When I met you, my butterflies kicked like elephants,
Nausea the defining factor in our fledgling relationship

With time, they subsided,
Fluttering from time to time

Suddenly, a cold gust,
A foreboding omen of changing seasons

My butterflies had all died,
Killed by grief and the thought of a cold, lonely winter ahead



I remember your scent well,
Of all things, coconut.

My clothes, my pillow,
It all smelled like you.

I clung to that scent and I knew it was fading,
“Please don’t go.”

You even sent me a letter smelling of you,
So your scent would be always be near.

And for months after, that scent made me recoil,
As all the memories came flooding back.

And now the scent is once again benign,
A gentle reminder of a love now lost.

Fix you

I bit off more than I could chew,
When I said I wanted you

You were a mess of scars,
Fucked by awful men
And I was a boy,
Trying to lick your wounds

“I wanted to fix you,” I said
Foolish boy,
You can’t fix people.

I should have called it quits
But your kiss left me breathless
And I was at wit’s end

You fucked me too,
And when you were through,
I was no longer a boy,
But a shattered man

Now I’ve got a scar or two,
But what does it prove?
That I’ve learned my lesson?
Or that I’m ready to fuck up again?

I’ll never see you,
And I think I know how the sun must feel about the moon

You live on in my head,
Like a tumor I cannot excise.
Or refuse to.
I can’t tell anymore.

Funny how nobody ever truly leaves,
They become ghosts,
Animated by regret, goodwill, love, jealousy, pettiness
Muffled by distractions, dates, girlfriends, sex.

Please, just let me be.


Alt text to this comic: I’d like to find a corpus of writing writing from children in a non-self-selected sample (e.g. handwritten letters to the president from everyone in the same teachers 7th grade class every year)–and score the kids today versus the kids 20 years ago on various objective measures of writing quality. Ive heard the idea that exposure to all this amateur peer practice is hurting us, but Id bet on the generation that conducts the bulk of their social lives via the written word over the generation that occasionally wrote book reports and letters to grandma once a year, any day.

Crip crap, crippity crap. Yes, this generation is spending the majority of its time texting and wasting away on social media, but I refuse to believe that typing shorthand bullshit like “ppl”, “u”, “bae”, etc. is contributing to a literate generation. Yes, they’ll be competent at writing like baboons, and if that’s now the bar, then hooray.

If you don’t practice good grammar, you have no motivation to remember how to use it. What’s the point? The same goes for vocabulary. You need to read books to know words, and no amount of reading Twitter and Buzzfeed articles is going to make up for that. The fact that nobody really reads books anymore is a depressing topic and aside from the point.

The point is: No, just because you practice shitty skills constantly doesn’t mean you’ll wield quality ones.

Stockholm Syndrome

Sometimes we hand love as willingly,
As hostages with Stockholm syndrome,
As if it was just a foregone conclusion.

“Here, take my heart,” you’ll say.
“Look how delicately it beats.”
You hope they cradle it, treat it with care.

“Please be careful,” you’ll say.
“It’s yours now. And Goddamn it, I need to trust you.”
Love can be irresponsible.

“Please don’t make me regret this.”

August Blues

Daily Prompt: As a kid, were you happy or anxious about going back to school? Now that you’re older, how has your attitude toward the end of the summer evolved?


As a kid, summer meant playing a whole fuckton of videogames, summer camp, and relaxing. So yeah, I was never thrilled to go back each year when September would inevitably roll around thanks to the earth’s incessant rotation around the hot ball of fire we call our sun.

Now that I’m a big boy of 25 years and out of school, summers have lost their significance. Moreover, being in the middle of this postcollegiate drift of unemployment and drudgery, summer is especially meaningless for me, much like most days. Each day is simply another day to catch up on the Twitter, think about life, mock idiots on my Facebook feed, email people for work, read books, hang out with a buddy once in a while, and occasionally convince a foolish girl to go on a date with me. Throughout all this, I find time to eat a few times and void my bowels.

Despite this oversimplification, I do like summer. I infinitely prefer it to winter, when the only thing I have to greet me outside is whistling wind, gray skies, naked trees, sticks and death. Summer means oppressive heat and beautiful air conditioning, something I only just recently had the privilege to enjoy in my car after 2 years of it being broken. Summer means the beach, which means flip flops, books, and my mom nagging me to get out of the sun. It means 40 minute drives down the highway with sandy legs and sandy floor mats, fiddling with the radio to find something we can tolerate, only to lose it 15 minutes later to crackling static. On weekends, summer also means lunch at a fantastic little pizza spot in Jersey that serves thin crust pizza and wings that are quite possibly the closest I’ve ever felt to God.

I’m still waiting to hear back from the Goddamn board about my authorization to test so I can sit for my licensing exam. Governmental inefficiency is absolutely infuriating.

I’ve got an odd fetish for sad songs. And I suppose that’s fine if you’re single, but here’s an interesting thought: when a significant other plays you a sad song, who are they thinking about?


Daily Prompt: Opening Lines

Daily Prompt: What’s the first line of the last song you listened to (on the radio, on your music player, or anywhere else)? Use it as the first sentence of your post.

“Shut the fuck up,” she said. “I’m going fucking deaf. You’re always too loud. Everything’s too loud.”

I’m pretty selfish. I like to listen to my music loud, and this has grated on several personal relationships in the past. Of course I try to mend my ways and be considerate, but a small part of me is still that resentful snot nosed punk that wants to throw up a middle finger and just say, “Fuck it.”

A consequence of growing up an only child is that I never really felt the need to consider others. It was my way or the highway. This (among a few other glaring shitty personality traits) led to a difficult childhood and a bit of a victim complex growing up, something that I simply explained away as being “different”. Now that I’m cognizant of the fact that the sun does not, in fact, orbit around me, I’ve squelched this negative trait as much as I can. With time, I’ve also realized that considering others is simply an emotional business transaction that’s necessary to cultivate and maintain relationships. In order to be treated well by others, the idea of quid pro quo always stands firm.

The issue of consideration has arisen in cases of roommates, as well. I’ve lived with 4 roommates in 4 years during pharmacy school. Each person was a normal, polite, reserved human being who never really took issue with me. That said, within the confines of my room, I’d listen to music at times that could probably be heard from the living room/kitchen area. Was this a dick move? I don’t know. Nobody ever really complained. I could only rely on my own moral compass, which tends to produce false positives a little too frequently.

Other times, I would be blatantly inconsiderate. I had a fantastic home theater setup whose subwoofer could actively be heard through the ceiling by my upstairs neighbors. I justified my actions by watching movies fairly rarely, and always during normal waking hours. Though I felt slightly bad at times, I think my fear of my neighbors complaining and the landlord giving me hell (usually in the form of a sternly worded email) outweighed any regret over inconveniencing them. To this day, I just don’t really care that much about people outside of immediate circle; if they don’t affect my life in any tangible way, then I won’t inconvenience myself for the sake of niceties.



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