Tag: personal life

Charm City

so Baltimore is serving me quite well. This is a beautiful city and unlike my small town hometown, there’s actually stuff to do! A week or so ago I started walking up Charles Street until I found a large building with FREE on the door. It was the Walter’s Museum.

In short, a rich guy loved beautiful things so he travelled, collected, and opened a free museum! My favorite exhibit was a simply a room full of random beautiful things. It’s supposed to mimic a room rich gentry would have, portraits of intellectuals around the roof and then filled with shadow boxes of gorgeous, interesting things.

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This was my favorite still life. It had no name, no artist… nothing. It’s beautiful though. It’s globes, books, maps, an ink well… it’s just extraordinary.

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This is a bat skeleton! I had just written a poem for my workshop class that I had to start with “my life as a bat.” Then, I found this little guy at the museum. What delicate bones! It almost looks like a mouse with extremely long fingers…

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This is the view from the Walters Museum. It was such an amazing day. The sky was really that blue. That’s the Washington Monument (apparently the original one, or so I’ve been told—predates the Washington DC Washington Monument). Also, one of the most beautiful churches I’ve ever seen.

Soon to come… more poetry, a tour of the apartment, a dedication to my beloved pet best friend… etcetera

mmm Journals

As a child, it’s a diary… as an adult, it’s a journal. By whatever name, I’ve always had one. Often throughout adolescence it was online (I still have a LiveJournal account hah) but nothing has the tangible effect as a physical journal.

The cover, the pages, the ink, the artifacts taped within… nothing compares. I’ve always been a fan of Moleskines. In the past, I’ve regularly carried the small lined notebooks in my purse and the full-sized at home. Throughout the packing process (preparing for the move), I am filling boxes with old journals. I buy them faster than I can fill them… much similar to the fact that I buy books faster than I can read them.

Recently I bought a pack of journals from Barnes&Noble and I’m going to share some pages that I’ve filled in the past week.

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from Jonathan Adler. It says “Notes” on the back.

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two blacked out poems made from a piece of prose from an issue of Whurk (a local monthly magazine which is rather fantastic).

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A self-portrait… physical proof of my inability to draw. I do love to doodle though! Imagine the hair is red, the eyes blue, the teeth not creepy, and plenty of skin imperfections. My glasses are super cool but they aren’t quiet as enormous as characterized. I am pretty adorable though. 😉

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another Currently. I’ll have the tell the story of Stalker Boy at another time. It was a very random incident that lingers like a haunting. I also plan on documenting the antiquing adventures of my momma and myself—where the 1950s dinner table and chairs were discovered. More importantly, I bought an antique pink velvet sofa which is the bee’s fuckin’ knees. GORJUSS.

…until next time.

Fabulous Happenin’s

1. Tuesday I attended a poetry workshop and reading hosted by the fabulous individuals of Line Assembly. The ladies and gents of this travelling troupe of poets are incredibly talented and filled to the brim with sweetness. They held a workshop at an independent bookstore, Riverby Books. They focused on the idea of “home” and “where we’re from.” They ran late. I ran late. It was cut short, but the time spent with them and the other poets that participated was lovely and inspiring.
The reading was held at Horseshoes &Hand Grenades, which is a local vintage shop—vintage shops are rampant in this city but this one is cool. It’s geared towards my generation and those slightly older than me (think 25-35). They’re all super sweet as well. The poetry was wonderful. I’d only been to maybe two readings in the past. I loved it so much! Most of the poets have books available online, buy them!

2. I am in a mad packing dash. My move is mere weeks away and for once in my life, I am ahead of schedule! I have 2/3 of my room processed (read: I have thrown 2/3 of my room away). Goodwill could devote a store to my nonsense. Aside from the ridiculous amount of books I’ve boxed and hilarious pictures I’ve found—I’m also in the market for apartment goods!

Find of the damn century! A vintage KitchenAid mixer in full operating condition, with three different attachments, and the manual… for 85$!!! I actually spotted it across the room during the poetry reading (from Horseshoes & Hand Grenades). I couldn’t take my eyes off of it and couldn’t stop thinking about it. I went back today and bought it. She is tentatively named Belinda. She is a lovely bizarre shade of greenish yellow. She’s beautiful. Watch out Baltimore, we’re gonna bake up a storm!

I also bought a 1950s full plate, bowl, teacup set for 40$. I thought it was an adorable print, reminded me of the Jetsons. Also purchased: a 1940s table linen, a 1950s linen cocktail dress, and vintage button-up full skirted plaid dress.

The design of the trip was to find a desk. I realized I don’t have a desk and… I need one! I went back out with my mom and found a nice solid wood desk for 295$, painted navy with adorable knobs, which I think would work perfect in my bedroom. We have a tall desk with tons of storage space in a spare room that I’m going to dig out. I think the larger one would go well in my and my roommate’s writing den. I would love a smaller desk in my bedroom.

While shopping the antique stores, I fell in love with several gorgeous rollback desks… ahh if only! There was also a 50s era kitchen table that was adorable. &A 1920s freezer that was just incredible. I also need a bedframe, but I’m not sure what size mattress I’m going to end up with so… that’s on hold.


I have a lot more work to go, but I can’t wait to share my new room and new belongings as everything finally comes together!

Poem that isn’t about Corn

One summer we grew corn. Cutting into the Virginia clay-sand soil. (My mother always cursed the dirt. Spoiled fertility.) I knifed three rows, ripping and clawing at clods of grass. Thick with sweat, slick skin slipping their grip on the yard tool just as suitable to cleave open his skull at the temple. That thought didn’t occur as the lower lumbar ache spread like a pandemic—flushing my muscles in a race of infection. Maybe somewhere deeper—nestled in a bed of arteries, feeding off fresh bleeding—it was growing. He was breeding me for domesticity. I loved those little pink seeds. I held them in my sticky palm. They looked like rock candy. I imagined sinking my teeth into the tawny flesh of that fruit. The hours, the labor, the loved poured over that fruit—the ache of that love would be tangible. I would sink my teeth into that flesh and sever it for good. but We let it die. Let it rot tall in its stalks. A mockery of that ache.




First draft. Very in the works.


How silly of me to think I would be the one to hurt him, that I would turn a heel upon the left aorta of his heart. No, how silly of me. I am watching me bleed out.


Things feel very.. unsettled. I know I haven’t posted in weeks, I apologize. I became rather preoccupied with finishing out the remainder of the semester–halfway through a Masters of Education program with a 3.95GPA and I won’t be returning. I’m still designing the move to Baltimore. It makes me so nervous.
I’m mostly roped up in mitigating my involvement with the aforementioned man. I thought I was a basketcase but he really challenges me. It’s nice to have a man that occasionally craves involving me in his life, but he’s so inconsistent. Irrational. I can’t let myself believe desperation is sincerity. His emotions are all muddled but intense. He gets immersed in them and pushes me away when I try to help. He wants help but he won’t accept it. Nutty.
SO, I enjoy his company when he allows it and when it’s convenient for me. The sex is still solid.




I’m mitigating my involvement
with his lips but signing blind
contracts with his hips. Love
is an itch at the back of his
throat and I’m tonguing it
like a wound, keeping it raw.
Too sore to touch. The heat
of his breath on my chest
when I’m thick with sleep burns
holes in my lungs. I’m short
of breath and short on luck
when I’m ankle deep in the slow
crawl of dreams bathed in the legs
of cicadas floundering like I do,
squirming away from love.




Sometimes I feel allergic to his touch,
like when he grips my hips when we’re
twisted in sheets.. that his fingers
will slip to my throat to hold
until I choke. There’s something about
that first man. Oh men. I’m a recovering
addict. My model of love is barbed
wire wrapped tight around
a crumbling orchid, a rose
shoved through the holes of brass
knuckles. I am ripped petals bleeding
pollen, a broken womb. He’s trying
to repair these lips but I’m not
having any of it. I’m just buying time
to run away
and taking every inch of his skin
while I can.



He didn’t even try to save me.
He cut a gash in my life boat,
pulled the string that strung
together my wooden raft,
amputated my legs that kicked
my body closer to air. &He
drank the blood that drained
from my stumps, then mocked me
for being unable to swim.
&Waited for me to get over it.
He’s still waiting somewhere.


these seem a little more raw and less “wordy” or language laden than usual. fascinating. ]

Cotton Mouth


This is only temporary. He ought to know it
but the way he holds me when he thinks I’m sleeping
–I just can’t.
My tongue crawls into the corner of my cotton mouth
jaw, grows mothballs, and I just smile
and kiss him back.




I read my obituary in a dream
last night, sleeping on the carpet
to rid myself of his breath.
I must have carved too deep
into my own skin,
I told myself. Oops.
Haven’t had that problem in
half a lifetime. Something must’ve
sparked it back alive.
I wasn’t an angel. I wasn’t
ethereal. I was heavy and dead
and still real. Just empty.
I read my obituary and it said
nothing of me. I was nothing
but a byline, not even a headline.
No one survived me. and I didn’t