note to self

in a moment

i’ll breathe in

and when i breathe out

i’ll be over him



i’m really really really


at cutting people

out of my life


In A Relationship

When I say I want a boyfriend, this is what I don’t mean:

I don’t want sex

I don’t want a facebook status: in a relationship

I don’t want to play mind games or tease

I don’t want someone to take care of me

I don’t want money or jewelry or someone to show me off


When I say I want a boyfriend, this is what I mean:

I want to love someone who loves me back. Not more, not less.

I want sparks and fire, but calm and peace.

I want spontaneity and stability.

I want the old fashioned kind of love, a Mr. Darcy romance.

I might be stupid and hopelessly romantic, but I won’t settle for less. I have to believe that it’s out there somewhere.


Portraits of the Insane

Gericault painted a series that he called “Portraits of the Insane.” The dirty dishwater hue of the subjects’ clothes fades into the background, murky grey and green. Art History majors have a word for this style: painterly. The characters don’t look particularly mad. Just empty shells of themselves. Blank eyes. No expression. Staring off into the distance as if shy of the artist. That’s what I see in the mirror every day. Gericault could add my portrait to the collection. Insane.

download (1)download

Friends =/ Lovers

The worst part isn’t that you don’t love me. The worst part isn’t even that you don’t have the guts to tell me that. The worst part is that I never saw you for who you are. I didn’t think of you as a guy I wanted to date. Before anything else, I thought of you as my friend. Friends don’t give up on friends. That’s something that stupid guys on instagram do, after they get you hooked on their personality and ask you out and never talk to you again. I thought you were better than that. But apparently you’d rather be nothing at all to me than just admit that you don’t love me the way I love you. Shitty friend. I should have known you would be too scared to do anything meaningful.

The Age of Freedom

She could hear them fighting in the next room, their screams blurred as though she were underwater, and she could feel that same pressure sitting on her lungs. The red dye in her hair bled in tiny streams down her chest, and when she flipped her bangs out of her eyes, it splattered on the shower curtain like a crime scene.

No matter what happened, this was the place she always came back to. The words changed and the people were different and the space between was another shade of black, but it always came back to this. Naked. Kneeling in the shower until the water ran cold, until she wasn’t sure where tears started and the stream ended. The bath mat left weird bumps and lines on her knees and thighs. She waited until the yelling was reduced to static noise before she wrapped a dry towel around her torso like a warm hug and crept into the hall. They were gone.

Next time, she swore to herself, next time is going to be different. She made that promise much too often, and she always believed herself. One day, she hoped she would be right.

She walked into her new apartment slowly, as if the walls might crumble around her if she wasn’t careful. It was plain and simple, and the door was painted an ugly olive green, but it was home. She was eighteen years old. The age of freedom. The first thing she did was get in the shower. There wasn’t a bath mat. Her hair was blonde now. The color didn’t bleed when she washed it. She sat in the tub, turned her face up toward the spigot, and let the warm water and hot tears run down her cheeks. That was what peace felt like.


She missed him most at three fifteen AM after her roommates closed the windows and pulled down the shades and turned out the lights and turned on the AC so that the arrhythmic humming kept her mind alive with the memories of him and when she pulled the blankets that still smelled like his cologne over her head the thread-count in her sheets did nothing to block out the memories because it was all in her head and only dementia would be able to finally and successfully rid her of him but there was still about forty years of waiting to go so for now she blasted her eardrums out with some hardcore punk rock because sometimes the screaming and throbbing of the bass helped empty her mind and she would wait for sleep to come and wash away all traces of him at least for a few hours before she would wake up and the cycle would begin again maddening and driving her close to the brink of insanity because it had been three months already and she was no closer to forgetting him.

I won’t write about you

I wrote you a novel. Actually, it’s not for you. It’s for me, but it’s about you. This was before we stopped talking. This was back when I loved you. This was before I lost you. I hope you read the book someday. Everything will make sense then. I hope you understand who it’s about. It is about us. Some day, I won’t write about you. I won’t need to. You’ll be gone. You won’t be a part of me. I’ll take a deep breath, exhale, smile. Goodbye, I’ll whisper, as you disappear. I don’t want to write about you. I’m tired of writing about you. Read the book.