i laid staring up at the wood panel ceiling,
trying to cry, but I couldn't.

there's a stone in my belly,
it is heavy and lukewarm.

There is so much life in pain- so much that I have never regretted a moment of it. Maybe been nauseous and ashamed and hated myself for it. And yet, that searing, the part where my muscles rip a little and my bruised flesh gets bumped.. my eyes open a little wider.

Because this city terrifies me.

The Empire was not asleep. That city never slept. It was uncomfortably watchful. There was shit or there was manna. And there was nothing in between. The city waded through sin and bathed itself in its own feces, but where there was light- it was undeniable. The lights and holy water were so pure and strong, anything they touched brought a reaction. Woke up the dead parts, or angered them into war.

Simple. Those asleep or dead, slept in the dark. When the light turned on, and the flood gates loosed, they awoke.

This city terrifies me. She's sleeping with the lights on. Curled up under the sun and the bright light doesn't wake her. Pour water over her head and she yawns. She's asleep on the pews for Christ's sake. And how do you wake up a stupid beast that can't tell light for dark or shit from manna? She's guzzling unleavened bread, thick with yeast, and stumbling to the altar to close her eyes.

And so, my knees shake and my stomach turns.
I have crawled into the belly of a beast and my eye lids have started to droop.


This is why I like pain, even a stupid beast won't sleep through a prick in its ass, or worse, teeth sinking into its neck. There are wolves prowling, and I'm glad to have been caught now and then. Their bite is not easy to forget, and even once the pain fades, I have scars.

So God help me, I will not lie down. Old scars are aching, and my bones are groaning. It hurts, but I thank you that it hurts too much to sleep.

must be something about the house,
about the way the wood smells or the floor creaks.

must be something about its dusty furniture or the doorknobs
on the walls.

so many doors to let myself in through,
but here comes the water.
it's knee deep and rising,
crisp and smelling of rain.

the creaking has turned to swaying,
and the foundations seem to be dancing
and groaning, and lifting,
and water drained through the doors

and now i hear the waves outside.
sway deep and right and up and left,
the wood smells wet.

i opened the curtains, we're at sea
the magic of the old house must be buoyant,
the house is alone but for Jonah and me

this is one of those first steps,
those big steps,
those decisions i probably should have thought long and hard about.

and i did, i did while the whiskey warmed my blood and i did while we left for private company.
and i'm still warm, though the whiskey left me hours ago. i have been held strong
and i think i just created an inciting incident...

I wear pink lipstick these days,
and old friends don't believe it's me.

I think that's strange.
I am the same.

I forget how true words are. I do not like to see them written.


I have a job, dancing around tables hoping to get orders right.
I have slept off my silly heart. A new day, hush heart.
A new day, where nothing can matter but reality.

Tumbled knots in my stomach,
I'm falling all over myself again.


Brooklyn, I left you? I can't believe, can't imagine, can't understand. Yeshua, you asked me to do what I said I would never do. And now I've done it.

And I have no job, and no school, and no direction. And it's terrifying and exhilarating. I read books all day, and late afternoons I begin to draw. Early evening out comes the mandolin, and nights are spent with pipes and fires and bars and southern folk.

New people and old faces, and this strange feeling that people have made up a story for me while I was gone. Did they forget who I was after I left, reinvent me into someone dashing and fashionable and.. wantable?

I have upchucked the same story over and over and over again. Why did I move to New York, why am I back now, what am I doing later.. The answers to these questions are so fluid and so complicated and so useless, the story is different every time.

Why isn't I DON'T KNOW enough? Can I just decide to not claim my story anymore?

Southern soil is in my bones and deep in my belly.
It has sweet melodies and rich feasts, slow nights and lazy mornings.

And all of this? I'm still talking circles around what matters.





He's in Vienna. Now he's stepping on a plane to Istanbul. I crawl my way 1000 miles South and East and he's 5000 steps past me in the other directions. We must have crossed paths somewhere in North Carolina. My heart shouldn't know how to fall so far down in to my belly. It should have learned long ago that great walls and muffled ears are the best medicine.

Instead I'm awake at 4:30 in the morning, thinking about a boy who turned into a man who became my friend who may never step out of my heart again.

His words are with me, there is ink to prove it. Much ink over many pages. And many words, true words.


His words have muffled mine. None have come out in weeks. At least I can admit it. Admit that someone else has captured mine, and until they are released I have nothing but jumbled slippery type.

He's in Istanbul, hey there Alabama. Months from now he'll say hello there Alabama, but will he call me home?

There will be words.