Terms & Conditions

bring me offerings of love

trailing fingertips and thirsty lips

for my skin

show up at my door

with stars in your eyes

dreams in your heart

and passion for my

mouth to take in

and when you come inside

take off your shoes

and leave the subtle

and the mundane


truth no. 33

the best part of a broken heart

is the one that starts to heal

the one that refuses to stay torn apart

and slowly begins

to stitch itself

back up


the best part of a broken heart

is the one that

doesn’t stay broken

for long.

love language

he undresses my mind first and

takes his time handling my heart

he brings me flowers in the evening

and coffee in the morning

and asks for nothing in return except for

my love.

He doesn’t gift crumbs.

He doesn’t gift silences.

He shows up and opens doors

and looks at me as if he could see

my soul.

His touches are both fire and warmth

and his mouth speaks to me in a different tongue

I’ve always known but never quite

understood before.

He is not from around here

but he’s quickly starting to feel

like home.

Merry Griefmas

This year it’s just me and my tears and a cup of coffee for breakfast the day before Christmas.

The problem with the Grinch Who Stole Christmas is that not enough emphasis is placed on how he became who he is.When the holidays become hard because of the past, it’s easy to want to have nothing to do with them.

It’s just harder, this time of year, to ignore the pain of loss and heartbreak. It’s as if all the deep wounds float up to the surface for everyone and every encounter to poke about and tear apart.

No matter how much he hurt me when he walked away, I want nothing more right now than to just get everything we once had back.

But wishes can’t be wrapped up and placed under the Christmas tree.

So they stay here, in my heart, reminding me of the lost love that can’t find its way back home for Christmas Day.

Merry Griefmas once again.

the curse of being an empath

discarded goods

that’s all I was in the end

when I asked for the time I gave back

when the illusion of perfection faded away

so did the love

so did he

Running from four walls that never became home

Running from who he is-

Just another narcissist.

My poor heart was exhausted

and I didn’t even notice it

because I only had eyes for him.


never again.


a girl can dream

When we fall, what is it exactly that we fall for? Do we fall for the idea of love, the spark between two souls, or do we fall for hands? mind? heart? Do we fall for a face, or is it the look in their eyes?

Maybe we fall for every single part.

But when I fall I’d like it to be straight into you, into all the nooks and crannies of your mind, right into the space you’ve reserved for me in your heart all this time.


he reminds me when I need to slow down-

he stands and waits

heart in hand

trying his best to trade love

for my words

but sometimes I don’t have any

so I gift him I-don’t-knows instead

and wait in silence

for logic to clue me in.

Isn’t it strange

the way life can be so blurry

but sobering,

so logical and real

and borderline boring

and how I can still wish

for storms.

Stability unknown

I crave the comfort of chaos

while I seek magic in the small moments-

while brushing my teeth

or during our daily dances in the kitchen

I have it all

and still some part of me

wants more.

it is never enough.

Guess I’m just a glutton

for love.

after goodbye

I move the furniture around and buy a new plant to replace the one he left with.

I decorate the coffee table he built and think of the day when he sat down on the couch and with my hands in his, committed to starting a home with me.

“I’ll build us a coffee table” he said.

looking back now it all seemed so promising,

the singular becoming plural, our lives merging.

Now the plural reverts to the singular

because this home is again

just mine.


I have put thought into every corner of this place. I manifested a home and I love it in a way I’ve never loved four walls before.

I just hate having to see him around here these days.

No matter how much palo santo I burn to cleanse him out of my space, he is still holding me naked against that wall, our lips tasting of mezcal, my hand pulling on the hair at the nape of his neck as we both give in to sin.

he is still sitting beside me on the couch

talking nonstop about this thing or the other

And I’m still cooking him dinner with only an apron on,

still lighting the candles and serenading him as I dance around,

still looking over at him with awe,

still giving away

so much love.


it’s sickening.


I’m still sitting here

waiting for him to come home

just like I always did

Back when there was a we.