hungry for something it can’t name.

Owen keeps asking what
happens to his body

when he dies, what happens
inside the body,

and I tell him
all your organs slow

down, your lungs and
heart, your liver,

and the blood in your body
stops moving

around your body, until
everything stops

and become quiet and
rests. he wants to know

if it’s the same thing
for birds and when birds

die what happens to their
feathers, if the feathers

stay up in the sky and what
is a wolf, he wants

to know, and can it eat us.
He says that some things

come back after they die
but we don’t want

them to. No, I say,
sometimes that’s all

we want. No matter what.
For someone

we loved to come back
no matter how terrible

or painful it might
be. His older brother,

Hamza, is alone in his room
again, lying very still

on his bed working out
the compass of being

a teenager on his
Nintendo. I want to

take both boys out
into the yard and have

them bathe their feet
in the October grass.

Pull the cold air over
them like a woolen overcoat.

But I need to get dinner
going and I need to

grab the clothes from
the dryer and fold

them. I don’t know
how I will get the house

cleaned up before it’s
time for bed. Before

I became a father my
greatest fear was dying

in a plane crash, the
plane stalling through

a cloud of birds. Now
I sit at a kitchen table

and stare and stare
at the gas bill

like looking out
the window at a car

on fire. Sometimes
I want to be a ghost

or a vampire, a zombie
slowly walking over a hill,

hungry for something
it can’t name but,

with arms outstretched,
begs for anyway.
ALL HALLOW’S EVE, Matthew Dickman

crash. boom. bangg.

Years away now. Years my life without you near. Years in solitude and just like that you came back into my life. No signs, no hunch. No sting in your gut trying to tell you this is the day. This is the day you’re going to again meet the love of your life. You got rid of him and now the universe is giving you a second chance.

What have I done? I set you free. I have set you free.

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

the light.

Jeanette Winterson

neither.

… the overwhelming majority disliked [“childless” and “childfree”], with one being seen as stigmatising and the other gleeful and nasty in its implication that parents somehow need “liberating”.

… that’s one reason why – when absolutely necessarily – “doesn’t have children” is the kindest, most neutral descriptor we can hope for. Though we can also hope to be moving away from one’s parenting status needing to be defined at all, especially for women, who still face this question far more frequently than men. Language matters, and as ever it often says more about us and our assumptions than we realise.

read more here.

so much.

you have no idea how much.

those blues you sang.

from here.

someday. (4)

keep going when you’re on a high…

PTSD

To me it’s the early mornings that lingered, longer than they should, when I groped and grabbed and nothing. It’s an empty bed, you weren’t there and I let you. I let you be alone, in another room, in the bathroom, the living room, sometimes in the basement, lying near the laundry pile, vomiting. It’s more practical there, you said. You grabbed a sheet, puked, and crawled to the washing machine and threw the wet sheet in. I would never know, for in the afternoon they would be minty fresh laundry. I’d just pick it up and went on with my day.

You never asked me how I felt. Lying there in the dark, I too, alone and torn. Desperate, frustrated, for you to share your pain. But it’s yours, not mine, you said. It’s not for me to take. I wished I had been more understanding than I already were. In my mind I would be more than a lover, I would be something closer, deeper, more meaningful than a companion. But it’s yours, and not mine to take. So I lay there sinking within a surge of my own pain.

Sometimes in the afternoon, when I slowly open the lid of your dryer, I forgot to breathe, for it was not yellow stain on the sheet, but dried up brownish blood. I tried not to wonder. Because it’s yours, and not mine to take.

all the answers you’ll never get

i had a surgical procedure recently. i was going to be anesthetised, sure i’d love to be dead for few hours, sure, i’d feel nothing, sure but i knew it was going to be very, very painful once the drugs worn off, so i asked you, you who had lots of them thank you me, what did you do when you knew, did you give in to the pain, what did you think about when you’re in so much pain, where did you go?

you didn’t say but you told me you saw me in a meadow, wearing white, and that second you didn’t care about anything anymore.

how sad, how deafening the silence after that.

maybe, i thought, just maybe i’d think of you when i’m dying, i’d drown me in your blue ocean eyes and i’d forget everything, i’d have no care for the world anymore.

but when it stroke me, this immeasurable pain i’d never felt, i was nowhere thinking of you. i tried.

i tried to think about your eyes, i tried to picture Nantucket home, the cliff and the ocean, nothing. it was grave and i couldn’t find you anywhere even if i wanted to. i tried to think of you the same but you weren’t there.

this existence hurts my skin…


they say tomorrow might be the waves i cannot see
the sheer anticipation of what might have been
we’ve grown so old from heartbreaks so young a dream
we’re so vast a universe but no words to swarm in
this existence hurts my skin it hurts more everytime it doesn’t bleed
here in this dark place everything is shameful and unforgiven but
there’s a rabbit hole down here and there’s you and i and the world disappears we need to be somewhere else
but here we are, bloated up
and shrunk down into an instagram post

And There Will I Be

for-ever

I dream you still. And there I will be.

You don’t know my name. This is the past. And us is just a butterfly effect that didn’t happen. We are apart and at peace, just as before your eyes met mine, before our hands brushed and our words hushed. Before our secrets born into judging eyes. This is before everything.

And I am telling you this so you will search for me no more.

“I Want These Dreams Inside of Me”, When I My Own Daughter

Stories of A Little Girl Named Lara

athlete-balance-ballerina-591679.jpg

i’ve been carving memories on dry walls

four seasons of loneliness and you came bearing your own

stories of a little girl named Lara

 

her face her smile her every breath you inhale her

a picture perfect deep into your soul

she exists to you in ways that I could not

she has a smile that’s similar to mine, you said

her hair is golden like the sun,

 

this little ballerina and her pink tutu

and when she cries you cup her tears in your palms letting

them soak into the lines of your hands that once

a fortune teller told you, you wouldn’t make it to forty,

 

that you would be entangled in a story like none other

she said I would write them for you so daddy’s little girl

could forever lives in rhymes…

in bedtime stories and lullabies…

 

“daddy’s little girl, paints the world with her magic wand…”

 

from Letters to Lovers Lost

currently progressing, Lara

Who Are We Without This Distance?

air-travel-aircraft-airplane-352902

a raft of hope floating at sea
but the water knows loneliness too well
and how you and i swim deep into changing currents
oh how we used to row row our boat roughly
to the unseen… and so i hurl my heart

i’d stay drowned so the water will feel me
and consume me, aren’t we all
liquids with cold cold hearts,
should we not come home already
dust to dust?

but the sun oh the sun comes
and how i long to bob out and float
and sway with the waves, they’ll find you
the wind whispers

what are we without the ocean?
who are we without this distance?

The Birds Never Tell You Why They’re Flying South…

Let me tell you about time: it doesn’t heal, it goes on. It changes you into different people and when you are in a different place, you see different things -and if you’re lucky enough, you see things differently (you might write about it too).

And that is it. There’s nothing about healing has anything to do with how time stretches between you and your wounds. They will always be there to remind you where you’re coming from.

My book went live few hours ago and everytime it always come down to this feeling of helplessness in letting go. And that is the only healing I could ever get from writing it.

Life always, always, gets you caught off guard and I am spent.