Creative Writing

less is not always more 

“What would make you perfectly content with your life?”

I didn’t know the answer or where to find it. I felt then as I do now, that I could have the entire world in the palm of my hand and still, not only want, but expect more. Perhaps that’s how we should all feel in our twenties, maybe it’s that ambition that gets us through our initiation into adulthood, and that may also very well have been the demise of every romantic relationship I’ve ever had. 



Writers block

I just stopped writing. There came a point where it hurt too much to let the pain travel all the way from my heart to my fingertips and on to a page. I didn’t want to dig that deep into myself, leaving a hole I’d inevitably try to fill up again with something or someone I needed to learn to live without. Even if living without them felt like the closest I’ve ever been to dying, it had to be done. So I swallowed my words and held on to my hurt just to know I had something nobody could take away from me.


Lost and found

Inspiration comes from living, from getting out of your bed and into a dress you haven’t worn since before you knew love could strip you of so many things. Things like sexy dresses, a sense of humor, and the need for adventure, terrified of what might be at the other end of something as simple as a good laugh. But you find your way back. You find your way to a new restaurant, a new hair cut, to an old view with a new set of eyes. You’ll see new things in old spaces and you’ll realize the world didn’t stop while you holed up to mourn your losses; it kept going. You have to keep going. Go far, go hard, and when you’re feeling really lost, go back to where you started.


Round and around and around and around we go.

I came around to telling you I missed you. You never said it back. “Must be lonely,” making an assumption about my plan to go a year without sex. I let you know I felt more lonely spending time with men that weren’t you, doing things I was predetermined to believe you did better. And instead of trying to force different squares into the never ending circle that is you and I, I chose to do without. Round and round I went while you remained still in the center of it all, watching me spiral. A series of me reaching my hands out to touch you while you slipped yours into your back pockets for whatever you had waiting there for you, someone you saved for later. I told you I knew what I wanted and you told me to spell it out for you as a business proposal. You wanted my feelings bullet pointed, our future outlined, and steps for getting there. You said that once I submitted you would review and decide whether or not you accepted my terms. I did not accept that, the idea that my love should be submitted for review. But now it makes sense, your arrogance, I was one of two. You wanted to hold my heart up to the light to see if the light would shine through and when I didn’t lay my bare flesh in your hands for you to examine all the holes you dug you decided to bury your face in the neck of someone else. But maybe she’d like that about you, maybe she’d confuse your RFP with you having an idea of what you want. I know all too well you have not once in your life known what you want and that if you did you expected it to sleep on your doorstep until you were ready to let it in. Maybe she wrote paragraphs about your charm and went on for pages about the way your voice made her heart explode. Maybe she filled a blog with her thirst for your love. I’ve filled notebooks with pieces of you and all the while you told me you didn’t like to read.

Must be lonely, knowing your love is not worth the weight.


Beauty is in the details

I think sunsets are beautiful. People too. But what I find really beautiful -truly noteworthy- is the tone of voice in which my nephews call my brother “Daaad”, the lengths my mother would go to fix the broken parts of my heart, the way my Papaw’s eyes light up when he’s laughing at his own jokes or at a memory from his youth, my step dad’s smile when he’s in Key West or eating a mango, my Auntie P’s face when she looks at her children, how at peace my Grandma Flo looks sitting on her porch on Virginia Street, the way my Dad comes to life when singing an old blues tune in his shed, how tightly Grandma Bonnie hugs her grandchildren and even those children that are not blood related to her. True beauty goes beyond vibrant colors or a body type.


Remember to let it burn

I want you to remember that your definition of happiness is not universal. That skies are not always blue, but gray can be just as beautiful. That you can never miss something you never had and to find comfort in knowing you were not, and will not always be, alone. That no taste, no smell, no sound is the same to you as it is to others and that in itself is a beautiful thing. I need you to remember how small you are, but how big your voice is. Remember that a passion burns inside of you for a handful of different things and with that you can blaze a path to a life you love waking up to. Burn, baby, burn.



To the man I know you will be

I’ll love you through the ups and downs, the in-between, and you know that. I’ll be your light in the dark shielding you from the shadows. I’ll keep you warm and comfortable and kiss your flaws until you admire them as much as I do. I’ll talk about your shortcomings as if they give you character and I will do it so often you will start to believe me. You’ll start to see yourself as the man I know you can be and once I’ve given you everything I have and taught you everything I’ve ever learned you’ll leave. You’ll leave me with nothing but the memory of the boy you once were, teaching me the difference between a boy and a man and which ones are worth falling in love with.


He gave me something

I think the hardest part is accepting that he’d never love me the way I needed him to. He’d never understand my definition of loyalty. He wouldn’t ever identify with the way I feel when I hear Manchester Orchestra or Kate Nash or Sarah Kay poems. If I offered him a threesome he’d glow at the thought. He wouldn’t turn it down because I alone was enough for him. I’ve never been enough for him. He’d admit, “Your words, not mine.” He wouldn’t push on the rare occasion I needed to pull because what is he if not in control? He’d drool with his friends over body types exact opposite of mine but swear I was all he wanted. I’ve never been what he wanted. He’d say I love you and he’d convince himself he meant it but only because this was the first time he felt something. And when you go from feeling nothing to feeling something you want that something to have a name, but love isn’t something. Love is everything. I gave him everything. He gave me something.