I Hate This Stupid Place

While driving, my husband said, “Must be dumbass day.”
He says that a lot when we drive.

As the driver of a Mercedes—phone in hand, either texting or emailing something clearly more important than our lives—drifts across two lanes, he adds, “If stupid were money, Alabama would be rich.”

When we first moved here, I used to defend them. It’s just a different culture, babe. We’re just adjusting.

By the second year, I softened it: It’s not all of them. There are a few decent people.

Now, three years in, I’ll admit it: I hate this stupid fucking place too.

It’s not stupidity in the sense of ignorance—it’s a self-centered, short-sighted oblivion. The kind that hurts others while somehow hurting itself, too. I’m no saint; I understand selfishness. But sometimes, simply considering another person’s well-being benefits you in the long run. These people, yes these people, have their priorities completely akimbo.

I can understand those who make bad choices out of pain—addicts, thieves, cheaters, abusers, the desperate. But this kind of casual cruelty, the thoughtless, everyday kind? I’ll never understand it.

Take our neighbors. Our eighty-something-year-old next-door neighbor—let’s call him John, because that’s his actual name—had his appendix removed this month. That same weekend, his wife, Joyce (also her real name), went on a girls’ trip to the beach.

This is so far removed from how I live my life. I couldn’t imagine leaving my spouse during post-op recovery. Maybe that says more about me than her.

And yet there was John: belly full of stitches, taking antibiotics, keeping company with nothing but the TV and an alarm clock.

Meanwhile, Joyce sipped margaritas with her girlfriends in the sunshine. My husband and I brought over chocolate cake, peanut butter cookies, beef stew, and biscuits. John thanked us, noted he hadn’t remembered to eat much that day, and—just to change the subject—asked if we’d noticed the pile of rocks in the yard across the street.

The next week, Joyce was gone again—off to Nashville with her adult daughter—leaving John alone once more. A year ago, when Joyce had knee replacement surgery, John didn't go anywhere. I guess that marriage only goes one way.

But before you pity John too much, let me clarify—he’s no better.

We also have a neighbor named Kenny. He lives in his childhood home and cared for his mother until she died last year. He has a dog, Newton, who sometimes escapes the yard only to sit right back down on the front porch. Kenny walks with a limp from a car accident in his teens that killed his brother. Whenever John and Joyce are out of town, Kenny limps across the street to get their mail and take out their trash. I would’ve called them friends.

A few weeks ago, Kenny had a taller fence installed, leaving a small pile of broken concrete in his yard. He assumed the city would pick it up—they take branches, leaves, appliances, toilets—so why not rocks? Apparently, they don’t.

Yesterday, John told us he’d called the city on Kenny’s “rock pile.” I hadn’t even noticed it until he pointed it out again. Kenny got fined and had to shovel the concrete into trash cans—then schedule and pay for a special pickup.

I watched my husband help him—one slow scoop at a time—while John’s curtains stayed perfectly still.

What the fuck? Was that little pile of rocks really bothering John so much? Couldn’t he have just knocked on Kenny’s door and talked to the man who takes out his trash? No—he had to tattle like a preschooler.

Imagine what he thinks of our tractor trailer, outdoor cat houses, and whimsical holiday yard décor. But alas, there’s no ordinance against that. He’ll just have to silently hate.

The fucking he gets for the fucking he gave.

When we first moved here, we were excited. The mountains! The restaurants! The shopping! They still had proper, thriving malls. But we didn’t account for the fact that all these lovely places would be filled with sniveling, selfish assholes who make you want to curl up tighter and deeper into your home alone.

Recently, I thought I hated humanity. But that’s not quite true. I just hate these people. And I hate this stupid place.

When we move, I might miss Newton. He looks awful cute sitting on the porch, proud he can jump Kenny’s new, taller fence.

The Last Smoking Cat

"When I’m not thank’d at all, I’m thank’d enough. I’ve done my duty, and I’ve done no more."

— Henry Fielding

Back in the days when everyone smoked and every corner had its own haze, doctors lit cigarettes before delivering babies, and even cats—yes, cats—puffed on pipes. Don’t believe me? Look at the old ads: four out of five doctors smoked Camels. It was a different world then, children—a world where neither man nor beast gave a second thought to health.

I remember those days well, for I lived through them myself—though not as you might expect.

Life was leisure then, though I didn’t yet know it. I spent my days wandering the woods with friends—hunting when we could, sleeping when we pleased. We worked just enough to last until tomorrow. We neither feared nor fancied the past or the future. They didn’t exist for us any more than government, money, or the laws of men existed. We lived by instinct and appetite. There’s no room for memory or dream in the mind of a creature that feels only today’s hunger and pain.

After one long day of roaming and coming up empty, I stretched out in a sunny patch near the waterfall. I’ve always been fond of water—odd for a cat, I know. I liked to wade in the shallows, feeling the cold current lick at my paws. I suppose I was peculiar that way—fond of what might drown me.

It was there, by the low roar of the falls, sun-warmed and hungry, that I first met the old woman. She bent beneath the weight of her sacks, gathering kindling and herbs. Gray hair, wrinkled face—but eyes clear and sharp.

She saw me from a distance. “Hey, Cat! Cat!” she called. “Would you like a cigarette?”

Though I preferred a cigar, I took the offering and let her light it. She asked about my life—how I passed my days. When she spoke of her home—full of food, warmth, and soft places to rest—I thought she pitied me. She pulled a piece of chicken from her bag and handed it over, along with another cigarette.

“Would you like to come see my home? It’s very nice,” she said.

I refused. It wasn’t my kind of life. So she left.

But she came back the next day, and the next—each time with some new gift: chicken, a blanket, a bowl, a small shelter to keep the rain off me. Slowly, she built a little home around me.

At last, I asked her how far her home was. “Far,” she said, “but worth the walk.” She told me we could help each other. She would give me food and warmth; I would keep her company until her dying day. That sounded like a heavy burden, so I suggested we just meet halfway.

And so, halfway became closer and closer to her home.

Weeks passed, and I found myself straying from my wild friends. They noticed the change before I did—my soft fur, my plump belly, the lightness in my step. But I told myself I hadn’t changed. I could always go back. This was only temporary—a clever game.

Ah, but she cooked such meals. Rich soups and stews, pork roasts that melted in the mouth. A cigar after supper, sometimes a cigarette before bed. I told myself I was only waiting—that when the time was right, I’d return to my old life.

Yet within months, I found myself at her door—and then inside it. My paws grew too soft for the snow, my belly too full for hunger, my claws too dull for hunting. My friends came by sometimes, peering through the window. I waved them off and whispered, It’s still a long con.

The old woman said I’d get the house when she died. I’d eat well, and when the time came, I could open the doors for my friends too. In the meantime, she made such savory food—always the soups, the stews, the roasts. Always the smoke curling up after. I thought: it’s only a matter of time. I’d inherit her home, take my fill, and return to the woods—wild again.

Years turned over like seasons: winter to spring, spring to summer, summer to fall. She grew weaker as I grew strong. I began helping her more and more—for the long con, I said to myself. I fetched her kindling, stirred her stews, brushed her hair, tucked the blanket around her feet. I spooned broth into her mouth when she was too tired to lift her hands.

Her breath smelled of smoke and thyme. I thought of that first day by the waterfall—how she bent beneath the same burden of kindling. Only now, it was I who bore the weight.

Now, children, you may think she bewitched me—that I was caught by some spell. But no. It was my own pride and foolishness that bound me. I thought I was using her, when in truth, she was teaching me. She gave freely, and when she could give no longer, I found I could not help but give in return. It was the most natural thing in the world.

Be mindful whom you let near your heart. You may start wild, hungry, and selfish—and end tame, full, and kind.

When she died, I was not the cat I once was. I was something else—more human than beast—the last smoking cat. I lived in her house. Cleaned floors. Cooked stews. Smoked cigars. Slept in bed. My old friends were long gone, impossible to find. They had forgotten that we animals once smoked cigarettes. They thought only of the day’s meal—not of yesterday, not of tomorrow.

But me—ah, I think of her still. Sometimes, when the smoke rises just right, I almost see her there—bending under the weight of kindling and herbs, calling, “Hey, Cat!” one last time.

Wires Crossed

She confuses pity for love,
attention for affection,
intrigue for interest.
Approval feels like appreciation—
wires crossed,
a mouse in a maze for cheese.
Each turn a shock
until he learns to turn away.
Choice was an illusion;
escape, never real.

For her, touch feels like intimacy,
sadness looks like trust,
oversharing passes for care.
Bent past the bend,
she sees the world inverted.
She thought she was an anchor—
steady on the ocean floor—
but she’s a buoy instead,
tethered by the very weight
she mistook for grounding,
bobbing in violet calm,
back and forth
to the rhythm of waves
that command her.

None of this is news,
not to her.
She’s felt it daily,
for years.
The only surprise might be:
girl, I fucking know.

Today I painted my nails during a Microsoft Teams Meeting.

Today I painted my nails during a Microsoft Teams meeting.
👩‍💻💅

For a week now, I’ve been working fully remote—from home—and for a week I’ve been more chronically online than ever. Instagram is showing me the same reels as YouTube and Reddit. It’s like three people vomiting into each other’s mouths 𝕒𝕕 𝕟𝕒𝕦𝕤𝕖𝕒𝕞. Forever and ever. Till death do us part.
🥴💅

So, to counter this problem, I decided to try something different: every time I want to reach for my phone, I do one small physical thing for myself instead.
😬💅

I know, you’re already confused. But imagine—before I can open Instagram, I brush my teeth. I don’t even 🅣🅗🅘🅝🅚 about YouTube until I’ve sprayed on a little perfume. Just something physical first. Get into my body. Idk, read into that as much hocus pocus as you want.
🧙‍♀️💅

Maybe it sounds a little OCD, but it’s really not that deep. At most, I might have a little ADHD—but like, the c҉o҉o҉l҉  kind. Annoying but effective. Gamify life to make it a little more fun. Worried I’ll forget my basic needs. Can you believe I’ve forgotten to eat lunch—or even use the toilet—for an uncanny amount of time?
🤪💅

So this meeting. On Teams. God, I forgot how much I hate Teams. Feedback on a software launch...a software I haven’t even been trained on yet. Lol. I have nothing to contribute. Here to listen. I mean... *hear* to listen. What feedback can I even give, other than, “Can’t wait to get access and start working in it someday!” Honestly? I don’t want to listen.
👶💅

So I paint my nails. Camera on, hands below the screen. I know it’s stupid. It’s silly. But things like that make me feel ˢᴼ ˢᵁᴮⱽᴱᴿˢᴵⱽᴱ.
🥵💅

I’ve been looking at my nails all night. It’s the first time I’ve painted them in almost a year. Halloween’s Friday, and for a moment I almost felt sad—but then I was too elated. I get to rediscover life’s little pleasures again.
🥰💅

At dinner, my husband said,
“Thank you for being my best friend.”
We laughed and joked back and forth.
When I was done eating, I still had food on my plate. He pointed at it and said, “There are air traffic controllers not getting paid.” It’s funny because it’s true—there’s a government shutdown right now.
🥲💅

And suddenly it made sense why I hadn’t found time to paint my nails. But right now, we eat. And he says he’ll make meatballs from scratch this week.
😋💅

I can’t wait. The hard times always pass.
Fifteen minutes doomscrolling and fifteen minutes of self-care look the same to an employer, but they mean very different things to me.
😇💅

At least my nails look nice.
🤡💅

Eraser House

“We should keep furnishing the quiet places of our souls with all the furniture of faith.”

September spun itself wild—
I clung to its skirts.

October arrived clean,
steady as a spine.

Until the chill came crawling,
fear in its breath—
just in time for Halloween.

The house where I keep my faith
is smaller than a dollhouse,
smaller still—
a home carved into the pink eraser
atop a pencil, displayed
in some roadside museum
of oddities.

There’s a magnifying glass
nailed to the wall for visitors,
so they can peer inside
and see—
there is no inside.

The windows are only scratches,
a suggestion of rooms,
a trick of depth.
My soul, perhaps,
still waiting to be furnished.

Edges

I'll say I live
on the edge of adventure.
Not really.

I live through you—
for a while,
if that’s allowed.

You can’t move me.
You’re a margin
I write inside.

If you couldn’t love me,
I’d still love myself.
If you couldn’t like me,
I’d like myself.
If you couldn’t stand me,
I’d stand for myself.

You could hate me—
hate me hard—
and I’d still be alight.

That’s what I tell myself.
So far,
it’s only theory.

notifications

My Fitbit warns me:

"You’re at risk of undertraining."

As if I want to run a marathon

next year. This is not the case.

I’ve been sitting so much

these last three days

that I am told to move.

My Tamagotchi brain abides.

Not long ago, I didn’t need

a notification. Not long ago,

no one needed a notification.

We just moved. Drank water.

Went outside—without prompt.

Survival required these things;

we innately wanted to live.

No one had to tell us—

we just did it.

Now I spend my time

complaining about the broken system

I continue to invest in.

Philip K. Dick’s emotion organ

is me, and I am it.

Yo como tomates.

The past week, my husband has slept more than fourteen hours a day. I said nothing about it.

“They call it an episode,” he said.

Who they are, I don’t know. I didn’t ask. Even if I did, I doubt he’d tell me.

Maybe he calls it an episode but wants the power of plural—they.

Today, as if nothing had happened this week, the light peeked around the earth and shone into our home—a missed companion we both liked.

Yes, today he made pasta. Sauce from scratch. Tomatoes plucked from the garden, still producing in October.

He laughed as I ate.

“You eat like a ravenous beast—or some jungle child raised by wolves.”

I have eaten this way my whole life.

Little echoes of childhood hunger reverberate even now. Reading all those etiquette books in high school did nothing.

Education can’t override instinct.

I eat like the feral cats I feed—touched by past hunger, possibly still harboring a belly full of worms. Each bite only half absorbed.

One of those cats must be outside; our dog barks at the front door.

He laughs again. I haven’t heard him laugh in a week.

I want some more.

“For a dog who doesn’t bark, she sure barks a lot,” he says.

It’s a joke. She’s a rescue from before we married. She didn’t bark before we moved in together—not even at the shelter, unlike the others.

As if my husband had given her permission to use her voice.

Now she barks.

I muse, “I wonder what her life was like before.”

Then I start to imagine: what would make a dog found wandering, pregnant, through the snow of rural Kentucky, not bark?

He interrupts my thoughts.

“It doesn’t matter what her life was like. Just what it is now.”

How I wish that were true.

But it isn’t. The past matters today.

It’s why a boy who was never safe enough to fall fully asleep grows into a man who sleeps so heavily—to keep the thoughts at bay for a week.

It’s why a girl who grew up so hungry can’t waste a second savoring a dinner so beautifully made by her husband.

It’s why a pregnant dog in Kentucky doesn’t bark until she meets these two.

I’ve been done eating fifteen minutes by the time he finishes.

“That was so good, babe,” I say. “I’m glad this episode has passed.”

I really mean it.

turn turn turn

humans

B.Y.O.B.F.F. (Be Your Own Best Friend Forever)

"You cannot be vulnerable and honest with another if you are not first vulnerable and honest with yourself."

Fresh red—

Crimson—

A difference divine.

I have kissed my own skinned knee

and risen, unafraid to do it again.

My soul descends like a sun,

setting into solitary solace.

Yes—

I will lean into egotism,

for among eight billion beating hearts,

not one could be me,

live as I have lived.

It is no mistake—

the pulse of my passions,

the shape of my thoughts,

the pull of my desires.

I know what I need,

what I want,

and I alone

can give it freely to myself.

I am enough.

All-or-nothing thinking usually results in nothing, because no one gets it all.

If I'm not the problem, why does this always happen to me?

If I was a Tesla some Tech Bro would take such good care of me.

What does it feel like,

to ride in a self-driving car?

Sometimes, I wish I were one—

steel nerves, quiet mind,

a system that knows itself.

You know how mechanics use a scanner,

to read what the check-engine light means?

Imagine that—

I wake in the night,

heart racing through bad dreams,

and I could just check the dipstick:

oh no, oil too low.

Or scan my chest,

and see: sensor needs replacing.

A machine—

I think I’d like to be one.

To have my gauges, my warning lights,

to know what I need, and when.

No worry, no guesswork.

Just set the cruise control,

lean back,

let everything take care of itself.

Mars in Virgo

You must have a baby devil and angel

at each cheek, tugging and pulling

like reins at your ears. You must

sway back and forth, feel

like a rocking horse—no control.

In some ways, we are alike. But see,

I practice restraint. I blame

my Mars in Virgo. Astrologers

know what that entails: my fire—

sex, war, and anger—compressed

into order, cleanliness, delay.

You think every kiss arrives quickly

and lasts forever. I know

it takes years, sometimes decades,

to form, then vanish fast.

The Reset.

Cleaning out the office—

a fresh start

for the new job—

and I found my mother’s lipstick.

Too dark, too used,

still in her purse

when they handed it to me

after she died.

It’s been eight years.

It sat on a desk in plain view

for coworkers to see,

then in a box,

moved across state lines,

and settled here, waiting

for this moment.

Is this the missing relic

I’ve needed?

I’ve never used it.

But tonight I might.

Maybe bad dreams

are good reminders

to wake—

it wasn’t real,

and never was.

Everybody Counts

How many numbers have I been?

From Social Security to student ID,

driver’s license to employee number—

even a little strip of paper, 63,

pulled from a reel at the DMV.

That was me once.

By now, I’ve been more numbers

than names.

It doesn't make a lot of sense when you think about how humans survived and evolved all these millenia.

If a TikTok life coach woke up

in a tribe a thousand years ago,

do you think they’d call

the whole thing codependent?

Or manipulation?

Or some other pop-psych phrase du jour?

They’d say, You don’t need a hunting party.

You should be able to take down a buffalo

alone.

And, Don’t worry about how much meat

the village needs.

Make boundaries.

I don’t know how humans survived.

Even experts are mostly guessing.

But I think we did it together.

We worried about feeding each other.

We were never meant

To learn or grow alone.

I suspect survival has always leaned

away from self-actualization,

from personal development.

For a moment,

we can imagine a world

where it’s a group effort.

I just don't know if self-help

Is really a thing, but I do know

Interdependence is harder to monetize.

magnesium

He says it’s time to relax
But I have a thousand to-dos to do,
and a mix of over-the-counter
pills and supplements to take
with breakfast—which I still need to make.

Time to relax? I don’t even chill
when I sleep. I dream
of all the ways things could
go wrong (though they almost never do).

Two magnesium capsules before bed,
to relax. It’s no Valium or Xanax—
I’m not that desperate. Yet.

birth control

Just the mini pill, over the counter,
available on Amazon—
for the four days leading up
to my period, which
of course I track religiously.

I bow on one knee
to the highest order:
the Sacred Temple
of Our Lady Who Bleeds.

It seems to ease the pain,
shrink the clots.
I even dare say
I can bear it—
but only for those four days.
I’m scared to take hormones
every day.

I fear hormones,
or anything prescribed.
Maybe it’s that they come
from a doctor—
like all the doctors who cut,
who sliced,
who prescribed away
my first husband
on grounds they’d save his life.
He died before forty.
He died the age I am now.

And the birth control pill
still scares me—
as if the chemicals
in my bloodstream
might overpower my brain,
let my personality slip.

I was on an antidepressant
from puberty to last year.
Now I know who I am
without a doctor’s hand
in my head.

Funny—
I didn’t have a period
from fourteen to twenty-two.
Because of a shot—
given in the butt,
four times a year,
administered by a man
in a white coat.

Ten minutes earlier,
he’d had his fingers in me,
while a nurse stood by,
eyes averted.
It’s okay. That’s the law.
A woman always has to watch.
It’s for my safety.
Oh no—
it’s for his.

She’s there to make sure
I don’t become
Little Miss Lawsuit.
Like snakes—
“he’s more scared of you
than you are of him.”

He’s a little right to fear me.
After all, I divorced
that first husband
in a court of law.

flonase

Spray twice, each nostril,

every day—morning and night.

I didn’t have allergies

before we moved here;

I used to sleep through the night, too.

It’s like my body

is rejecting this state

as much as this place

is rejecting me.

I tell myself

I won’t need the nose spray

once we’re back home.

all bets on me

My ancestors better be cheering me on.

I'm the last fucking horse they got left in this race.

cough drop

For days, I’ve been trying just to say

what I meant to say—

“I like it.”

“That’s nice.”

“You should get it.”

Anything affirmative.

I’m so tired of feeling

like a wet towel, wadded

on the bathroom floor—

reeking now of mildew

and sourness.

But every time I try

to just say something kind,

something else jumps out—

an uncontrollable cough,

spittle scattered

before I can cover my mouth.

Something stupid, like,

“That’s great! We’ll need

to get rid of some stuff

to make room.”

My mouth keeps coughing out

a negative at every turn.

It’s not me.

You know that right?

melatonin

My Work Anxiety Dreams

Always take place in Subway—

the sandwich shop, the easiest job

in theory I ever had. After all,

people tell you what to put on the sandwich.

Yet in my dream, I fail in ways

that hurt only me.

I forget my employee number,

my schedule—

show up at the wrong store,

work six hours on a four-hour shift,

don’t clock in, don’t get paid for any of it.

Sometimes I don’t go in for a week—

spaced it.

So many ways to fuck up

what should be an easy job

come alive in the night,

while I dream and try not to worry:

the laptop still unsent,

the new email unissued,

the W-2 still blank.

Why my big-girl job

could have as many holes

to fall into.

claritin

Hug me, in a sunshine tee,

Dry my eye, say it must be

my allergies. Thanks

for the cop-out. ’Cause

you’re the only one

in this room

who’s seen me

really cry—all this time,

two and a half years.

Tissue, please.

ibuprofen

Teenaged Girl
Keep popping your gum.
Someday—God willing—
you’ll grow old like me too,
two shakes of a lamb’s tail from menopause,
watching your breasts sag
closer to the floor,
wondering when the thin skin will give out.

You’ll take two ibuprofen in the morning
and at bedtime
(early—7 p.m. some nights)
for the hip and knee
you neglected like latchkey children
until they refused to go unnoticed.

Yes—someday you’ll be just like me.
Before you pop your gum once more,
know I still have half my life to go.

Do Not Read if Allergic to Caroline

These are fuchsias—my favorite flower.

I decided this at a plant sale in a church parking lot. Their blooms seemed otherworldly—the first thing Spock would scan upon landing on an alien planet. He’d say, “Curious,” aloud to the landing party... but they’d never look up at him or ask for more information.

Of course, I begged for the $12 to buy the hanging basket, which died two weeks later. An elderly gardener said she was surprised it lasted that long. “Fuchsias are a delicate and fickle flower. Gotta attend to them.”

My mom said it was a waste of money. But I aspired to be like that—so beautiful and wanted that people would cultivate me. Admire how fickle I was. Work harder to make me thrive.

Once, when I was much, much smaller, I threw a tantrum in a Burger King, and my family left—disappointed I’d ruined something again. But only an hour later, the Burger King burned to the ground, and some of the people inside died. In disbelief, my mom said, “That could have been us.”

But it wasn’t.

I’m not saying I foresaw the future or saved their lives—though my mother seemed to think so—but I know that every time I’ve been upset and acted out, it wasn’t irrational. It was never without cause. It was always logical.

---

In May, I wrote:

“One of the few silver linings of being the second-to-last living member of your family is the strange freedom that lies ahead. Someday soon, in the not-so-distant future, you’ll be able to do anything—absolutely anything—without the weight of a family name to dishonor or voices of shame echoing behind you. They’ll all be gone.”

By July, my last family member was dead. Perhaps a lone prophecy.

At the time, I was dreaming of publishing, and my aunt’s scornful reaction to how I’d present our family—my mother, my life—seemed like a drawback. Now I know she was an excuse. I’m just not ready to be seen or known. Not really. Not like that.

---

If you’re reading this, it’s worth noting I never thought it would go this far. Sure, I’d picked up and put down journals and blogs and poetry since I was a child.

RIP to the Lisa Frank composition notebooks full of elementary angst.

RIP to the TeenOpenDiary that was purged of its sweet data at some point.

I can’t recall much about those early efforts, other than for one I used the moniker Enid Coleslaw—after Ghost World. The comic book, not the movie. But also the movie.

---

It all started in 2013. Jealous of my poetry-major acquaintances—friends-of-a-friend—who’d published a poem or two, I started a blog. They all had Blogspots; I thought that was the gold standard for modern poets. Or maybe it was just required for one of their classes.

That same friend gifted me a poetry-writing book. It took me ten years to finish it. In all this time the blog title never changed—A Boundless Place—part of a poem I have tattooed. A matching tattoo, of course, with—you guessed it—that same friend.

Years passed with maybe three, or five, or seven poems a year. And I was happy to pour everything into nothing—a little void to spill my feelings into and escape quickly.

Then, somehow, it became ten, sometimes fifteen in a month. Golly, I couldn’t believe it. I’d share just the poems I liked most with trusted friends—not all, as the quality varied—but the quantity always increased.

---

Over the last two years, I shared the link with four people. I think. Maybe just four at most.

By then, I was writing almost daily. I started short stories and fiction, and before I knew it, I began to fancy myself a writer. The delusion came on strong.

This could be published!

Not just on some crumb-catching blog, but in a real, God’s-honest poetry journal! Like those people I was jealous of—the whole reason I started the thing.

So I submitted one poem to one journal. It was rejected. And I curled back into the blog, happily pouring everything into nothing again.

It felt nice and safe. After all, I don’t need external validation. I’ve been doing this for myself for over a decade. No need to change now.

---

To be honest, I always assumed no one read it. I doubted even the four people with the link checked in—maybe one, because she said she did once in a while.

I took that as a white lie, something said to make me feel better. Maybe she read one or two poems every few months, just enough to make it technically true. But surely the others were too busy.

So I just dropped poems into the blog like banana peels into the garbage.

Though, to be truthful, I sometimes go back and read through a few of them. But at almost 800 posts, I’ve forgotten a lot. I probably rehashed the same subjects and metaphors enough—struggled in those early years for form—that I couldn’t stand to read through it all... even if I wanted to.

---

This part is important, if you’re still reading and still interested: I never looked at the stats. Because I thought no one read it. I didn’t look because I assumed it would just say one or two page views a week—and those were probably me.

Until two weeks ago.

I was updating the password, and the stats were right there. That’s when I discovered many of my posts are viewed the day I post them—often more than once that first day.

There are people who check this blog daily. Not person—persons. With an “s.” More than one.

There are people looking at posts from years ago I’d forgotten. Views from states those four people don’t live in. Views from other countries. Countries I know no one in.

Who the fuck could that be but strangers?

Some posts have 500 views. Most horrifying of all, my blog has over 15,500 views. That can’t be four people and me. Not even five people over the twelve years I've been posting.

---

And I thought this would scare me. It was my biggest fear realized—to be seen in all this messiness I thought I had just thrown into the internet trash.

Yet... that wasn’t how I felt.

I felt relieved.

Someone out there wants this. At least there’s no other explanation. Who or why remains blurry. But someone out there wants this.

Even if they hate-read it.

---

Do I have haters?

Probably. I definitely have people no longer in my life, and the path there wasn’t pleasant for either of us. That could drive someone to hate.

If you hate me, it’s because I hurt you and drove you to that—and I am truly sorry.

(But I probably wouldn’t welcome you back into my life. This is a blessing for you. You really wouldn’t want me back either.)

Anyway—back to the people reading this.

It’s more than no one. Less than everyone.

In first-grade math:

No one < Blog Readers < Everyone

---

There isn’t really a point to this post, other than to say I’ve been more open here than I've been in both my marriages combined. More vulnerable than in most of my friendships. Definitely more honest than in all my family relationships, ever.

This blog, which began because I wanted to pretend I was like the poets I was jealous of, has outlasted my first marriage and my mother’s life.

If you are one of those readers, I may not know you, but you know me better than almost anyone else. And that’s scary. Even if you don’t know me—you know me.

And I hope you’re here because some part of you understands what I mean when I say that.

Unintended longevity.

It was never meant to go this far. I’ve been doing this for myself and enjoying it, for the most part.

But then I wonder—where do I even go from here?

Of course, the only answer is to keep posting things on the internet and pretend they’re not there.

Because, I guess, you never know the impact our stupid little actions can have.

A plant sold to a little girl can define her whole life.

A burger meal cut short can spook a mother into thinking her child foresees death.

A weirdly timed post in adulthood can seem to confirm it.

And sometimes, it’s a blog that goes on for way too long—

a blog that normally would’ve been abandoned a few months in,

but somehow, other people actually read.

Dear Reader, if you are still reading, know I pour my fragile, high-maintenance fuchsia soul in here. Please tend to me well.

Mom's Salmon Patty Recipe

First, you need a can of salmon. In the ’90s, every food pantry box seemed to have one. That might be true—every box we got had a can of salmon. Good protein. Or whatever my mom said. You had to find something good about every handout, or self-pity would be on the horizon.

Open the can and empty it into a bowl. Use your hands to crush the bones. For those who’ve never opened a can of salmon, it’s canned whole—bones and all. Cooking softens them, though they’re still a little crunchy unless you break them up. At this point, my mom would always remind me, “Good calcium. You won’t ever break a bone eating this.” I’m 38 and have never broken a bone, so it must be true.

Then you add an egg. The recipe calls for breadcrumbs or crackers, but we didn’t always have those. Breadcrumbs were surprisingly pricey in the ’90s for just dried, ground-up bread. Mom insisted almost anything would do. No breadcrumbs? No crackers? No problem. Stale bread, cereal, oatmeal, even rice—or rice cakes—worked. Crush it up, mix it into a dough, pat into patties, fry in oil, and eat.

I made salmon patties last night. Same recipe, but now I always have crackers on hand—name-brand and whole wheat. The egg was organic, cage-free, bougie from Costco. Stuff I’m not sure even existed in the ’90s. It feels good to make and eat salmon patties by choice and nostalgia, rather than necessity.

Funny how the things once hated—the scarlet letter “P” for poor of childhood—can, later, become a security blanket. Scarcity turned to comfort, necessity to nostalgia, shame to something I can hold in my hands and eat.

Do You Ever Feel Like a Broken Rake, Abandoned Beside a Man-made Lake?

I want to look you in the eye,
but you’re not a look-into-each-other’s-eyes
kind of guy.

I want to ask: Do you ever feel
like a broken rake, abandoned
beside a man-made lake—
sure your use has run out,
if it was ever really there?

If so, I’d like to quote you now:
Feelings aren’t facts.

Don’t you remember saying that?
Or was it only true when you said it—
when the feelings were mine?
I don’t think so.

It’s universal.
The truth is, you are the lake—
designed, deliberate, paid for,
wanted and needed, tended to.
Cleaned in summer, treated before winter,
a line item in the landscaping budget
year after year.

Even the flaws—
a fountain that doesn’t run—
linger on someone’s to-do list,
and as he walks by,
it pains him to see it still.

You may feel like an accident, a mistake,
like that quiet fountain
that never sees the blueprints
filed away after it was installed.

The lake may think it arrived
by happenstance,
never knowing it was shaped
by the hands of those
who walk its edges every day—
walkers who are glad to see it.

Last Look at This Lake

I will see ducks and turtles again,

but never ones born in this lake—

not after today. And yet, without me,

the ducks and turtles will continue,

will flourish—born in sun and shade,

in wet and dry. I’ll never see it,

not after today, but I will know

it’s true: life continues

with and without me.

A Wet Paw Print

God,
tuck all those kittens
who slipped away on my watch
into the dark and cold—
with bellies full of tuna,
of cream,
of all the small sweetnesses
they never got to taste.

Tell them I’m trying to do better.
And please,
help me keep that promise.

Screw the Pooch

My literal brain didn’t understand
why the chicken crossed the road
until I was nearly middle-aged.
It never occurred to me that
“the other side” was code for death.

I still don’t get why
you can’t have your cake and eat it too.
Possessing a cake is literally
step one in eating it.

So forgive me when I hear,
“You really screwed the pooch, girl!”
and blink twice—
because I certainly did not!
I love animals,
but not that much.

clumsy

Another inexplicable bruise,

origin unknown.

These things I thought would vanish

when I quit drinking—

or fade along with my youth.

Persistent, darker, and bigger

than ever—I must begin to believe

it is me. Perhaps I am

just clumsy, just reckless,

and will die with a purplish-green oval

below the knee,

just as I lived.

both awake

We lie in bed

like two kidneys

tucked in the lower back.

I want to reach out,

hold your hand,

but don’t—

just in case

you’d swat it away,

as if touching your husband in bed

were an outlandish idea.

I’m just glad

you begin to snore.

After all these years,

it’s the only lullaby

that lets me sleep.

it's your street but my world

we piss in the same sewer.
pretend we’re neighbors.

i nod; you walk on, polished as a liar.
i’m fine. you’re fine.

the cdc tests our piss,
calls it a spike—
guess what? not my problem.

we never touch. we never will.
i owe you nothing.

i used to pity this distance.
now i pity anyone who likes you.

i’ll leave. you’ll stay.
they’ll fold you like yesterday’s paper.

when you die,
someone will swipe pass you in the feed,
a double-tap on your obituary,
then keep scrolling.

your house sold to some young, uppity bitch
(just like me).
you’d hate her if you were still around.

but you won’t.
by then the street will be hers.

do you believe in fate?

not sure if fate is real
or if physics just makes like things
attract. maybe fate is a force—
like gravity, dropping us
into the same space:
you’d naturally
people-please,
and i’d naturally
come on too strong.

years ago, my friend’s friend
(they’re not friends anymore)
said i made her uncomfortable—
that i try too hard.
but if i didn’t try,
no one would notice.
why don’t they think of that?
if i weren’t overwhelming you,
you’d never see me at all.

like neighbors’ dogs—
unleashed, wandering, shock-collared—
they always find my yard.
i can’t call it fate exactly,
but we animals sense each other.
the dogs know i’ll be kind,
and i knew, from the start,
you might let me go too far—
while anyone else would let me
fade behind the fences they built..

Cleaning Out His Father's Tackle Box

He says,
“Dad was just like me
with the jitterbug bait—
that’s these.”

He lifts one up:
“They’re slayers.
Get that off a pier.”

It flashes in his hand,
green scale, metal wing,
still smelling of oil.

Then a blade—
“That’s a good knife,
made in Japan.”
His voice catches,
then lands like a gavel,

as if a man is measured
by what he can hook,
what he can cut,
what he can claim—
as if manhood itself
were wrestled
out of the water.

I have to take his word for it.
I never caught
or killed—
a fish,
or anything
that proves a man.

From Scarcity to Abundance

"Man is condemned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does.

-Jean-Paul Sartre

Choices are hardest when they’re real—when every option glitters, when pros and cons balance so perfectly that change feels less like escape than risk. To change because of a real choice feels different.

In the past, my choices weren’t really choices at all. Change came from necessity. Life often offered me a choice between more pain or less, and I chose the latter… who wouldn’t? Or at least I tried. Sometimes I got it wrong. Did I say sometimes? I meant most of the time. It was just in hindsight that I realized it.

Now—the luxury of true choice. To wonder whether I’d rather stroll along sun-warmed sand or hike through shaded woods. Both are lovely. But will I regret it? You never regret choosing less pain, but you might regret missing the ocean—the scent of salt on the breeze, the way the light dances across the waves.

Even in a house full of gold chains and wristwatches, I worry there might be no silver lining. Now I worry about making the wrong choice. Me—worried about the wrong choice—when I once swung blindly from one bad decision to the next, George of the Jungle style. (Yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds—please laugh with me.)

One afternoon, I spent an hour staring at a dumpster, trying to decide whether the cop car fifty feet away would stop me from grabbing the bread an employee had just thrown out. Now I debate whether I’d rather have fewer vacation days but feel confident in my job, or risk stepping out of my wheelhouse for more money and time off. Ha! See? I have become a girl with two dates to the dance—one the quarterback, the other the class president. Don’t you feel sorry for me now? I’ll be prom queen in no time!

Perhaps it’s just one stubborn neuron, trained by decades of scarcity, that stalls at the edge of freedom, whispering: “Please, universe, make it hard again. Force me to leap.” And so I stand, paralyzed before a buffet of perfect choices, secretly hoping someone will push me off the metaphorical diving board. Instead, I find myself condemned to this freedom, accountable for every choice I make. No one else will make the leap. It has to be me.

So I tell myself there’s a pool down there—not a dumpster. And maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to jump in.

Neither of Us Will Die of Thirst

She says,
“I’m heartbroken, but I understand. I support you.”

I tell her,
“I’m not dying—just leaving for a new job,
moving out of state.”
But we both know it is a kind of death.

For a while we’ll trade memes,
send a message here and there.
Then the conversations will thin,
shriveling into a quick heart
on a post,
a comment when we happen to have time—
between jobs and children,
husbands and doctor’s appointments.

I never meant to break her heart.
But then,
harm is rarely deliberate.

My husband never meant to kill the rabbit.
He only closed the shed door without thinking.
There was straw enough for a couple of days.
We know because of the mess we cleaned.
Thirst finished what thoughtlessness began.

I know so little about my own future,
but dying of dehydration
in a locked shed
seems unlikely.
Perhaps the years ahead
are not so terrifying after all.

Let us double-check the sheds,
leave no doors closed without care.
No more small creatures
will perish at our hands.

I remind myself:
it is only a job.
In a month,
someone she likes even better
will be sitting in my chair.
In two,
I’ll have a new work-friend,
an inside joke she won’t know.

Neither of us will die of thirst.

We’ll be okay, love.
We are not small rabbits
forgotten in the dark.
We are grown women meant to survive.