shame on me.

today i learned, from one of my classes, and from Ms. Maynard herself, that she fucked JD Salinger.

insert gestures as jaw dropping here, or otherwise.

he groomed her and ditched her. and her speaking up about it ruined her career (despite her writing 17 books).

this was before #metoo, she said. but i hate to say, even after the #metoo movement, i am pretty sure women would still get persecuted (by other women!) for merely loving a significant figure and most of all, for being loved in return.

i should have many things to say about fucking with fame. but no.

what she said was me still (with many significant differences, no he didn’t ditch me that is). i would never say anything about it despite people prying constantly about what he’s like (it’s actually they but whatever), what it’s like, and the hows and whys but no, just no.

sure, i sprinkle it every now and then, in poems, maybe, or in short stories. but you wouldn’t know it’s me, you wouldn’t know it’s him. but no. i’m just not in for the clout.

i’m sure i won’t stop writing about him, because he is (as was) a part of my life and quoting Ms. Maynard about Salinger, he chose to be a part of my life. as many vultures believed i was after him, i wasn’t. he came for me.

it is not out of fear or respect, that i am no longer writing about him (except in a rather abstract manners). i am not protecting him/them, i’m just not into talking about them openly. at least not anymore.

but how shameless of me, an army of fandom said, to claim that i was loved so deep, so completely and utterly out of this world (it is confirmed), that it haunts them when they listen to his music (or any residual of it now), that he’d given up being in public, even being himself. he’s let himself go.

he didn’t ruin my career. instead, i ruined his.

shame on me!

what i do know.

it’s only september. i don’t know how many seasons i will be allowed to love you yet.

what i do know is that you have flown one thousand miles to stand in my kitchen, dropping chocolate chips into pumpkin pancakes

—like arranging freckles for the face of a perfect child.

“A Simple Love Poem”, Megan Falley

In July

You and I moved fast and slow, twisted time to match the beat of our hearts, eyes closed to something no one dared to see. Go on, I said, you’ve made your choice but we breathed and lived for all the wrong reasons and you left for years without looking back and here you are now, bittersweet perfection, sullen and angry like a Cat 3 hurricane too far offshore to be noticed, sad and angry like the hot tears you once cried so long ago in July.

Diana Perry

for a thousand more.

When you proposed you didn’t have a ring, and it was not pancakes, it was eggs. It was not fairytale-like or slow paced romantic. It was late morning and you smelled like penicillin. Your hair was crazy curls and you hadn’t shaved for like a week. You blurted, “what if you changed your name into Mrs.C.” I was stunned, offended, my eggs burnt. I said you can’t say things like that, smelling like that, looking like that. First take a shower, get a ring, and ask on bended knee. You said nonchalantly: my knees hurt.

where guilt is alive.

When you are living in a house where guilt is alive, it leaves a mark.

And when you are living in an atmosphere of daily, ever-present guilt, what does that do to children? It changes their souls.

Molly Shannon

like morning.

i think a lot about your eyes
…and how painful it is to be
in a room full of people with such
empty pockets and words that are
so heavy i cannot lift them from
the fog.

you are the greatest secret
if i could i would hold you between
my hands like morning.

Alison Malee