What Matters?…

Aren’t you tired she asked me? No, she begged me… to understand, that it didn’t matter…

If the whole damn world decided that they didn’t like who I was, if they didn’t like my hair color, or my size, or my new dress, or whether or not I wore a thong or lace underwear or if I liked him or liked her or liked them both and at the same time 

And it didn’t matter if I believed in God or Heaven or Hell or life or death or here and now or the afterlife or reincarnation. It didn’t matter if I laughed or cried or ate too much or starved myself. It didn’t matter if I gave up or kept going if I pushed them away or held on too tightly. It just didn’t matter…

To them…

It only makes me tired, exhausted really–weighted down in heavy chains, 





lost and forever 



Innocence Unnecessary…

And so I say to her, you have a beautiful smile. Because she does. And she does, smile and laugh and it takes my breath away.

It erases everything I thought I knew about her and about me and the past and the future and possibility. Yes, I’ve pictured her in private places and in public too, watched sparks fly like fireflies in the broad daylight under watchful jealous eyes.

Glanced away for a moment to see if they see it, then decide I don’t care and meet right back up her eyes don’t glance away, they stay. For once- they stay…My heart can’t take this sprinter’s pace- she laughs and promises to keep me young–

And I want to believe her, how I want to be with her. Hear her sultry-smokey-gravely tone so loud that it drowns the South–a silent Southern never-gonna-be.

Warning Signs…

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t warned them, all of them, really. And she wondered would they say they there were definitely signs, in the post memorial gossip?

How many days would they shed tears? Any at all- genuine. Sure, maybe a few. The ones who would claim they “knew” her. 

Let’s get one thing straight- they don’t know her–period. Two people, on the face of this earth. That’s it. Two. One and Two. Truly KNOW her. 

The others, think they know her, they know of her. They know what she chooses to allow them to know. She can’t let them in because everyone is afraid of the dark. Even the two bring a flashlight, try shine through the darkness and pull her up to the surface. Try to hand her a life preserver and for a while she grabs on- white knuckles. 

But, she always knew, glamorizes it maybe. Pictures it in her head. In the end, it will be him. Because it always has been, he will gather her up in his arms, begging her- crying, “no baby, why?” Shocked even. And he’ll remember- she tried to warn him. 

Restless spirit…

A happy soul a writer does not make, you must’ve known and so you ceremoniously disappeared, again leaving rubble in your wake.

What should I do with all these pieces? These foreign instructions you wrote for me? Without you they are worthless, burn them funeral pyre, you’ll see. 

If only I was one to heed a warning, to don a life jacket in rising waters, smother the spark- not fan the flame. Shy away– not look you in the eyes, if only. 

And how do I explain your absence? Should I take the blame? Say it’s all my fault…or say, to you it was all just a game and you grew tired of playing? 

Or tell the truth, it’s dangerous you know. The truth, it will set you free you said! You said, it was safe with you, you said! You said! You said!