1. dear chicago,

    you smell like cigarette nubs and sewage. sometimes you smell of washing machines in the midst of their last cycle or the piss on the streets of drunken men. the tourists pass with too much perfume and if the wind is right you can smell the freshly made falafels from the hidden cafes. there are traces of exhaust on every corner. and sometimes there are traces of home.

  2. dear chicago,

    the only thing you brought from home is the moon.

  3. you told me that with distance, love too grows.

    which is kind of like trying to a convince a thirteen year old that santa still exists,

    but it made a nice story, one we both wanted to believe.

    two months after we said goodbye

    you asked me how we were doing,

    when I told you we were like a peach you smiled

    but I didn’t mean for you to take it as a compliment.

    and when I told you that we were okay,

    I was lying.

    we weren’t okay.

    we were peachy.

    when we went to the grocery store together

    looking for my almond milk and your 2%

    we noticed how everything in the store had expirations dates

    even peaches.

    and like everything else would in that supermarket,

    we grew sour.


    maybe because you only ever gave 2%

    and maybe because you never understood.

    you thought peach meant perfection

    but our skins were far too thin

    we were never apples who shined after being rubbed the wrong way

    instead, we tore holes into each other

    exposing parts of ourselves that we never wanted in the first place.


    we were left with peach pits

    left with the crevices of our crookedness

    an intertwined mass of emptiness

    and we thought maybe somewhere

    we could love ourselves through someone else’s crooked eyes

    but we were rotten from the inside out.

  4. the little man living in my fridge

    There is a little man living in my fridge, who knocks while I read.

    "It’s cold in here," he says. And I nod because it’s true.

    "Why don’t you put me in the oven?" I tell him that if I do, he’ll simply burn.

    "But there is a microwave too," But then you’ll burst into pieces.

    "Well then how come you put potatoes in there?" See, potatoes let me poke them with a fork. But you dear, will not let me poke you with a  fork.

    "And is there no room for me on the countertops?" I tell him, unless he wishes to rot.

    "Then can you at least keep the light on?" I try to explain that the light is only ever on when the fridge is opened.

    For a moment he is silent. Perhaps he ran out of questions or perhaps he realized he is stuck in the the fridge, left to knock while I read. He sighs. He’s very sad, the little man who lives in my fridge. But he never asks why.

  5. I told them do not resuscitate

    but maybe doctors like saving lives

    the same way I watched a girl turn a coin heads up on the pavement,

    hoping maybe she’ll bring luck to someone else’s day.

    But not everyone finds hope in copper plated zinc.

  6. what the fuck am I doing with my life? why did I buy so many groceries? why am I not hungry? am I over eating? is this simply a cold? is something wrong with me? how am I going to prepare all this food? will these vegetables go bad? should I bake sweet potatoes and roast broccoli tomorrow? shall I prepare extra so I can eat leftovers throughout the week? do I need to clean the kitchen tomorrow? when should I start writing lengthier pieces? what do I write about? what’s the point of my writing? what’s the point of writing? why did I think it was a good idea to study creative writing? what if I can’t even write? why didn’t I study nutrition or psychology or something? why didn’t I make writing a hobby? where do I practice art therapy? do I go to grad school after this? how do I fund grad school? do I work before? do I join peace corps? or americorps? when do I backpack through europe? or is that not something I desire anymore? do I get a masters in art therapy or creative writing? what if I don’t even like art therapy? should i go to prague for the summer writing program? do I need to learn czech? should I go to colombia when I join peace corps? is it safe? will get kidnapped? can I make my own art therapy creative writing healing happy love place? am I allowed to create my own career? how do I open this wooden box? or will it forever be closed? how do I communicate my emotions? how do I confront people? or am I just being overly emotional? but shouldn’t you be nice to people when they’re going through a period of being overly emotional? am I really any braver for studying creative writing? or do people just say that instead of saying ‘stupid’? do people not understand how present writing is in their life? and how there are people behind words? did others really choose a more promising field? or are we all lost in the uncertainty of the future? how do I make friends? do I do yoga? or rock climb? do I drink and do drugs? do I become comfortable so I can get drunk or do I get drunk so I can feel comfortable? is it wrong to study in my room? or do I need to constantly expose myself by people? do I even need friends? I don’t, do I? I can manage without? you only ever need at least one someone, right ? but I need friends, right? I have to be a happy social being? but am I catching the train too late? does everyone already have friends? am I already stuck? am I going to be miserable for the first two and half years and realize that college isn’t so awful the last year and a half? is this high school all over again? do I need to buy better bowls? or a new thermos? or maybe some mugs? do I have to ask to borrow my roommate’s mug? or should I continue to use my tea cups? does chai tea have enough caffeine? or do I need to buy coffee? where can I buy ethically produced coffee? why is it so hard to find a sweet that is vegan that doesn’t contain palm oil? why is it so difficult to be an ethical consumer? can one be an ethical consumer? or do I have to learn how to be self sufficient in order to know that my products are cruelty free? can I stop being a consumer? am I aware enough of my role as a consumer/viewer/citizen/person? how do I become more in tune with the world? is npr sufficient enough? do I read the newspaper? do they even deliver newspapers? how do I become a more cultured person? how do I participate in my politics class? am I ignorant, or do the upperclassmen know more because they’ve studied longer? of course I’m ignorant, but how terribly ignorant? what do I miss? or am I just lost? what am I supposed to write for this reading response? or do I interpret ‘response’ any way I like? why do all the readings and poetry slams occur in bars? do I really have to be twenty-one to get in? should I get my nose pierced? how expensive will it be? shall I chop my hair off? dye it purple? how am I supposed to have time for all those projects? along with my independent projects? or am I going to have to manipulate my independent projects into class projects? shall I delete my facebook? should I detach myself? or am I just trying to detach myself even more, so I can’t be reminded of how detached I already am? when does this become normal? when do I look at homeless people without sympathy? or the smell of sewage just becomes part of the city? when do I turn a corner without hesitation? or ride the el without a map? when do I make friends? when do strangers become friends? why did I stop caring about how I looked and what i wore? is that confidence or apathy? why do I compare myself to everyone I see? why does my head hurt? am I dehydrated? concentrating too much? is the light too bright? am I thinking too much? how do I stop fretting over everything? why is everything so uncertain? is this life? is this how life goes? where I don’t know today or tomorrow or next week or next month or next year? am I happy? is this temporary? am I back in a shell again or am I just lonely? when will i become comfortable? how do I forget things? will these weeks continue in blurs? will it be november sooner than I imagine? when do I go home to get my winter coat? do I need a parka? and mittens and gloves and snow shoes? where did I put my umbrella? is it in my basket or did I lose it while grocery shopping? or will I make do with  my rain coat? since when did so much time pass? will time continue to pass so quickly? when will everything seem still? happily, romantically still? when will I feel life through moments again? or is this a moment I’d just rather not remember?

  7. he wished that when they said goodbye, he had meant it.

  8. "Wear your heart on the page, and people will read to find out how you solved being alive."
    gordon lish
  9. I walked the perimeter of this block three times.  Went up and down these twenty-three pathetic library shelves.  Climbed eighty six flights of stairs. Counted the three hundred and forty-seven tiles in the grocery store aisles. Passed a thousand and one streetlights. Yet I still haven’t found you.

  10. these weeks are blurs.

    these weeks are blurs.

About me

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