Author: tbrumm

I'm a reader, writer, and author with a B.A. in Journalism and a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Non-Fiction Writing from The New School. I'm a product of Metro Detroit, but I've been exploring The City for about 4 years. What I've learned? Home is a feeling.

Heat advisory

Warmth in my belly while I sit on your kitchen counter and wrap my legs around you from behind. Soon come electricity, slow motion, guarded girl cracks wide open. That forget-the-world-exists-outside-of-us eye contact both in bed and in crowded rooms, showing up like you’ve been here all along. Watching you do happy baby realizing I haven’t been this happy in years, smiling with your eyes and lighting me up from the inside like summertime skies in northern Michigan. Post-shower towel dancing to Mac Miller like you’ve never wished for anything more in your life and I watch you slide on that black denim feeling the same. A street light on a dark corner, New York City winter never felt warmer.


heavy object, lift with care ⚠️

there’s a difference between a man who sends you flowers for you and a man who sends them to be able to say he did. to say, “look how good i am. isn’t she lucky?” as if flowers carry the same weight as sleeping with that girl you know – the one who looks for love in DMs and double taps and thinks self love is found in the comments of a thirst trap. and in an apartment still filled with your things. the one thing he asked you not to do. the one thing you didn’t think you’d have to ask because being together for five years felt like enough of a reason to warrant mutual respect. to ask one week later if you want the comforter he laid her down on as if you should be lucky he was generous enough to offer. a momento to remind you that you made the right choice.

and when you’re done throwing up, and boxing up your things that they left thrown about the bedroom, and moving your boxes into a uhaul, and cutting up every “us” thing you lay eyes on, and figuring out where you and your dog will sleep that night, for a split second you pity them both. because this reminds you of the way you too boiled yourself down to nothing for his satisfaction; how so much of that is the reason you could never go back and so much of the reason he needs you to. you spent six years telling yourself you were the exception, but in hindsight you see you’re part of a pattern. a habit he claims not to have. a burden you no longer have to bear.


curious george

If you’ve ever seen him smile in natural light some part of you is in love with him too. He has legs like tree trunks, rooted only in what he believes to be fact. He’s very matter of fact; though he’s more facts than matter considering he’s not much interested in matters of the heart. He’s got these hands that look like they’ve been put to use, stripping objects to their core just to see how they operate only to walk away, leaving them in pieces, and him proud to have gained insight.


What I think you have to ask yourself is do I feel good? About yourself – mentally, physically, and when you go to bed at night. About the decision and situation – the type of friends you have, the type of people you love, and the reasons they don’t love you back. About the road you’re on and when the next exit is. And if you do, then go on walking tall. But if you don’t, walk the fuck out.



Are you seeing this lightning and thinking about morning yoga? Our version of supported savasana. I’m thinking about the way you kissed me on 9th ave and how every time you’ve put your lips to mine the broken parts of my heart said “not yet”. Have I told you that I hold on to people so tightly I squeeze the life out of of them? I love so deeply I spend years trying to figure out how to find what we lost that I wear holes in myself and in everything around me before I let go. Have I scared you yet? Because you put cracks in the most refined parts of me. Isn’t this too much too soon? I don’t know who you are on Saturday nights in crowded bars but I know your chest beneath my cheek in bed and my face buried in your shoulder on street corners or in the back of a cab and so the rest doesn’t seem to matter. And maybe that’s crazy, but I’m that too. Crazy about cheeseburgers, and tea cup pigs, and men that I can’t control.


HTTP 404

A lot of what you now call ours was mine – Traif, East River State Park, the scent you may not have found if I didn’t lead you to it. You tried on all of my best and hated me when it didn’t fit. Shamed my worst because it didn’t serve you. And I let you. I stayed quiet, mostly. I shared, I opened, I gave direction to my power source and I stood still watching you drain it; in crowded rooms over drinks and on our couch in the dark. And then I’d soothe your frustrations while I tried to reboot, constantly struggling to fill my glass as quick as you drank it down. What was mine was yours and what was yours was yours and I guess the blame is ours to share.


are you afraid of the dark?

When you’re away I think I just might maybe be able to forget the way I feel when I look you in the eye. How when you say, “you look tired” I hear, “come here, rest easy, welcome home.” I think maybe this is a phase or a thing I can outgrow or undo, but I believe the universe shows us what we need when we need it and I needed to look in the mirror and see the parts of myself I’d been hiding in fear of being too big for someone too small. I needed to shine light on the gaps to see where and how I’d gotten lost in them and to understand why I make homes out of abandon bodies. And most importantly, I needed to stop being so fucking afraid of the dark. I’ve rattled the monsters under my bed, I’m hitting the light switch, I’m coming home.


rolling in the deep

Violent thunderstorms make me think about the way your chest felt underneath my cheek and how your hand on my waist made me feel alive again – no where near dead, nowhere near done or undeserving. And when the lightning strikes I cry from somewhere deeper than usual knowing how badly I want, need you to light me up that way. I hate myself for falling apart from a simple touch, from a few hours at a time, a handful of kisses, a shoulder I clung to and buried my face in for comfort.

But big girls don’t cry and we choose logic over love and security over sensuality and we build these big, sought after prisons run by a boy who doesn’t deserve the labor and we wake up each morning, look ourselves in the mirror, and say “this is what you wanted”. A prison of our making, a loneliness of our doing.