"How many women wrote beautiful novels and stories and poems and essays and plays and scripts and songs in spite of all the crap they endured. How many of them didn’t collapse in a heap of “I could have been better than this” and instead went right ahead and became better than anyone would have predicted or allowed them to be. The unifying theme is resilience and faith. The unifying theme is being a warrior and a motherfucker. It is not fragility. It’s strength. It’s nerve. And “if your Nerve, deny you –,” as Emily Dickinson wrote, “go above your Nerve.”
There was a time
when I looked at you
and I saw two children playing in the sand,
wrinkled hands conjoined,
I saw pregnant bellies
and a beach wedding,
I saw yellowed photo albums
and endless days in bed.
But on that highway with you,
illuminated only by tiny red lights,
and the weight of your tears falling
heavily on my arm,
I watched every vision I had of us, fade into the
We passed them by, one by one.
And I knew.
We were never cryptic and we were never scarce.
But we were bold and we were beautiful,
And our love was as sturdy as mountains,
until I decided that instead, I needed travel across them.
Tonight you sent me all your secrets.
The one’s I have been digging for.
They sit like dirt under my nails,
but I am not eager to wash my hands.
I let them fester.
When I look at you, I see so many things
that the last few pages of my journal
have been eaten up with every
adjective about the way you
run your hands down my broken body.
I know that you like your coffee black, and that
my ravenous energy scares you.
Or maybe that it fills you.
And maybe you like that.
I know that I am always on the tip of your tongue,
but in the vessel of your thoughts
and that you might think I am crazy.
Sometimes I am surprised
that after all the kerosene I’ve drank
in the name of love, that I am still alive.
But you are the like the white light, that
they talk about.
The one that reminds you that
the world is filled with tiny, beautiful, people.
Tiny beautiful moments.
Caramel eyes and unanswered questions.
Red wine in bed and mid day naps.
And all of those tiny, beautiful moments, have let the broken record
that is my heart off the hook.
And it is nice to know that my heart, whatever hook it is on, only belongs to me.
So now I know, that when they talk about the white light, what they really talk about is you.
I don’t know why it’s 12:49 AM,
and I can’t do much but listen to the same
Bon Iver album over, and over, and over,
and stare at my looming responsibilities as they
pile like newspapers on a Sunday morning.
They are laced with such importance.
But the words on my screen are now
smudges of disinterest.
And all that my fingers can do
is write another poem
as I think about you,
as he sits in my stomach like food poisoning,
while my phone lights up with him.
And all the while the cords of “The Wolves”
begin, my fingers become moist from
my eyes so diligently above them.
And I feel my first ounces of regret
begin to fall.
Men categorize women in one of four ways:
Mothers, virgins, sluts and bitches.
Of course none of the above is suitable for the modern business woman.
But you can create your own image by selecting pieces of each archetype that work for you.
The sexual attractiveness of the slut.
The wisdom of the mother.
The integrity of the virgin.
The independence of the bitch.
This leaves men confused and unable to pigeonhole you.
What they are forced to do instead is take you seriously.
what’s sad is that women feel like they have to be all these things at once or they’re not good enough and that’s asking a lot for one person to be