I love you.

I wish I could tell you how much I love you but I can never seem to find the words that equate to the things I feel. This isn’t a Valentine’s Day post – the timing is coincidental at best. To say that I love you more than I have ever loved anyone would be inaccurate. I have come to the recent conclusion that we never love one person more than another, but the way that we love people is different.

Maybe my heart didn’t know yet, but my soul did the day you said “what are you sorry for?” And you said it again and again in different ways until I believed it. You are the calm in my storm even when I feel like a tornado meets a hurricane.

Maybe it’s different because I’m working on myself. No, I’m sure it’s different because I’m learning how to ask for what I need. Still not that great at it, but definitely better than before. You drive three hours to come see me (even though YOU moved three hours away – still salty about that!). You packed my toothbrush. It seems like such a silly thing, but it would have been so easy for you to toss it away. Instead you intentionally put it in a box or a bag or your pocket or whatever and you drove it 200 miles and then unpacked it. Intentionally. You put it on your bathroom sink in the same spot it was 200 miles ago and my heart was so full of joy when I saw that. You packed my toothbrush. It was literally the simplest thing, but you have no idea how much that meant to me (even though I know I told you when I was drunk).

I love the way that you get so excited over things that I think are vaguely humorous. You will laugh your heart out and it’s so pure when you do. You’re like this little kid at Christmas with the things you enjoy and it makes me so happy to see you laugh. I hate video game scenes that play forever and a day, but I love watching you watch them.

That date at Lucky’s…I loved that. I’ll spare the world the details, but the way you looked at me that night is something I will always remember. I hope you keep looking at me like that until we’re eighty. Or ninety. Or a hundred and five.

You sat with me in the vet’s office when I had to put Bear down and then you helped me bury him. You made me coffee when my grandma died and let me wear your t-shirt.

I love the way you stay close to me at night and hold my hand in public for more than 2.2 seconds.  I like that you smack me on the ass and I absolutely fucking love that when I ask you to kiss me like you mean it, you do.

I was so grateful the night that you came after me when I was upset. Being overwhelmed sucks. A lot. But you didn’t let me walk away alone.

I love the way that you are mindful and kind and for some reason, it always surprises me, but in the same way that someone might be delighted to get birthday cake unexpectedly. I know that you are good – it’s not that I expect you will not be mindful and kind, it’s just that the reminders make the sun a little brighter.




you tasted like cigars and i loved it
i wanted to fuck you in the parking lot
it was magic and sex and cigarettes,
you bought me dinner,
we talked about the future.
we laughed and we kissed,

and i still feel like shit,
like i dont want to be a fucking secret
am i?
because social media says that I am,
and it’s almost friday,
so i just have to survive one more day at work,
and im fucking drowning
because they say you don’t walk in the same river twice
but this water feels familiar
like maybe you dont want anyone to know
that i love you.
do you love me?
because i think you do,

you packed my toothbrush and
drove it 200 miles away and unpacked it again
on your bathroom sink
and my shampoos in your shower
and my razor
and im wearing your boxers
while im writing this
and you drove 4 hours to see me on christmas
so you must love me,

then why do i feel like a secret
social media, you keep me hidden
its silly, it is,

am i just crazy?
is it hormones?
ive been here before and i felt like shit
because i dont want to lose you
but i dont know how to ask you
how do i say, yes, im fucking nuts
and i want to know.
this is a shitty fucking poem,
should’ve been a blog,
but fuck.




I take a lot of selfies and post a lot of shit on Facebook and Instagram because I crave connection and some days, well fuck, I do want attention. I want to know that my presence was felt in the world. No one takes pictures of you when you’re alone, so you do it yourself and say “hey world, still fucking here” or “hey guys, shit sucks actually” or whatever it is you need to share. For as much as social media fucks with connection, it’s also a way to break up some of that loneliness. So if you’re out there posting selfies and looking for someone to see you, you’re not alone. You are brave and you are fierce.




That’s the best way I can think to describe this feeling. I feel like I’m running through water and I’m so fucking tired. I’ve cried every night for two weeks. Dirty secret: I got bed bugs. Or maybe they came with the house, I don’t fucking know. All I know is that of all the things that I can handle and deal with, this isn’t it. I’ve worked so fucking hard to finally get new furniture and a nice house and keep it clean and then this. And even though they came and treated, I know they’re in my other bedroom, but the original guys won’t believe me. My therapist doesn’t even believe me – and that stung. I want someone to get how much this fucking sucks to me. It may not be the end of the world, but it fucking feels that way right now. I’m exhausted from packing my shit up and my family’s supposed to come next weekend and all my shit’s in bags and I’m fucking depressed – and it feels like no one gets it. I’ve barely treading water at work because I don’t have the energy to do it. I just don’t have the energy to care about someone else’s shit right now and faking it is even more exhausting. I want this nightmare to be over with. I want the stupid mattress cover off my bed so I’m not sweating my balls off at night. I want to sit on my couch again – I think it’s safe, but trying to prevent the spread. I want my things back where they belong. I want my space to be clean again. I want someone to come and fucking tell me it’s all gonna be okay and hug me and feel this with me, because it sucks doing this alone.



soul. speak.

in my make believe world,
i like to pretend that veterans
live in two story homes
with white picket fences
with dogs and barbeques
and families that make them laugh;
fast cars and trucks,
farms and peace,
the kind Dick Winters spoke of.
in my make believe world,
i pretend they don’t sacrifice
their sanity for
xanax pills and vodka,
beer and smokes,
PTSD and walmart,
living on the fucking streets.
i pretend they come home
and it was just as they left it.
friends are still friends,
high fives, tailgate nights
such a world, where war
wasn’t fucking easier
than living and coming home.
i pretend they don’t come home
and blow their brains out
in the lobby of a va hospital.
i pretend 22 is just the number
that comes after 21,
not the number of lives ended.
for the ones not existing
in my perfect world,

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