Of Being Loved

Being in love isn’t something you do, it’s someone you become. It changes you. And that’s why it’s so dangerous. Because once you love someone, you’re not all you anymore. You’re bits and pieces of her, spliced in among your DNA without you even noticing. So when she leaves, and she takes those pieces with her, you realize you can never go back to the you before. He doesn’t exist anymore. You have holes and gaps and though you stitch them back together to form coherency, there are scars. So though you may move on, find other loves, every time you touch the fabric of your soul you’ll find the marks of who you once were, but who you will never be again.

Paper Hearts

I’ve been thinking about feelings lately.
Not emotions. Feelings.
Emotions are what you express.
Feelings are what you experience, and
There’s an inconceivable depth to that
Of which emotion will never accomplish.
So I’m left with eloquent emotions in my hands and
Scribbled feelings on my heart.
That’s the thing about hearts,
Their impressionable.
You can cut them up and rip them out,
Crumple them, stain them with the ink in your pointed words.
You can distress a heart like a pair of jeans but it never stops working.
Yet just because it ticks on
Doesn’t mean it isn’t maimed,
It isn’t changed.
You see, hearts are made of paper.
To think they are made of muscle and sinew,
That they’re strong and resilient
Is to deplete the power of feelings.
To erase their depth.
Because each mark you make on my heart is a constant reminder
Of just who the hell you are.
Each rip you create,
Each time you try to tape it back together.
Every laugh, every glare, every poem and smile and rude comment and ray of light and supportive wish
Decorates my insides like the world’s ugliest collage.
I only get one heart.
It was once a blank slate,
But since then has been written on by a thousand experiences,
Some painful,
Some not.
Every thing I have ever felt has marked up my paper heart.
Which begs the question,
If our hearts are made of paper,
What does yours look like?

Colorful People

You have a color to you.
It glows when you smile
And glitters in the depths of your eyes.
A prism,
So variant, so beautiful,
I never want to stop staring.
You have a music to you.
It rings in your laughter and
Laces your voice.
A melody, so layered and mellifluous,
I refuse to stop listening.
You have an energy to you.
It radiates through your movements and
Is complemented by your excitements.
A lightning storm, charged and snapping,
I neglect to be afraid.
You have a light to you.
It shines through your kindness and
Emanates from your very soul.
A sunset,
A warmth that is matched by nothing else.
It seems so cold elsewhere.

You have a darkness to you.
It clings to your clothes and
Grasps at your hands.
It tries to drag you down.
I know you fear it will.
Just know there is no way it can.

It is terrified of color.
Of music, of energy.
It is so afraid of your light,
It tries to extinguish it.
Which is all the more reason to burn brighter, isn’t it?
Be more colorful, more energetic, more musical.

I know you’re afraid.
It’s all the more reason to be you.

The Selfless

For Erin, who gives more than any one person ought to be able to. Continue to amaze, girly.

The Selfless

This is a thank you to heroes, for
Being a hero is a thankless job.
I don’t mean a superhero,
Flashy and full of bravado and gall.
I mean the everyday heroes.
The ones who lend a helping hand
When you don’t feel like you deserve one.
They’re the ones who carry bandaids in their back pockets
To put on your scrapes, though
Sometimes their bandaids aren’t big enough.
Yet when they aren’t,
They find one appropriately sized from the collection on their heart,
And they lend it do you,
No matter how they bleed.
This is to the people
Who would rather take the hit themselves
Than watch it be taken by another.
The ones who fear deeper than they love,
But love larger than they fear.
Those heroes.
Because being a hero,
A true hero,
A warrior among thieves,
Giver of love and support and
The occasional bandaid,
Is a thankless job.
To the ones who don’t need a thank you
To continue to be selfless anyway,
I thank you.
We thank you.
And we remind you,
It’s okay
To need a hero yourself sometimes


I am marked.
I was made a little differently than most and
Most notice.
They shrink away from it,
Their noses wrinkled in disgust.
I’m not the same.
I don’t fit their cookie cutter mold.
I am color in their world
Of black and white.
For a while, this tortured me.
I tried to change myself,
I tried my hardest to paint myself grey,
To bend my limbs to fit their cast, and
Even then it wasn’t good enough for them.
I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere.
Until I opened my eyes and realized I’m not the only one who was marked.
The other colors,
The others who are rejected by the status quo,
I surround myself with them.
Where being special is important.
Where being myself is an asset.
I bloomed with these new friendships,
And I have only grown stronger.
Together, in their amiable embrace,
I have come to realize
That the scars I wield,
My marks,
From when they have tried to turn me down,
Turn me away,
Turn me into something else
Are really badges of honor.
And while they have tried their hardest
To mark me,
To flag me as different
As imperfect,
As some sort of error,
All their attempts
Really only marked themselves.
As people I—
Would never
Want to be like anyway.


Even when she was a child,
Her eyes were ancient.
They held a depth inconceivable
For someone who had seen so little.
She was so young,
Yet no one ever thought she was.
She understood without words,
Thinking faster than she could speak.
Her words were murmurs and half mumbles,
Although important
If you actually cared enough to listen.
She was mature,
However delicate,
Like a pressed flower.
She was brave for a coward,
Slow for a genius, and
Lovable for an introvert.
She was balanced precariously on the precipice of her own demise for so long
That we all wondered what trifle
Would topple her perfect tower.
Steady as rain in a hurricane,
She stood tall.
Her limbs bowed under the strain of her own anxiety,
Yet we all knew her burden was hers to carry.
We didn’t know it was killing her.
Until one day her words came out with power.
All the thoughts she kept close to her heart
Parted her lips with passion,
Bursting forth in explosions of poetry.
So unlike the pressed flower between the pages of the tomes she hid behind,
She found her sunlight and
She bloomed,
Speaking with clarity.
She was heard.
She was listened to.