Words, words, words

#10: I am filled with broken promises.

And after a while, they don’t hurt as much.

Sometimes, I wonder what kind of life I’m setting up for myself.

A world where the minutia feels like vapor; where ‘this and that’ don’t sting, but they should.

“Take, take, take–“

#4: I can still feel you next to me.

I hate that when it gets dark enough in my room, or in my head, that I’m there again–sophomore year, in a dorm room that smells like dueling man musk, with the glow of The Godfather video game for Playstation 3 (or was it 2???) hovering over our bodies. I was already drunk, but you pressed that bottle against my lips until I complied. You did it again, and again, until the images surrounding us were well-past muddled. Transcendent, even. You waited until I was pliant enough, when resisting felt as if I were pushing against the rock collective that make up Stonehenge.

I hate those words, prey and predator, because they imply an inevitability. They’re ingrained in the notion of eventual victimhood, but that’s what you did, right? When you told me to stay after everyone else had disappeared, when you smiled, when you chose to drink nothing because you were sick–you waited. Back when I used to think of waiting as a passive activity.

I’m not that foolish anymore.

Instead, in my dark, there are pinched nipples and cold hands down my jeans. There are words that you don’t hear. That you ignore.

And then there are things I remember and choose to forget.

But what you told me after killed me. I almost laughed, would have, had I not been so angry. They came at next day’s end after you spent hours chasing my ghost all over campus. You wanted to explain before I told someone ‘important’. I never did.

“I always liked you,” you said. 

That had I been your sister, a mythical being for you to foist your culpability upon, that you would be furious with that ‘other guy’. You gave these sentiments in between nervous apologies, but you might as well have said nothing. I would have preferred it.

You ruined me for a while, you know. I used to think you ruined me for other men, but I know better now.

I have evolved.

The Workplace Panopticon

#3: I’m in constant fear of being fired from my job.

While I’ve done nothing to upset the boat (in fact, the boss folk [with their alien heads] have been complimentary of the current workplace dynamic since my arrival), I still feel aloof. I crack lame jokes.

Someone let me into a secret club that gives money and healthcare and they haven’t noticed yet that I don’t belong.

I have a tail.


When you realize that someone doesn’t love you, your first reaction should not be anger, although it often is. It’s an understandable and expected response. You’re suffering a loss that you never really gained—the absence of whispers, defining moments, and lifelines that could have been.

Recently, I’ve learned to buckle down what I refer to as The Upset; I strap it down until I’ve figured out its new shape and how heavy it might be during this go around. I envision The Upset as a sulky disheveled monster, born and amassed from the salt and iron in my veins. The Upset is the part of me that I can’t predict and frankly, shouldn’t have to. It is as exhausting as it is transformative. It is all encompassing. And I strap that unruly bitch down because I don’t want it tethered to any part of me. I don’t want hulking rocks in my shoes to make each step away from you harder than it should. And in spite of my resolve, the quickness in my stride, it’s still a struggle.


A pictorial of what I envision to be “The Upset.” The artist, my friend, calls the piece her emotional diarrhea. A beast by many names.

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Poem Friday! (because I don’t dabble there enough)

In response to Billy Collins’s Love:

The boy at the far end of the train car

kept looking behind him

-Billy Collins

The girl with her large black case

in the unmistakable shape of a cello

noticed the boy at the far end of the train

Though she pretended not to.

She ignored him in a particular way,

eyes averted and feet planted due north,

even though the tone of the air had shifted

and there was electric flavor beneath her skin:

Like when a hand clasps another hand for the first time

and knows that it has just done something wonderful.


My characters notice things. A lot. There are also several realizations, as in, I realize that my father is a douche. These are the minutia that fine tuning (neurosis) should fix.

You know, once I figure out how.


Oh hey there, July! You go Glen Coco July! I thought I’d be less stressed by now. Finished with certain things. I like a challenge. Also, stress and ulcers make you lose weight!

I don't know why. I just like it.


One page is a victory. In a day that can be spent at the best beach in the United States, exploring the richest parts of the Long Island like I have a real job, reading anything and everything at the Borders in Riverhead that has seen better days, one page can do a soul justice.

I can take that.

Even though the days are numbered here and time can no longer accept one shots. It needs miles.

I need miles.