It is a strange thing to feel 
like an origami swan
turned into
a broken-down
paper boat.

Is anyone on twitter? Do you want to be friends on twitter? Let’s be friends on twitter.

1. Unless you’ve been Vegan for more than two years—I don’t want to hear about it.  
   
   
2. Chances are that I don’t want to watch that video on youtube.
   
   
3. If you say, “This is so bad”  about your poem or your homemade banana bread or your novel or your artwork or your penis—it’s kind of like saying “TASTE THIS! IT TASTES LIKE A DIRTY ANUS!”. So, stop.
   
   
4. There is no such thing as a cool fanny pack, so don’t, just don’t.

(via rebeccaslifeasiknowit)

I want you so much there has to be some sort of reason I shouldn’t—like you think evolution is a myth or the earth lives on the back of a giant camel or that you don’t believe in love.  

You live in the tundra of this continent, closer to snow and mountains than you could ever be to my heart. Late at night I am thankful for the space between us because even though I can see your heart from all the way over here—I am just far enough away that I don’t have to listen to it not beat my name.

I don’t think about you
in the morning anymore.
I no longer daydream about you
when I fall asleep.
Afternoons pass and I sometimes
forget your name,
the sun sets and you are just
a wisp of smoke against the back
of my neck.

I’ve come to realize it is safer
to not think about things I can’t have—
safer to stop dreaming about people
whose hearts are so very far
from mine.

I haven’t missed anyone, not really, in six years.  

It was after my Grandmother died, when my PTSD was still really bad but I was in denial; the year I ran crying through a snow storm, trying to walk home to New York from Chicago and Ian chased me the entire way down Halsted, because he didn’t know what else to do.  I cry when I think about his red, frustrated face, his poof of thin blond hair chasing me as I ran through six inches of snow. I cry about how unfair I was to him. I cry about how I didn’t know how to tell him how much pain I was in—didn’t know how to tell him that I was just a ball of fucked up shit and not very human at all.  

I guess after she died, I didn’t have a reason to love anyone else who could leave me.  Her death was worse than that September a plane flew into a building killed my boyfriend.  I loved him, but I adored her. I loved my grandmother the way I have always wanted to love another person—unconditionally, blindly, and forever.  That kind of love comes once in awhile—not once in a lifetime because I am not completely a defeatist—but it is rare and very hard to hold on to.

Missing someone requires some sort of sequence of DNA that mutated in me the day she forgot my name.  My therapist says I just haven’t met the right person.  She makes it seem like I haven’t met someone who will create a hole in me that no one else can fill.  Once I meet that person, they will dig a space in me, where they will live for the rest of my life and when they are gone—when they die, when they go on trips, when we are a million miles away from each other for a very long time—I will sit on the edge of that hole and wait for them, even if they never come back, I will wait.

I think she is wrong. My heart is filled with the shallow holes of people I have slowly filled in over the years. The reason I feel I’ve never missed anyone ever again, isn’t because that’s true.

It can’t be true.

I guess it is more that once someone dies, once someone you have loved that much  is gone forever, you have a new set of parameters for  what “missing” someone means.  The space between my heart and someone else’s isn’t that big of a deal. It’s the unspannable space of death that someone has to contend with now.  

No one can ever fill that hole again and I am not sure I would be able to take it if they did and then they too, were gone.

Maybe people don’t die of broken hearts.

Maybe it’s more of a cave in, from one too many holes, emptied and never filled back in.

Who are these people who say turkey bacon tastes like the real thing and were they previously eating cardboard designed to look like bacon earlier in life or did they have their tongues burned off in a fire or what?

Because, no.

Sometimes I think my heart
is just a glass jar
filled with gasoline
and a dirty rag,
waiting for you to come
set it all
on fire.

I don’t want to kiss a girl with wings.
I want to kiss someone
who has guts.
I want her to be weighed down
to the earth and fierce
like the cold wind
of a winter storm.

I never liked birds much—
they always took flight
before I could figure out
what they were,
and I never understood building nests
every year
in dangerous places.

I think I’d rather make a home
in someone,
close to the ground and
close to their heart,
and have it be the last nest
I ever have to make.