanent (which nothing is), all powerful (we all know everything has cracks).

What will you see?
What will you say of me?
What will you want from me?
How will I be?

what do you see?

Continue reading “what will you see?”

tomorrow

Waiting...

An ache.
A pain so sharp, it cuts.
Senses are lost in a fog, come back soon.
And there’s a void.
A real one.
Why did he have to go?

Heart beats heavy sighs and legs demand a slower pace.
It takes a million years for arms to move this way and that.
Three weeks is a very long time..
Huge.
Ginormous.
And yet, benign.

I think of those who’ve passed.
Like the pictures of Ron Heren, taped to the fatal pole, the one that ended his life.
A corner where Jackie and I must wait for the lights to change.
Death.
Leaving your loved one is like a death.
And yet, so benign.

Continue reading “tomorrow”

farts + trader joes

FADE IN: a car, 2 friends peeling mandarins:

“I mean, now what? We just go back to farts and Trader Joes?”

She looks at me expecting an answer.

Farts and Trader Joes…yeah, that seems about right. You spend enough time with someone, sure, that’s what happens. I don’t say that, instead I nod.

She scoffs and looks away.

“It’s not fair,” she says quietly.

She’s so pretty when she’s mad/frustrated/sad/resentful/vulnerable.
When she’s human.

Continue reading “farts + trader joes”