the day my aunt told me a story about her 7 lb. cat who dragged a 12 lb. turkey to the other room and growled until she ate it clean

I was petting a cat who had once bitten me

with the hand that still bore—

a mark so faint a lover wouldn’t see it—

only me, who remembers the impact.

I was petting that now-purring cat

with that same hand when you answered

the phone. Hurt fades as we encounter

kindness. The feral cat who once bit—

a huge monster then—

now rests on my lap months later.

Enough treats, enough food, enough kind words

can soften even claws.

It’s the same thing that got me

to call you—

and you to answer,

“Happy Julie’s birthday.”

Your dead sister. My dead mom.

I had forgotten.

It’s that same thing

which lets us talk about anything but my mother—

about all the cats you’ve tamed,

the ones I’ve just started.

We agree:

no matter the time,

no matter how sweet,

inside, always—

a bit of the feral remains.

Maybe, inside me, that wild speck,

that lone cell—probably a neuron,

maybe muscle—

just days ago

saw you as looming black winds,

ready to sweep me into darkness.

Feeble like a child—

a child whose whole world,

every emotion,

was implanted by your jealous sister,

my dead mother.

How I was fearful of the worst.

What exactly, I couldn’t say.

Yet today, you seem the mother

I wish I had.

The woman I wish to become.

My mother was right

to be your jealous sister.

But now I know—

she was my jealous mother as well.

We—two feral cats

she could never fully tame.

This is it. This is the Poem.

I often want to write a poem—

a poem you’ll read and fall in love with me.

Each time I begin: This is it. This is the one.

But then I falter.

Because somewhere out there,

you are alive—

living a life I know nothing about.

So what can I offer but wishes?

And if we meet someday,

what is this poem then?

A bundle of dreams you never asked for,

an expectation I lassoed

around your neck

before I even knew your name?

I wouldn’t want that.

But to stay vague feels dishonest, too.

I’m full of visions I can’t help but hope are true.

And if you turned out just as I pictured—

wouldn’t you feel it, too?

So please, see this for what it is:

I imagine you with beautiful feet, tiny toes,

soft soles like the pads of your hands—

hands that cradle kittens,

that twist your shirt when you’re anxious.

Your eyes shine—

wet with sorrow and joy.

You laugh easily.

We watch dumb videos—

animals farting, hours lost in laughter.

You're a steady driver,

so I can daydream out the window.

You love when I’m dirty—literally—

smudged with soil from the garden.

I press a dirt-covered finger to your cheek;

you pull it into your mouth,

and we talk about the benefits

of soil microbes.

You care for your body—

not to be hot (though you are),

but as an act of love:

to stay strong, rooted,

to be well—for us.

Yes, us. We are obsessed with us.

Matching pajamas, phone cases with our faces,

“I’m with stupid” shirts, Christmas photos,

coordinated outfits, tagged in every post—

our Instagrams co-fan accounts.

You like the way I talk fast,

ramble, wander—

my thoughts spilling in every direction.

You let me excavate you,

delight in every poem,

even the messy ones.

My muse—

you see yourself in every line.

You are like dark brown sugar:

sweet, complex, rich.

You’ll love that I taste every note.

And still, it’s never enough—

never enough time,

enough days

to know you completely.

You bloom like a zinnia:

at first, a bold red blossom—

but tucked inside,

a ring of yellow stars

I only notice

when I stay long enough

to look closely.

So please—

let this be the one you read,

and fall in love.

I cannot try to live
or write
for a tomorrow
that may never come.

hoosier sweet tea

When I first got here,

my voice seemed distinctive,

my word choice strange,

my pronunciation off.

Now, my voice has softened—

like cherry-lightning clouds

before another hot, rainy storm.

I hear it when I say:

“How are you, honey?

I missed you last night,”

to the outdoor cats I feed

but don’t touch.

And now—

suddenly—I say y’all.

And yesterday, I almost said

reckon

  and fixin’,

as in: You reckon he’s fixin’ to eat?

Which means,

Do you think he’s getting ready to eat?

Somehow,

I’m a little too Yankee for the South,

a bit too Southern for the North.

Please—

save a place for me.

What a metaphor—coming from an overweight woman, nearly forty, still delusional that one day she’ll become a volunteer firefighter.

I watched a woman

throw her baby

out the second-story window

of a burning building—

into the arms of strangers below.

And you know,

when she saw him land 

safely in those arms,

she was grateful.

Even if she died,

he would live.

I cried at this video I saw—

not for the woman or the baby,

but selfishly for myself,

who has never known a love

where I'd choose their life over mine,

just the kind where they'd choose mine

over theirs.

If I were a decent person,

I’d cry for all the lovers

who dropped me

into the safety

over the years—

and the ones I've yet to meet,

already practicing

their sweet release of me

before they turn to the flames.

What am I even trying to say?

The news anchor said:

Moments later, the mother climbed down

a sheet tied to a bedpost

and fell into the same strangers’ arms.

She reunited with her baby

before the firetruck even arrived.

too soon?

It was the day after I accidentally killed a mockingbird—

(that’s not a metaphor, that’s a fact)

when we saw another mockingbird in the yard.

Up until this point, we’d openly talked

about the mate or eggs or chicks waiting

for the bird I killed.

But now we were face to face,

and it was hopping around too close,

looking around too intently,

calling out in every direction.

Part of me, a part I’ve always had,

wanted to crack a joke

about Harper Lee and Scout and Boo Radley.

Get it? To Kill a Mockingbird.

It’s like I killed an innocent man.

For you, this joke will always be “too soon”

’cause it’s about a hurt animal.

But if I did, you’d go somber:

“I've met men like that. There’s no book

that could explain it.”

And I would be pulled in,

like a child still awake, hearing

a new bedtime story—one I’ve never heard—

one you’ve been holding back.

But I stay silent. Don’t even mention

that it’s a mockingbird. You do.

Then ask me to look up

if they mate for life.

The internet says they can have

multiple males to a female—and vice versa.

The ol’ switcheroo.

You say, “Well it was 'till death

for one of them.”

You are satisfied with this answer.

I sense the possibility of a harem nest

in the trees outside the yard gives you peace.

You believe he isn't alone. Not really 

I don’t read aloud

that while they don’t mate for life,

they do sometimes stay monogamous

for a long time. Not life,

But a long time.

So I still watch him,

hopping around too close,

looking around too intently,

calling out in every direction—

like he is looking for someone.

As you've moved on.

rookie year / bird season

---

You’d think this was my rookie year

The way I’m pulled into the games—

Like children’s games, where the rules

Never stay the same. I say,

“That’s not allowed.” But you stand square,

“Uh huh! I can do that now.”

This latest round has me praying

For the bench. Pull me from the game.

I’m tired. Sloppy passing. Missed shots.

Stumbling over my own feet.

Fouling myself.

It’s masturbation. I’m fucking myself—

Fucking myself over.

Me: d’objet du jour.

You: giggling audience,

Not even watching,

On your phone,

Taking a selfie.

#GoTeam.

This happens every quarter.

Till the buzzer sounds.

---

Brace yourself—this isn’t just a metaphor anymore.

Yesterday a bird died. I killed it.

I covered a blueberry bush with a net—

I followed the internet’s advice—

She went for a berry. For herself.

Her family. A sweet little treat.

A jeweled lie dressed as fruit.

Then tangled up. Died right there.

Not my intent, but the result.

How my husband and I cried

When he said, “Some mockingbird

Has lost its mate. Some eggs have lost

A mommy.” That is like you:

Careless attention,

Spread like wildflower seeds—

And me,

A hungry bird,

More reckless. More stupid.

Falling into it.

The only victims?

The ones abandoned in the nest.

The bird. Me. You.

Even the net—

strung to help, now in the trash

with a dead bird.

This game we made:

Everybody loses.

We are all rookies this year.

---

when the pity party's over

The balloons deflated,

cake half-eaten,

it's time for you to go back home.

You must be the seasoning of your life—

and this salty shit has got to go.

Wouldn't you

rather be a threat than a victim?

pretty sure feelings

Feeling pretty sure I’m not capable of loving another person—

except myself—and even that feels iffy.

Or maybe I only offer conditional love,

the kind no one would sign up for 

if they actually read the terms and conditions.

A few poor souls skipped over the user agreement.

Maybe my brain is miswired.

More likely, I’m just a selfish little brat.

I get so focused on a tomorrow that may never come,

I end up screwing over a perfectly good today.

Maybe I’m not all that bad—

just undisciplined. Unfocused. Distracted.

By what?

Oh, just my own inner thoughts, of course.

My feelings.

My feelings.

I’m feeling a lot.

I feel enmeshed with the strangest things—

strings I can feel tugging, but no one seems to be pulling.

Or if they are, they act like it’s nothing.

Alas, I must be tied to stupid strings.

Or worse—deceitful ones.

And I don’t think they even know it.

Yes, stupid strings.

I feel like mashed potatoes strained through lace.

Like an orange peel left behind after a hipster boy

plucks it from his beer 

and hands it to the peckish girlfriend

who’s been waiting too damn long to eat.

I feel like this is never-ending.

I feel like the other side of last summer’s hit song.

Ugh. My feelings.

My feelings! My feelings!

Can’t we table that?

Like I’m the only person on Earth with feeeeeeelinnnnngs.

Like mine are just a touch extra special.

Gosh.

If I’m not going to live in this perfectly nice life

I’ve made for myself—

if I’m not going to participate in it—

then I should just go off and do something else.

Why not?

No one’s holding me back.

It’s me.

I’m the one insisting I stay.

Let’s look at the facts.

Let’s pull up bank accounts.

Let’s inventory the pantry.

Let’s refold the pants in the oak dresser.

Let’s check the garden.

Let’s pick some lettuce.

My God—this life, this home, this little hole—

is the life I always wanted for me.

Hark!

Hear that? Shh. Listen carefully...

My God, do you hear my brain whirring like a machine again?

Isn’t it clear by now?

We go through this every month.

Oh yes. Honey, we see it now.

A month ago, I was the same.

And the month before that, too.

A therapist might say, “Ha! A cycle we must break.”

A best friend, “I’m so sorry you’re going through this again.”

But me?

I say: it’s the pattern of the moon and the womb.

I must be in the shadow work again.

Oh—wait. It’s just ovulation.

So my eyes run astray

(Ashtray, Ass-Tray, A Stray)

toward a future I may never know.

Next week, I’ll wonder if the cards I pulled foretold the day,

or if I shaped the day around what the cards had to say.

Pretty sure you could set a clock with my feelings.

Split: Not Sick

“You’re tired a lot now,” he says.

“Do you think you might be sick?”

He suggests it gently, but I shut

it down. Sick? No.

I no longer entertain

that train of thought—a track

laid in my childhood, when clearly

I was always a healthy girl: healthy goals,

a sharp appetite, a quick mind,

strong body, observant.

Perhaps I was just surrounded, at times,

by unhealthy environments

(created by those who call me sick).

The only thing I’m sick of

is this talk that I am sick.

Maybe I only seem unwell

because I act a little different

than you expect. And honestly,

I’m barely sorry I don’t appease.

At most, I’ll concede this:

there is the past, the present, and the future—

and most of the time, I am fractured, split

across all three: making sense of the past,

living in the present, imagining the future.

But just as rabbits a hundred years ago

did what they do today—and will do

a hundred years from now—

I’ll be just

fine,

riding the temporal wave.

FREAKSHOW

Sometimes I feel like the silence before a scream.

A man in a white coat fused our veins—

Scalpel, laser—his assistant wiping his brow.

We emerged like one of Dr. Moreau’s beasts:

stitched and twitching,

snouts half-shaped, eyes too bright.

They beat us until we walked upright,

grunted greetings, mimicked them—

but inside, fur and fangs remained.

There were only two of us.

We didn’t know—

where my body ended,

where yours began.

I don’t know. But I have a knife—

lifted off a mess hall tray,

plastic, but sharp enough.

Its handle in my sweaty palm.

I can’t live this welded life.

Call me Frankenstein. You, Igor—

I’ll cut. You watch.

I flinch. You don't.

I’ll saw through the tendons; 

you keep the blood from my eyes.

I’ll free the beasts.

We’ll howl—

just not together.

In ten years, I’d like to swoop into your life like an Errol Flynn film and rescue you from boredom.

Imagine—
a decade from now,
our lives shed their skins,
emerge from the chrysalis
into something quieter.
Settled, like the weight
of a house resting
deep into its foundation—
cement, dirt, memory.

One morning, light breaks
through your kitchen window.
You pause—
and in the stillness,
remember:
my voice on an old message,
a letter folded in a drawer,
a strange little drawing
you once didn’t know what to do with.
These fragment gifts—
silent wallpaper
on the walls of your years.

But now they shimmer
under some unexpected filter.
You see them for what they are:
my slow construction
of one moment
meant only for you.

This one, when I appear—
swinging on a vine,
a ridiculous hero in tights,
half Robin Hood, half Ivanhoe,
a little bit Don Juan,
laughably vivid—
pulling you from grayscale days
into the kaleidoscope
I’ve been folding
for you all along.

And maybe—
you’ll reach for my hand.
And I’ll be ready
to play the hero.

If this story is any good—
it ends with a kiss.

self-indulgent

Baby bunny run so fast—

Far from the words used

To describe me.

if it pleases your majesty

I'm allowed as much of this

as I want. I'm full-grown now—

you can't stop me.

Consequences are my own.

Impressing Who?

Write something else no one will read—again.
End of Month Reflection:
“Really productive,” you write.
“Wrote a lot.
Progressing a lot.” Progress—
as if there’s somewhere to get to.
As if there’s a finish line—
a destination waiting just beyond the next sentence.
But you’re a Jeep, wheels spinning in the mud,
and the mud is infinite.
Pretending this has always been the route.

So productive. You wrote a lot.
Progressing—for what? The stark reality:
face it—head-on. For nothing, for no one.
Another lie, filed neatly with the rest.
Never revisited, not even for audit.
If you really wanted to be productive,
to be progressing, you’d spend that time
on your family. On your job.
You know—something that might matter. Or not.
Lady's choice.

Never Yours

Six minutes before the alarm,

I’m already dreading the list—

things I should’ve done last week

pressing in on today.

So I pray to my God for help.

But my God is ruthlessly practical.

My God reminds me cat patterns mirror the womb’s design—

symmetry born in silent cells dividing.

My God tells me to stay off the internet.

Says most of my problems are my own design.

My God says things like:

"Remember when you believed

in doing something today

to make tomorrow better?

Now you live in sandcastle dreams—

Buck up,

I’m telling you—

you’re stealing from your life

to serve a false prophet."

Then God says, like a gut punch:

"You aren’t fit to be hers.

I know the future—

she’ll never be yours."

The alarm goes off.

I lie still,

alone,

left to grapple

with the

dis / en / tanglement

no one else made.

Rules Regarding Cats According to my Husband

We don’t name cats—we simply have names we call them.

They have names, true names, 

but as humans, we’ll never know them.

We never act for their own good. That’s not ours to decide.

At best, we fumble forward, hoping to help, hoping to be kind.

We try our best to help.

We cannot own cats.

They may, for now, have entrusted us with their care—

but that grace can vanish in a moment,

revoked without warning if we fail to hold up our end.

Truthfully, it is they who own us.

Cats train us.

It’s our duty to listen, and learn, and mind their lessons.

Cats mark you the way hobos once marked kind houses.

Treat them well, and more will come.

The more cats who arrive at your door,

the more chosen you have become.

Here comes one now.

We will call him Turtle.

But that's not his name.

We will never know his real name;

But we will try our best to help him

For as long as he allows.

Gamble.

Marrying You

was the gambler in me—

the thrill of putting everything

on high stakes, risking a whole life

on roulette.

But even that—

it was like spending all your life savings

on lottery tickets. One might pay out. Maybe.

It's a college fund made of Beanie Babies.

Like quitting your job to chase

a multimillion-dollar lawsuit

you might not win after ten years

of attorney fees.

But you could.

Bet my life on it.

Never work again.

That’s what marrying you

was like for me—

or at least, for the gambler in me.

And I’m pleased to report,

eight years in,

for the first time in my life,

I think I may have gambled right.

if I was an oversharing YouTuber I would have a video titled "Were we in love or am I autistic and my special interest is a dead girl?"....that's a joke ....because everyone on the internet claims to be autistic.

Maybe it’s the summer solstice tomorrow,

But tonight, I needed to wear your clothes—

The shirt and pants I now own. I needed

Something tangible of you. Because with

Your life so short, and our time even shorter,

I can’t remember how much I embellished—

My own memory, an unreliable narrator.

But the question always remains: how much?

This shirt, I saw you buy at the concert.

I saw you wear it. I have a photo of us,

Next to each other, smiling—you in this shirt.

That is a real memory. Nothing about it

Is overdramatic or romantic. But I kept the shirt.

Nineteen years after the concert.

And sixteen years after you died.

I even have the shirt I bought that night.

I wear them both,

In this life I’ve made—one I know

You would’ve liked.

This life I’ve had to live without you,

Except for the shirt and pants I wear right now.

Then again,

Maybe if you had lived, we wouldn’t even be friends.

My memory—the revisionist.

Strong.

Every morning, I do push-ups
so I’m strong enough
to break the hands
that don’t cradle your heart
like the baby bird it is.

Discard.

I was there too—

on the glowing end of a screen,
under the sterile halo of light
in a room that smelled of melted plastic
and worn-out promises.

I saw how she built a lush, green terrarium for him,
planted him deep in peat, gave
sun and water to just one—
and he flourished.

While she was given barely a dust bowl,
boiling winds wearing her down,
smaller and smaller, until she was
a single leaf—
a lone root—
barely a stem.

Then all the boys she made room for
wondered where she went,
as if they hadn’t gilded her with a velvet muzzle,
asked her to be a cool girl, not like the others,
asked her to be quieter, calmer, less emotional.

Imagine—a man yelling at her to be less emotional.
“Today years old,” I learned anger is not an emotion.
At least not for men.

In her compliance to be what they asked for,
the girl they liked from the start was gone.
They didn’t want the silent husk they made.

So they discard.
Discard.
Discard.
And then complain—they’re so lonely.
They miss her.
Miss what?
Miss her?
That which you wouldn’t steward?
That which you discarded?
You miss her?
After destroying every chance you got—
chances you never deserved.

You miss her? Then miss her!
But don’t mistake that for an apology;
Don’t mistake her survival for forgiveness.

She's a forest without you.

Seed.

On the internet,

the line between human and machine

blurs a little more each day.

I don’t believe half of what I see—

the other half just feels so mean.

And I—I feel like a child again,

asking why everyone suddenly grew so angry

and chose to shout it into the void

for all to see.

Their fury grows louder by the hour.
I have to shut my screen.

But here, in our quiet kitchen,

we shared a cucumber

grown from a seed you gave me on Valentine’s Day.

It curled into a vine,

blossomed, and bore fruit—

again and again,

week after week.

And I saw: it wasn’t just the seed you gave me,

but the light, the water, the soil—

all of it building me strong

enough to weather the storms ahead.

Show me an algorithm that can do that.

How vast I could be,

if I could plant seeds like you—

tucking cucumbers into every heart

each Valentine’s Day.

They’d vine and blossom,

feed us all into summer.

Our mouths too full to shout,

our hands too full to scroll,

to type, or to post.

We’d be so heavy with fruit,

we’d have to stop.

Sit.

Look each other in the eyes.

Maybe then—

it would be better.

Maybe then,

I wouldn’t feel

so small.

Like.

Do you like being in love with me?

Even after all this time—me talking,

cooking, eating, after a shower,

after a long day’s work—

the small delights,

like putting on your favorite shirt.

Am I your favorite shirt?

Never folded, straight from dryer to torso—your favorite.

Do you like being in love with me

as much as you like that shirt?

Like that shirt,

do you also not mind

this little hole also in me?

Babies.

I slept in 'cause you slept in,

so we slept in—though not really.

The sun starts rising at five a.m.

in summer, so seven felt late.

We got up and fed the babies.

Everyone is a baby in this house.

I call you baby, you call me baby.

We call the cats and dogs—

even the foxes and possums outside—

babies.

You say,

"How can I love my babies so much?"

I don’t know who you mean,

and it doesn’t matter.

I love them, and you, too—

and every man might be better

if he saw everyone

as his baby, like you do.

I know what you're thinking..."God Damnit, Caroline! Please, not another poem about your period!"... but, it's ok cause this one is also about war and life!

Last night, far miles away—
nations launched missiles. Many people died.
Most nights, far from here, someone is dying.
Last night it was Israel and Iran—last week:
Russia and Ukraine. But I’m strolling.

intentional death. intentional life.
like and subscribe for more.

Also last night—a fox, just feet from my door.
The red and yellow flower I planted: blooming.
I woke with blood between my thighs.

It’s alright. I do this all the time—
almost as often as, far from here, people die.

These are the Papers of Our Lives

---

why don't you open an archive?

                fill it with artifacts?

                               full of the life you've shared?

honey—
what if
we gathered
(yes, gathered.)
all the paper of your life—

        tucktucktucked  
        into a box,  
        neat.  
        complete?  

EVERY PAGE HAS A PLACE.

house deed (most expensive paper)
marriage certificate (which cost $17 at the time)
diplomas (second most expensive)
letters sent. and letters kept.
grade school notes // folded extravagantly
a journal that didn’t
lock.
(but you pretended it did)

         little scraps:  
         gum wrappers  
         prescriptions  
         a drawing of a fish  
         on the back of an envelope
         a weekend to-do list
         empty sugar packets
         receipts: grocery, bank, carwash
         sticky notes stuck to the fridge
         a dentist appointment reminder

do they count—
as much as
the grand ones?
(define grand)

Don’t the scraps count

as much as the milestones?

sheer quantity evidence YES!

yes, like the "I do" of a wedding

no take backsies.

    how big is the box  
    once it’s filled?  

    how heavy?  
    how loud?

does it smell like

memories?

or

landfills?

how much of this life is just trash? maybe, none of it. these grocery receipts fueled your body. this post-it note reminded you of a birthday. this wrapper delivered gum to the mouth of your beloved—is it not a paper kiss? can't you smell the mint the same as it was on their breath on your wedding day? this prescription kept your beloved alive a little longer. so they could draw a fish on an envelope with the same hand that held yours for comfort. a sugar packet which you dumped in the hospital waiting room coffee—not knowing if they'd come home. the dentist appointment you have to cancel because the patient is dead. is not this paper you and you this paper? 

            your muscles // cellulose
                    heart pumping pulp
                           lungs manila sheets
                                   fingers papyrus scrolls
                                           another day another ream

you are this paper and this paper is you.

look at this the paper of our lives.

    is this  
    is this  
    the life  
    you  
    meant  to  

     really meant

          to

    make?

looking at this box, i'd say it is.

---

No Ticket Needed

They say this kind of pleasure
is silver-screen fantasy—
a fleeting heat you chase
into velvet evenings
before it burns out.

Give it time:
it returns soft,
unannounced,
on demand.

In my bed,
on my neck,
at my fingertips—
where only walls
and the empty chair
are witness.

Eventually, it’s everywhere—
licked clean,
slowed for softer hours,
still tasting
like the first time.

I’ve watched old films replay—
but you?
You never play
the same twice.

Sometimes a hand,
a murmur,
just breath—
subtle shifts
and my skin remembers
what I never knew
I was waiting for
until you arrived.

Isn’t that the rhythm?
Urgency softens to ache,
ache blooms to ritual.
Even the inevitable
finds fresh ways
to surprise the senses.

I could rush—
press you close,
pant with longing,
chase that high
before you’re ready,
before I am,
before the world
can hold the pull.

But I don’t want the trailer.
I want the whole damn season—
the director’s cut,
behind the scenes,
uncut magic—how you move
when no one’s watching.

So I let it drip slow,
like butter
melting on warm toast—

In my mind, I trace our edges,
let bedrock hum low,
let air thicken
with the scent
of when we both
arrive at yes.

I’m in no fucking hurry.
Let me wait a century.
Make me wait past death.
I’ve needed a lesson
in patience for a while.

Let it linger,
sway,
come ripe—
shaking with spill.

Because what’s worth keeping
never crashes.
It glides.
It sighs.
It slips its dress off
just so—
and puddles on the floor.

And if it does—
no ticket needed:
just you, me,
everywhere.

And if it doesn't—
no apology needed:
I have the beauty
my waiting became.

You used to cut my hair

It feels like a day,
or a lifetime ago—
depending on how I’m feeling.

I used to drive two hours to you
in my janky jalopy of a car:
no gas gauge, no speedometer,
just a dashboard of question marks.

I never knew how fast I was going,
or if I had enough gas to get there—
but it worked out every time.
Maybe I flew to you
on a half-tank prayer.

We’d go to the drugstore,
you moving through the aisles
with the authority
of a professional stylist,
breaking down the merits
of ten-dollar hair dye boxes—
all of which you or your sister
had tried before.

Back at your place,
I perched on the toilet lid
wrapped in your most stained, holey shirt,
as you whispered—
“Oopsie.”
“Ope, that’s okay.”
“You’ll have a little raccoon spot there.”

I’d feel the plop of bleach or dye
landing where you didn’t plan.
But I didn’t mind.

You’d stretch my hair in your hands,
brush it left, then right,
wipe my face with toilet paper,
help me wash it all out.

I’d emerge blond, or red,
or black, or brown—
one time blue.

But I wasn’t yet
a different woman
until you pulled out the shears.

Snip,
snip,
snip.

No training.
No guidance.
Just your mouth pressed tight,
your eyes locked
on me
in the mirror.

“Does it look even to you?”
And I, unsure—
You’d smile:
“Asymmetrical is in.
So punk rock.”

How I felt cool, later,
repeating that line
to someone else
who said they liked my hair.

And then:
the flat iron,
the hiss of burnt hair,
your sister complaining
from the next room
about the smell.

We’d all drink diet orange soda
and cheap vodka—
your sister too,
despite her valid complaints.

Next day, hungover,
we’d hit the thrift store,
then the record shop.

I’d buy a dress—
tight in the chest—
and a CD
I’d play twice
on the two-hour drive back
to where I lived.

Still unsure how fast I was going,
still guessing if I had enough gas
to make it.
And if I did,
maybe no one would know.

To the neighbors,
a different girl—
a girl you made—
returned to
my shabby apartment,
carrying the mark of you
in every strand.

Mission Impossible

The ad said this film is only in theaters.
As if that made it rare—
a fleeting moment you must chase
before it vanishes.

But I’ve lived long enough to know:
in a month, maybe two,
it will arrive quietly—
on streaming,
on disc,
on demand—
at your fingertips,
on your terms.
Everywhere—except the theater.

A year from now, it’ll play on TBS—
every other Sunday, spliced
with enough commercials
and edits to make it
feel like a new movie.
I watched The Mummy with Tom Cruise
three times on t.v. this month
for free. It was just on—
it's low glow beaconing me.

Isn’t that how it goes?
The urgent becomes ordinary.
The rare becomes routine.
The ephemeral becomes inevitable. 
Even the spectacular comes home,
if you wait long enough.

You could rush now—
press in with the crowds,
pay more
for the shallow high
of being first to feel
what hasn’t had time
to mean something yet.

Because every day,
something is billed
as only in theaters.
But nothing stays
exclusive forever.
Everything is mine
with enough time.

So I’m in no fucking hurry.
I could wait a century
for something I want.
Let it ache a little.
Let it burn low.
Let it lie covert.
Let it shyly unfurl.
Let it come to and for you—
Wherever you are.

Things meant to be
don’t beg to be rushed.
They unfold
when the moment is easy,
when the rhythm is right.

The Taste of Fuck You Money

When you grow up poor, Fuck You Money isn’t just rare — it’s unreal. You see people who have it, but it doesn’t feel possible. For most of my life, walking away wasn’t a choice. It was collapse. Quitting a job meant risking everything. You didn’t leave unless another was already lined up — even if the one you had was killing you slowly. And those rare times you did walk out — desperate, impulsive, on fire — were followed by the same free fall: days or weeks of panic until you landed in the next dead end.

Fuck You Money changes that. It’s not just freedom — it’s oxygen. And once you taste it, you crave it.

Two years ago, I got my first hit.

I was stuck in a job that made no sense. Square peg, circle hole — and I kept grabbing bigger hammers, trying to make it fit. I just kept swinging harder. One day, my husband looked at me and said, “Why don’t you quit?” Like that was something people like me ever did.

“We have enough money,” he said.

Maybe we did. But I’d crashed too many times before. So I kept grinding. Forcing. Pretending it still made sense.

Until one day, I broke. I quit — over something stupid. Or at least, that’s how it looked to them.

“You’re quitting over shirts?” they asked.

“Yes,” I said. And it felt incredible. Because it was never about the shirts. It was about months of being dismissed, sidelined, out of place. And for the first time in my life, I could walk away without fear.

And the fallout? It never came. I spent four glorious weeks at home. Then I started a job I’ve actually loved ever since.

Now, I want Fuck You Money for everything — not just work. I want it for friendships. For family. For any situation where staying feels like shrinking. I want the resources and the autonomy to walk away — anytime, for any reason.

Even something as small as a shirt.
Because when you have Fuck You Money, the real cost is staying.

Only Child: Twice a Wife

When My Husband Dies

Please—just flip me over, stamp my behind with something official-looking (preferably in red ink, maybe with a flourish):

UNFIT FOR MARRIAGE.

Not because I’m incapable. Oh no. I’m perfectly capable.

Yes, I could “do the work.”

I just don’t want to.

Been there. Twice.

The first time? A rough draft.

The second? Edited, revised, spellchecked.

Still: work.

Still: expectations, calendars, texts about dinner, shared expenses, shared closets, dust bunnies, Amazon passwords, and the last slice of pie. 

Who did laundry last? Why was this moved?

Prior to marriage I knew where everything was.

Dinner was always good enough. My cleaning always clean enough. My sheets folded fine 

And frankly?

I’m tired.

My grandfather—Papaw—also an only child,

hit marriage number two and said,

“That’ll do.”

I respect that.

Two is my limit too.

It's not you. It's me. Really. 

Only child syndrome. I swear it's real.

Because the truth is: I don’t want to share anymore.

Not my time. Not my towels.

Definitely not my leftovers.

I’ve tried. I’ve been a team player.

~ CoMpRoMiSeD ~

I’ve made chore charts.

I’ve scheduled check-ins.

Yes, I can cook (sometimes), clean (sort of), keep plants alive (if they’re forgiving),

and I once successfully folded a fitted sheet—though it may have been a dream.

There's only so much "sharing is caring" an only child can do and I'm almost to the limit.

But here’s the other issue:

None of it will ever be quite right for someone else. Not like how what I do is always good enough for me.

And I’m finally okay with that.

I’ll just live a lovely, peculiar little life by myself.

Because I mostly live in my own head anyway.

It’s cozy in there. Quiet.

Lots of throw pillows.

Using the fragrant cleaning supplies I like

That everyone else thinks are too strong scented.

Nobody asking,

“What’s for dinner?”

or

“Did you remember to...?”

If I forgot, I forgot. It won't bother me none.

I’m tired of rehearsing empathy like a play I never auditioned for.

I’m tired of pretending I care about how you want the dishwasher loaded or if the mayo is in the right spot of the fridge. Or saving enough chips for the next person. Don't get me wrong. Often marriage sways in my favor...it's not about give and take. It's not about balance. It's that I want it all—all the time—all take. 

As a kid, it was all mine—

my toys, my snacks, my stage.

Me, me, me, me.

I drank the last soda of the case every time.

Every. Single. Case. It was all mine.

And honestly?

I miss that version of life.

It was delightful.

Briefly thought about a "my way or the highway" marriage, but stopped. Even if you were willing to have me call all the shots, I'm not even willing to do the work of leading. Besides, that's not marriage, that's a hostage.

Now, look—

I’m not a monster.

I could be your boyfriend. Or girlfriend.

Your friend-friend. Your snack-bringer.

Your backup emergency contact.

Your part-time muse. Your slightly eccentric aunt who always brings good snacks and insists you try goat yoga once.

I’ll love you. I’ll cheer for you. I’ll loan you my good scissors. Bake you cookies. Whatever. I will do a lot. Maybe even pay your bills once and a while.

But marriage?

Again?

Nope.

We're probably not moving in together either.

Let’s not ruin a good thing with joint checking or shared Wi-Fi. I can't love anyone enough to do this again. I can love you but not like that. If you ask...

I’m running away!

(Spiritually. Emotionally. Maybe into the woods with Baba Yaga.)

Not yet of course. I love my husband and will happily see this through to the end. But after the end? Never again.

Because I won’t.

I can’t.

I will not—

Not again.

I'm fine with knowing I could do the work—

Did it twice...

I just don't want to do it again.

Please decommission me.

Set me out to pasture.

Mark me off the guest list.

I'll be at home happily alone.

Wildflowers Ahead

For the journey ahead,
you’ll need to trade that wishbone
for a backbone.

For there is no light
without shadow,
no joy
without pain.

And a dream
remains a dream—
until you work.

Yes, Brian, We Are in the Matrix

Last night, I dreamt I wrote new stories that extended the plot of The Matrix—yes, that 1999 sci-fi classic with Keanu Reeves. In the dream, Keanu himself declared my stories canon, wiping out the sequels. Thanks, Dream Keanu. You really came through.

Speaking of The Matrix—do you remember, at the height of its popularity, when the most profound, philosophically deep thought any boy around us could muster was, “What if we ARE in the Matrix?” That was the moment I realized: we were not the same.

Because I had always known—at a cellular level—that the rules were made up. All of them. How society works. What’s expected. What’s allowed. Fabricated. Maybe not by self-aware machines, but by men—the un-self-aware machine.

Like how, at the same time, I wasn’t allowed to wear a sleeveless shirt to school. It might “distract the boys.” The same boys who thought they were channeling Descartes when they asked each other, “What if we ARE in the Matrix right now?”

If their grades were bad, was that really on me? Not the hours spent hitting each other in the balls, or snorting Pixy Stix in the cafeteria, or the fact that a 136-minute movie was the deepest intellectual experience of their lives? No, no. ’Twas my shoulders, no doubt.

And just as two thin strips of baby-tee cotton miraculously preserved their academic futures—so they could grow into great men, important men—I learned to find salvation in the smallest of things.

If their destiny was to be carpenters, crafting beautiful and useful objects from solid wood, then mine was to gather sawdust from the floor and press it into particle board. No scrap wasted. No piece discarded. 

But they didn’t become carpenters. Or great men.

The years passed, and they were still playing video games. Still saying shit like “Brian, what if we ARE in the Matrix?” Still hitting each other in the balls—now in a sportsmanlike way, not a Jackass way. They’d traded Pixy Stix for beer, or weed, or meth, or coke, or fentanyl—or whatever the fuck.

Suspended in time. Waiting to be woken up. As if they were Sleeping Beauty. As if, when they took the Red Pill and finally broke free, a woman like Carrie-Anne Moss would be waiting—destined to fall in love with them.

Funny how in the first ten minutes of that movie, Trinity does what it takes Neo the entire film to figure out. But sure—he’s the hero.

Sometimes I want to scream: Yes, Brian, we ARE in the Matrix. We always have been. You just didn’t notice—because the rules were built to serve you, bro.

Desperate for oppression they want to strangle the golden goose they were born into. I’ll never understand men. Maybe not all men, but enough of them. Definitely a guy named Brian.

It’s funny, isn’t it? The fantasy of escaping a prison built by their forefathers for their own benefit. And who do they blame for the metal bars? Their wasted potential? Probably a skirt that was too short.

But I know this much: any woman bound and constrained isn’t waiting for a man. She’s pulling meaning from crumbs. Finding warmth in splinters. Covering her shoulders with a sliver of cloth—for safety.  She builds fires not alone, but alongside others who gather woodchips too—kindling a blaze fierce enough to light the darkest corners of the Matrix. She sees the bars—and in the narrow spaces between them, she sees freedom. And she dares to feel it into reality.

Brian, put down the beer, turn off Fight Club, and listen for a minute. An hour before you even took the Red Pill, she already floated through air, dodged bullets, and defeated the machine. She's not the Chosen One—she’s better. Because she works within the confines of a cell, rather than just dreaming of escape.

Freedom isn’t breaking bars. It’s forging new patterns—new worlds—inside and beyond the Matrix. She doesn’t escape. She remakes the world in the spaces between the rules.

And if you asked—really asked—with curiosity instead of entitlement, and listened without interrupting, I think she’d let you live in that world too. Not as its center—she isn’t even the center—but as part of something better. Something shared. There’s a place for someone like you, too.

Then again, maybe I am a hypocrite—needing a man in a dream to remind me what I already knew. But hey, what can I say? Even Dream Keanu knows the real Chosen One when he sees her.

\\\

Bloodlust

We saw two motorcycles
pop wheelies down the street today.
You whooped, hollered—bad.
I just watched, thinking how men chase
the thrill of brushing up against blood—
boxing, war, bullfights, hunting—
how they, Hemingway-drunk, ache for closeness
to what women know too well.

Fiddling with a pocketknife,
they romanticize the fall:
dying in snow like white sheets,
sprawled in a beautiful pool—
their own blood.
Men’s heroic is
women’s Tuesday—
every month, for decades.
You know The Red Badge of Courage
was about my twat.

In psych class, I heard—
the teacher speak of penis envy—
and wondered, isn’t this urge
to stab, to strike, to bleed,
to watch another war movie,
just menses envy,
rebranded?

Men seduced by crimson tides,
swaggering with pride.
God, I love when they think we’re the ones afraid—
of blood? A needle? A wound?
Darlin’, most nurses are women
with hands deep in blood daily.

Yes, sweetie, we were born
bathed in blood,
and bathe in it still—
again and again,
unadorned.

I bled just last week.

So sure—
whoop, holler, flirt with the blade, babe,
with danger, death, and blood.
It’s cute. No, really.

I won’t join.
I get enough bloodlust.

You know I straddle life and death
every month.
Last month, this month too.

Even in between—spotting—
like a bro at the gym.

I’ve broken that cotton pony.

But hey—
I can share.
I'll bleed with you, babe.

At the Hotel

I dreamt I wrote a novel—

then woke to you on a barstool,

lying for fun, telling the bartender

your religion was against vodka.

When he asked your faith,

you pointed to me:

in a black swimsuit, newly bought,

delighted to swim in warm water,

a pool like a womb

where I emerged, reborn—

hungry, smiling wide

over scrambled eggs at breakfast.