October Nights.

i am 16 years old

sitting on the roof

of my parents house

reading by lantern.

it is midnight.

it is October

and my window is open.

the wind howls a bit

but it is very soothing.

the air smells wet

and chilly

and no one else exists.

i am 16 years old.

that feeling never goes away.

no matter what.

after all these years later.





Our Bodies Still Fit Together.

i see him

for the first time

in a long time.

we go swimming

and dive around each other

like curious fish.

the lifeguard watches us and smiles.

he picks me up and throws me around.

where it’s too deep for me to stand.

i put my arms around his neck

and my legs around his waist.

our bodies are still a perfect fit.

My Real Life: Part Five

Once upon a time, there was a girl who loved stories. She could be found with earbuds in, listening to music depicting love stories.

Her fingers would dance upon the keys of a keyboard as she wrote a legend.

She was surrounded by books in her own little cave, the words curling around her like a warm caress.

The girl loved stories so much that she eventually became one.

Summer Nights.

i wanted to kiss him.

i wanted to forget everything

just be there,

existing in the bubble

of the moment.


the first firework

went off

somewhere high above us,

whistling loud and proud.

it was gold.

exploding into millions

of golden flecks,

like confetti over our heads.


we sat by the fire


we must have been sitting

there for at least an hour.

i told him the stupidest things.


when it started to get cold,

i rubbed my arms

and he took off his hoodie

and gave it to me.


which was,

sort of,

my dream come true.

having a guy

actually give me his hoodie.


it felt warm

and smelled like his body.


it felt like fate

that we’d met.



Moms Old Haunted House.

i spend the day

holed up in my bedroom,

eating red vines,

watching Netflix documentaries,

hiding out like a fugitive.

my old tabby cat wanders

in and out as she likes.

everything up here

is the same as i left it.

blue and white  striped wallpaper,

the cheerful yellow rug,

the fluffy gray duvet on the bed,

the artwork from a friend

hanging over my desk,

right next to the bulletin board

that holds a photo of him.

even my hair brush i left behind

still sits on the dresser.

as if waiting for me to come

crawling all the way back here

with a head full of knots.

it’s the photo i keep catching

myself looking at.

as though there is some kind of

karmic magnet attached to

the back of it drawing my attention

from across the room.

i haul myself off the bed.

i pull the photo to examine

it more closely.

it was taken at the party

the summer of senior year,

back when we were dating.

us sitting sprawled out

on that ratty old couch

in the middle of that field.

his arm hooked tightly around my waist.

he is smiling at me.

i actually never noticed that

until after everything happened.

just holding the stupid photo

feels like pressing on a bruise.

he’s not home for the summer.

i know this from

creeping onto his facebook page.

he’s doing volunteer work,

clearing brush,

fighting forest fires.

there is no chance of

bumping into him.

i slap the photo facedown

and climb back under the covers.

when i was a kid

living up here

made me feel like a princess,

tucked in the third-floor turret

of moms old haunted house.

all this time later,

it makes me feel


in a magical tower

with no place in the world to go.

i dig the last red vine

out of the package.

my cat hops back up onto

the pillow beside me.

i lie there,

under the duvet for awhile,

waiting to see if my thoughts

on him will pass.

the sun spills yellow

through the window.

the air smells cool.


he is still lingering

in the shadows of my mind.

The Winter Him.


i tried to picture him,

in cranberry colored

scarves and turtleneck sweaters,

rosy cheeked

standing beside the Christmas tree.

i did not know the winter him,

but i am jealous of everyone who does.


i know flip flops,

the surfing,

the swim trunks,

the sand,

and the beach him.


but what about those

New England girls

who had snowball fights

with him in the woods?

the ones who snuggled up to him

while they waited for the

car to heat up.

the ones he gave his coat to

when it got chilly outside.


what of this winter him?


My Real Life: Part Three

i would like to be fresh,

bright and

active in May.

i want to read more frequently

and fully appreciate

what I read,

take the time to prepare

a healthy breakfast in the morning,

spend my weekends doing outdoor activities

and buy more plants.

Love Spells.

the leaves smell amazing,

dried and smoky.

we look like little kids

as we swim around

and toss leaves at each other.

i can’t remember the last time i was this happy.

we go back to my room.

this is it.

we haven’t talked about it,

but it’s hard to imagine we won’t hook up.

after all these years

this will be only the third time

we’ve spent the night together.

when i change for bed,

i just turn around,

let him watch me.

we get into bed,

and i feel like i am sixteen again.

he picks a bit of leaf out of my hair

and that starts us kissing.

kissing him is like kissing myself.

he was my first boyfriend.

i learned to kiss from him.

he taste the same as he did

all those years ago.

his body is different,

there is more muscle,

more strength.

we fall asleep for a while

and when i wake up

i look at him sleeping

and just smile.

a spell has been broken.


My Real Life: Part Two

I realize that this is a rather pointless thing to worry about, but I often find myself thinking: “Why did I ever stop writing?” Sure, I am writing now, but I wish that I had written more when I was a teenager. I wish that I could say that I have been writing for “x number of years” and feel a sense of accomplishment or possess a body of work. I suppose it is that I hate doing things “late” because I do everything late. I hate that I didn’t apply myself fully until now.