Everyone Lied to Me About Being an Adult

I sold my car & started walking home from work. When my coworkers asked why, I told them I wanted to walk through Tibbetts Park to look at the leaves turn into snake scales—the kind of vermillion like the lipstick I imagine wearing on a date, yellows and greens bright as stained glass. Sometimes, it happened that way. I would walk home, past the storefronts selling coffee & cheap lingerie, usually avoiding puddles because rain & autumn are actually the same thing. 

My heels would sink in the dirt. Closing my eyes, I always imagined I was falling through quicksand—and at any moment—someone would grab my hands, dragging me down into a freezing underworld. Sometimes, I wished for it to happen, for someone to grab me out of nowhere—it would be the first time I was touched since Alex died. Instead, I watched dogs walked with their owners, burying their bones.

Occasionally, I would pick up a tennis ball & hand it back, awkwardly making small talk about work, what we do in our free time. Yes, I would nod, appearing to be understanding, interested—it was at this moment I would be asked for dinner. We don’t forget our loved ones—we just accept their corpse.


(I wrote this during Hurricane Sandy.)

My book cover is officially done & approved! My editor has started on the layout—it’s all very exciting. My first book will be released within the next few months!Many thanks to Ted Chevalier for designing the cover beautifully.

My book cover is officially done & approved! My editor has started on the layout—it’s all very exciting. My first book will be released within the next few months!

Many thanks to Ted Chevalier for designing the cover beautifully.

Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3 in D Minor, Opus 30

You were uglier than I expected,
a jackal bent over a reptile carcass
smelling like urine & spoiled milk.

Sex is the closest our bodies
can touch where ruin also exists.
You claimed I ruined you as bad

as a god. You chose to be
in that bed, an empty sack branded
contagious. I was the one to fill you—

five paragraphs, one tank gasoline,
loneliness greater than the sum
of your parts full.

I dug my fingers up your dress
to find your ruin: you weighed
me down.



(Originally published in the The Midwest Coast Review in 2012)

Don’t forget to do you. 

Today I woke up and immediately felt like things will start dying in a few weeks. Got that morbid, autumn feel. Kind of refreshing.