I'm sorry you hate the person you made me.

Pride and Prejudice (2005)

Do you wanna come over—

watch Pride and Prejudice,

sip apple cider, hot or cold,

however you like it—

then lean into me,

your head on my shoulder,

the two of us under one blanket.

If that happened,

you’d have me.

You’d always have me—

whatever that means,

whatever way you want.

I can be taken hot or cold.

My husband once feared I’d leave him for a younger, richer man—he needn’t have worried.

Will this yogurt—
probiotics, fiber,
higher-than-usual protein—
fix me? Whatever’s wrong with me?

Cure me of that irrational obsession:
playing loverboy to some straight girl
who barely knows I exist—rightly so.

Have you seen my house? My husband?
The two-carat diamond on my hand?
My meticulously plotted future, neat and shining?
This life—
I wouldn’t leave it, not even if
a thousand girls begged me to.

The straight girls are smarter than I am.
They see the road to nowhere long before I do.
They know I’m going nowhere.
And everyone else sees it too.
Flirting is my worst crime—
Possibly mistaken for friendship.

Yes. I need a cure.
This creamy mango-flavored snack—
healthy, of course—
will definitely do the trick.
Fruit on the bottom, just in case.

It's Just A Wink Emoji 😉

Could you even comprehend
her life so small, so narrow
that the slightest interaction
swells to fill her whole day—
that thing you said and forgot,
she’ll be playing with herself
           over and over again,
letting it bloom  for a week.
She hasn’t smoked in a decade. But today she reached for nicotine gum, rolling lazily on her tongue. Something to settle down. Thank God you aren't here. She’d be lighting a cigarette without a second thought—just to occupy her. Not think of what else her mouth and hands can do. She'd slowly kill herself again. Could you even comprehend?

Crack Open a Book (and Maybe Me)

Don’t touch grass; crack open a book like a cold beer!

Dear Readers,

Your author arrives today with trepidation—so much so that she abandons the first person, hoping distance might blur her outline.

Once, this was a poetry blog. At least an attempt. Anyone—from a child to a seasoned scholar—could pluck one of those crude, earnest posts and see them plainly for what they were: poetic attempts. Poorly executed, yes, but heartfelt. Over time the writing improved—like finally seeing the horse in the cloud once someone points it out. For years she pointed and insisted, “Poem!” Only recently would others nod.

Then, in the last year, something unraveled. But at least fiction felt adjacent to literature—still fumbling, but at least aimed at a horizon. A faint theme, a generous audience, a sense of direction. Until the whole enterprise turned on her. Like a cell dividing too fast, that direction metastasized into something else. Suddenly: personal essays (the horror—please forgive her!) splashing onto the page. A quick, disquieting devolution.

She fights with herself.

“No one wants to read about your stupid, co-dependent caregiving to cats,” she scolds. “They do! They do! Look at the stats!” she shouts back.

A confession: she saw the stats once by accident and swore she wouldn’t look again. Told herself it was all bots, or one poor soul clicking too many times by mistake. She promised she wouldn’t check. And then she checked every day.

Now she feels like a naked woman behind one-way glass, the world passing by on the other side while a small glowing ticker counts the gentlemen who linger. Quick—she’s fainting. Push a chocolate through the slot! Dickinson wrote, “Publication is the auction of the mind,” and God, does she feel up for sale.

She returns to the blog determined to write something meaningful, something not about herself. Anything not self-centered. And another diary entry floods out. She tries to stop it; she cannot. She has lost the plot.

Poem or short story or diary drivel… eight hundred and thirty-five posts later, she wonders: isn’t this compulsion to create unnerving? She can’t fathom how she writes so much, or how anyone could possibly find time to read it. A simpler answer would be: they don’t. But the tugging, creeping fear—what if they do?

Deleting it all is an option, of course. But God—over a decade of work down the drain! And the stats spark hope. Each past post viewed unexpectedly is a little gift of herself. “Look at this poem from 2022,” she whispers. She doesn’t remember writing it. But you, dear reader—you did. Unless you’re a bot. In which case: thank you, bot. She devours these forgotten versions of herself like a dessert made of desserts eaten in the dark. This must be what Dickinson felt, opening her bureau drawer and finding yet more small, secret selves she wasn’t sure anyone should see.

God! Listen to her now! Are you rolling your eyes yet? She is no Dickinson! This is a crappy little internet blog! Still, the writing simply keeps pouring out.

Maybe you like it—maybe you’re the sort of sick, twisted little thing who would. Are you? Do you like this? Do you like seeing her so vulnerable and her not knowing a thing?

Is she just a little girl curtsying too deeply, showing the entire village her bloomers? Are you a voyeur?—but then, if you are one, so is she. She grew up on OpenDiary and LiveJournal, peering into strangers’ lives. She still loves historical diaries. She would love to read yours too.

And so she retreats now to read a book—something good, like a president’s memoir—anything not about her.

Maybe she could shut up long enough to write something good…
Dear God, Reader—let’s not get carried away.

I sent you 3 care packages this year. You marveled at my picks. But since we were 12, I've known you & what you like. It shouldn't be a surprise.

A month after my birthday, you texted: happy birthday.
Afterward, I sent a message every week. No reply—
till this morning, when I found
three hairs in my sink shaped like your initials.
Relief. Three weeks late—our friendship runs on slow time.

Your message says your sister had her baby.
You’re sending a package but need my address—
I sent ten letters this year & it's on each envelope; 
all probably in the trash. I know better 
than to expect everyone to save like I do.

Did you know I have everything you ever gave me?
All the notes passed in the school hall, folded into shapes,
even things from when we were roommates.
It feels foolish now. I remember us at twelve:
you in choir, me in band, rooms next to each other.
We walked together—band room first.
I stood there with my stupid flute case,
watching you walk the hall.

It feels foolish to remember
that day you wore a black cardigan
down to your knees, hair loose,
sunlight streaming through the knit.
I can’t recall you looking back,
but I always watched you go
till you reached the door.

My God, I was ready to text:
It’s been three weeks.
You don’t have to pretend your my friend. 
Just let me know you’re alive.

Instead, I reply: A package is nice. Thank you.

And I mean it.
Be late, don't send letters, give no gifts.
Forget my birthday. Forget my middle names.
What's Christmas?
I don’t mind. Really.

All I need is to watch you to the door,
always know you’re okay, safe & sound,
like everything you ever gave me—
something that no one can take.

The Imminent Inevitable

    For months I’ve known it would come to this, yet I still don’t know what to write. We have a plan to move back home, to Indiana, but I hardly talk about it anymore. How many times have I told friends something only for it to go nowhere? I can already see the places this plan could fall apart. Until ink is dry on a house deed, I’m too scared to say much of anything.

    Even now, when I feel in my bones that the inevitable is imminent—that we will move, and that I want to move—there’s one thing that could hold me back: these cats. This thing I’ve tried to put into words so many times and just… can’t. Every time I try, the same question rises: Do you think I’ve done enough?

    Last year in August, I was still in a depression that had stretched two years long and had started shortly before we moved to this place. By then it wasn’t the immediate-crying, fear-of-tomorrow kind anymore. It was the autopilot kind—the tail end, when the clouds part but everything is still gray. You could tip either way.

    That’s when I met a feral cat and her three kittens. The mother was skittish, but the kittens took to me, and suddenly I had a purpose again. I relearned that trust is built slowly: showing up every day, feeding them, moving the same way each time. My husband and I named them Shine, Sassafras, and Tater Tot. By November, I’d caught them and gotten them fixed. Shine and Tater Tot, taken to people faster, were adopted through a rescue. Sassafras stayed. Our indoor cats haven’t accepted her yet, but she’s part of the family. She’s lying to my left as I type this.

    Of course, the feral mama—Suzy—showed up with five new kittens right before I caught the first three. I regretted not catching her earlier. Those five eventually became two: Lil Black and Moustache. Not names but descriptions of appearance. I caught Lil Black and got him fixed in March of this year. By then Suzy had three new kittens, and only one survived: Turtle. He joined the other two, and the trio stuck together. I caught Moustache in August, and Suzy in November. Now only Turtle remains. I’ll catch and fix him before we move. He runs to me. He’ll be easy.

Still, the five kittens who disappeared weigh heavily on me. So does the idea that many more might never have existed if I’d known earlier how to catch Suzy first. I could have spared her—and them—so much suffering. Again the question: Did I do enough?

    Then there’s Charles. Back in February, our security cameras caught what looked like an all-white cat at the door. We panicked, thinking one of our indoor ones had slipped out. Eventually we realized it was a thin white-and-orange cat with a clipped ear—already fixed. My husband named him Charles. As Charles gained weight and confidence, it became clear she was female. We still call her “him.” She visits daily but never fully joined the trio. The trio mostly hangs out two houses down. A neighbor also feeds them; sometimes I see him carry out a plate of food. He even built a shelter. Once I followed Suzy and saw her eat behind another house. I’m not the only tender heart here.

    All this is to say: when we move, I have to leave them behind. Five cats outside. Five cats I schedule my life around. Five cats I love and worry about. Five cats my husband will make a turkey for on Thanksgiving. When one is late, my husband and I update each other and breathe a sigh of relief at their arrival. This thing that has been part of our life for a year and a half—we will simply abandon.

    I’ve mulled it over, turned it in my mind. Studied it in every direction. It would be impossible and cruel to take them. I couldn’t catch all five in one day. They’re essentially wild. Even catching and transporting our indoor pets for a cross-state move will be a headache. And if I did catch them, they would struggle with the climate change. Alabama’s mild winters are nothing like Indiana’s. And who knows if feral cats already live where we’re going? A new colony wouldn’t be welcome. At least here, they know the land they’ve always lived on.

    It would be cruel...like when I moved here to Alabama. A relocation I wasn’t meant for. Seasons my body never adapted to. Them too, I think. They belong to this street the way I belong to my home state. Creatures of specific soil. They can't come to Indiana with me.

    I remind myself: people feed them. Maybe not as consistently, and maybe no one else is buying rotisserie chickens every week. Maybe breakfast won’t be at 5 a.m. sharp. But they are wild animals. They probably have more instinct and survival ability than I allow myself to believe. Moustache roams far. He probably hunts. Even my childhood outdoor cats caught mice and birds. And this is a neighborhood—a network of scraps, shelters, sympathetic neighbors. If others feed them—and I know some do—maybe it isn’t as dire as I fear. There are the two girls who pedal bikes to deliver them tuna once and a while after school.

    At least they’ll all be fixed. The females won’t have to pour their bodies into litter after litter. The males won’t be driven by endless fighting and mating. That alone improves their chances. They’re healthy. And calories matter. The weight I put on them might carry them far. But is it enough enough?

    Maybe, if we find a rural house with a barn, I could take one. If I did, it would be Charles. My husband would guess Turtle—and yes, I can pet and pick up Turtle. But Turtle has friends. If hunger ever came, he’d charm someone else into feeding him. Moustache and Lil Black are bonded and wilder. Suzy survived before me and will survive after. It’s only Charles I worry about—she mostly relies on my porch for food and warmth. She arrived so skinny. But she’s a survivor. And who’s to say she didn’t once have someone like me who moved away? How else did she get the clipped ear? Maybe she found me months after their departure. Maybe she’d manage to do it again.

    I can't stay in Alabama and I can’t stay in Alabama for some cats. I can’t take them with me. I can’t check on them or know they’ll be okay. And if we’re honest, nature is brutal. Even if I stayed, no amount of food or shelters or routines would save them forever. They will die. The indoor cats I’m taking will die. I will. You will. Everyone does. Some sooner than others. You never know when or how, but you can be certain it will happen. It's never enough.

    It’s like those kittens who disappeared. I don’t know for sure that they died, but I imagine they did. Maybe that unknown black cat I’ve seen three streets over is one of them. Somehow it’s surviving, without any help from me. These cats are stronger and smarter than I give them credit for. They might live to a decent feral age—three or four years. I gave them a good start. Good nutrition. They’re fixed. If any feral cats have a chance, it’s them.

    Do you think that’s enough? The question circles back as soon as I try to imagine the move, as soon as I picture the driveway, the boxes, the final sunrise on this porch. Them arriving for 4 p.m. dinner to find no one home. It seems like not enough. It's never enough.

    Last August, they gave me a reason to live. They essentially saved my life. They rebuilt my confidence and my fight. They gave me a heart. How Tin Man of me. And all I’ve wanted since is to repay them—to return the favor.

Have I done enough?

I don’t think I’ll ever feel certain.

    Maybe certainty was never the point. Maybe the “imminent inevitable” isn’t just the move—it’s the knowledge that love doesn’t guarantee safety. Death always comes. And I did more than most would. More than I thought I could when everything was still gray. Maybe the best I can offer is love and the faith that they’ll find what they need after I go.

    I’m starting to think these cats don’t need me to save them. After all, I was the one who needed saving. Maybe they’ll find someone else the way they once found me. Maybe that’s the whole point: nothing follows us when we leave. All that's left is the evidence that we cared and all we can hope is that it was enough.

Love reshapes us.
Responsibility can become identity.
Letting go is not the opposite of caring,
but the final stage of it.