“No” is a piece
of me
sheltered behind
my shrine of
you.
Like a rabbit
hidden
in the desert shrub,
tiny ears
pricked up
to catch any sound of
your retreat.
“Yes” is my
plastered-on
smile.
My lifeless phone
in my hand,
awaiting your
attention.
My life on hold–an umbrella
shut up tight.
Straining ears in the
pouring rain,
to catch a whisper
of permission
to open up.
“Maybe” is you.
Maybe is my
life with you.
And, like maybe,
maybe not.
Pots and pans on the stove, in the sink. Shreds of paper on the floor. Stacks of mail precarious upon the table. Paint residue on my arm and between my fingers. Doors are locked. Lights off. And my car–with baked on remains of many suicidal bugs across the windshield– speeds
When I was 14 years old, I told my dad I wanted to be a writer. I could feel it in my bones. I knew writing was what gave my life its most profound meaning. I could taste it. “I think I want to be a writer,” my young, tender
In an effort to put a more selfless face on my writing, I hereby submit this blog of my words. I can’t promise it’s safe here in my head. Enter at your own risk. But if you do come, introduce yourself, Reader, because maybe yours will be the face I place in my mind when I focus on my reader in the future. And then I can never again say I’m not certain who you are, because you will have pulled up a chair, put your feet on the coffee table, and taken up residence here in my brain. Sorry about the mess. I hope you’ll stay awhile.
Be the first to know when our new books come out and gain access to exclusive content, like Guild scenes from other points of view!
