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My life in this past month has been a whirlwind

of change and transformation and I am both weary

and strong.

I feel as if I could take on the world better than any

warrior ever could. And yet my pallet of multi-facetted emotions 

are becoming swirled into one colour that is grim and unidentifiable. 

I am finding absolute serenity in solitude and the idea and fantasy of stepping on a plane entirely alone.

And yet I am still yearning for men. And I am hungry for love. I am thirsty for lips on my neck and hands on my chest. And that thirst seems to be unquenchable. Unattainable. 


Why do I find myself at the utmost peace when I am being coddled by the pheromones of a man?

It is not malicious and it is certainly not without contempt or care, it is  my inner instinct that pours out of me and possesses my heart and mind as one. 





I carry with me all of our yesterday.

And I spill out all of the tomorrow that’s

clawing from the anticipation in my collar bones.

Leaping from the sweat tucked in the backs of my knees.

Sitting fragrantly where I keep our love.

Your love that sits with the delicate

weight around my finger.

Your love that found a home in the

ridges and roads of my skeleton.

In the calcium of white on my nailbed.

Your love that filters through my type O negative

stream of vitality.

Rare and sacred.




scraps of long distance

In missing him, I felt the continuation of hollowing. I lived in memory. Flipping to each page of our three month tale to find a jump start in inspiration. At times I was surrounded by people and chatter, and I would hit my auto-pilot button, while zooming off into the piece of the past I had collected. 

I wanted crawl back into the tapestry of his cotton skin. When I found myself buzzing in the face of anxiety, I flew to the sound of his voice that lived in the center of calm. When the prickle of loneliness crept up and nestled behind my neck, I dove back into the crook of his arms. When I wanted to run to him I did; letting my lids fall, and our chapters race over me as they came. 




Pieces of a novel unfinished


People asked me how I could possibly love someone after a mere few days. Awkwardly, I never had an answer. But I knew how, it was just too hard to articulate. When we were in the same room, the air became calm, and the parts of my skin that always felt rigid, began to collapse in comfort. I knew because every thought that poured off of his tongue, I could never drink fast enough. Because I could think as loudly as I wanted around him, and he let me stumble until I excavated every thought. When his were lips on my most wanting flesh, traveling to the area of electric desire, I watched the way his shoulders moved. The elegant muscles of his back, choreographed perfectly; the tangled dance of my beautiful creature. I knew I loved him because all of the wants, and needs, and secrets, I held in the romantic attic of my mind, he echoed back to me; in our strange, and sometimes overwhelming connection. I knew I loved him because even as a writer, and even though we don’t share the same first languag,he some how always had the words for the ones I didn’t. He was perfect in every atom of my vision. He was the feeling of both relief and exhilaration after the first drops of a hot shower. He was the companion for the lonely gaps between my fingers. He was the ocean that crashes with your eardrums, always creating brief moments of delirious ecstasy. The perfect mold against my body. He was home.




untitled romance

Everything clicked into place when I found you.
Like the electricuted muscle of
Your curious lips. saliva and  flesh.
Eager breasts.

Everything swam into its place when I found you.
My words free to run, from their nervous cages.
Yours free to roam along the canals of my palms.
(You are my road less traveled)

Everything was illuminated when I found you.
Just like the flashlight of your eyes.
Leaving me naked of every fickle disguise.
(You are my road most desired).

Everything was calm when I found you.




beach rambles.

Lost into the infinity

of rocks I fall.

Beneath the cracks

to breathe the remnants

of a forgotten supply.




the difference between names
lighting up the screen on my phone;
igniting the cords of familiarity contrasting
to each separate syllable. 
writing becomes stale….words moving
from my mouth empty and flushed into the 
public keyboard of emotion now more prevalent than ever. 
love becomes the windowpane of my obsession.
I sit on it as i wait.
i always fucking wait.
and in the passing hours of feigned patience, there comes the 
collision different bodies, and writing
for each moment of affection, attention, and adoration.
and yet i hold tighter to the words. words that surge faster than they
can be digested, moving faster into a stream of connection.
connection that once again ignites the cord of solitude. 




This is a poem I wrote over a year ago that I found tucked away in my journal, I’m going to air it out.


The pattern of his sleeve, tiny squares

against the inside of my arm. My cheek, 

his cotton covered chest rising; falling.

Hand upon my hair, in the crook of my neck.

The lightest weight upon my ears, and

the sparks from the base of my spine to it’s peak.

A scattering of voices filter down the hall

Winding towards me, raising. Lilting, the 

laughter bounces through and off the walls.

I know they have awoken. Too loud for me to sleep,

so admit defeat and join the all-too-early harmonies

of clink and jabber.

Waves and waves before me, reach where the golden

surface of the earth I meth, smiling below the vivid,

electric lid of space. Sundried orange leaves, their green

fruits shelled. A private-public paradise of a naked body

beneath a cotton towel. 

Sinking into where I am more than I’ve ever felt. 


Oct. 13th, 2010



Words are all I have left to play with, so be gentle.

wolf of neglect

Your back to me sets fire to the kindle of my intuition. 

Your eyes stand alone in the room of masks and

veils and I catch them as I always do. 

Sharp; while I cup the outline of your jaw

in my eager hands-the ghosts of our forgotten

secret transcending from my palms.

I reach into my chest, throw that blood soaked

organ into the words that run sweet like vinnegar.

My humility holds your steady gaze as I feed off of it 

for days. Starved from the mockery of teased neglect.

Left to ferment in the blood at the edge of a wolf’s sharpest tooth. 

I wait.





Each new moment in an affair of secrecy builds into something tangible at every second. And even if there has been a clause for separation, and words of endings, and days of silence-we become not only ourselves but the experience. It resonates deep in your lungs, and creeps slowly into our bones-each rib breaths in and out with the pungency of an enigma. Friendship is the bare bones of a body that has been plucked of a transpired romance. And in the accusation of sunlight it is the most pure. Each wrinkle of past nights in a strange bed that became a familiar spot, and sweat that formed in between skin pressed together into one shape, and explosive sex that went from lustful stimulation into a craved routine. As we turn into pumpkins, and the magnitude of those brown eyes are pulled away with no effort-I sulk back into the expired daylight. Out from the comfort of the unseen-dragging with me the increased weight of a severing uncertainty. Once more I’m left as the bare bones of a relationship left quiet until spoken.




This. Me, and my journal. 



Pretty girls are smart too.

Multiple strings of events have led me to write a post that may get me in a bit of trouble..or more so lead to a debate or two, but I think it’s time I said it. In the simplest plain english this is how I feel: in any industry that requires intelligence and a magnitude of professionalism, young attractive and usually vocal women, are not taken seriously. And to be perfectly honest I am very sick of it. I have not so much felt this in a room full of women, but more so a room full of men- where my credentials whether they are big or small are belittled and brushed off as the next blabbering female. No, I don’t consider myself a feminist, and I am hardly trying to accuse every male of being a misogynist but it is simply the lack of respect I have received lately, largely from a male demographic, that has set me off into a rant. Being a 20 year -old, female aspiring writer, 3rd year journalism student, with a lot to say and a loud way of saying it, I have had to keep my opinions under a respectable lock and key for the sake of my professionalism. But whether it is in a community newsroom, or a small Vancouver freelance conference in the back room of a bar, how is any young student, writer, female, whatever, supposed to be taken seriously if there is no credibility given to us? Aren’t students, and more specifically youth supposed to be the “future?” We are the ones bringing our new vital education to the table, and I am still confused as to why I am made to feel inferior; I should be inspired by those with experience in the business-not patronized. 

So I am shamelessly going to say as a young 20 year-old aspiring writer, and a vocal female, I hope when I kick ass in my career, it’s the ones who snickered at me in the newsroom that have to read my piece in the paper every morning.




That moment when you get a brief, but significant insight into someone elses life, and see them through a new lense and you become recharged with their words and also heavy with their insides and all at once tangled in their emotions. 

THAT just happened to me. 



inside looking deeper

I believe that writers, or people who seek comfort in writing, have a stronger ability to be in touch with human suffering. A classmate of mine is currently going through a fresh breakup, and he has confided in me a great deal. We are hardly friends; mere acquaintances at best. I have kept a fair distance from him since the start of school almost two years ago, but in light of his situation, all barriers I built have been deteriorated. I have no answer for my rapid change of heart other than that to see someone go through an immense amount of suffering, opens up a new window in your soul. My experience in his shoes, was one that I have yet to fully recover from. July the 11th tore me to an unrecognizable state. I spent a month walking around with no sense of myself, and a minimal grasp of reality. However the reason, I came through the other side, as successfully as I have, is all thanks to the amazing support system that helped me back to my feet. All of this sounds exceptionally cliche, but in all literal honesty I would have been nothing, and still nothing, without those in my life who helped me solve my own puzzle. I see him suffering and I feel complete obligation to do the same. Watching another person battle searing heartache, has caused my own heart to hurt. Love is a universal understanding, as is pain, and suffering, and I am unable to understand why we as humans will continuously search for love only to end up building your own demise? Why are we so innate with the connection with others, but not our own selves? He said something very interesting to me today; he said people are always searching for their mate. And even when you are fully self sufficient in being alone you are only at the 50% point of your potential happiness. People, humans, seek their other half regardless of the fight that happens in the process. We are not whole without another.

However, after witnessing my pain in the body of another, and already in my own conflicted state of a seperation; I can only feel one thing: If this is love. Devastation, pain, loss, do I really want it as much as I thought? Do I really want my yellowbird, or more appropriately, do I want to have to go through multiple sparrows to find it? Can being only at 50% with myself lend to self actualization?  There are yellow feathers out there to connect with my own.

But if this is love-I may end my quest early.