untitled voicemail


I keep having the dream where we all live together in one big house. I dream of cable-knit sweaters and cats and the sooty cleansing of a fire.


I keep wondering if anybody really likes me. I feel like the saddest little boy scout in the world, my tie neat, my badges pinned, my tears compressed into soft envelopes.

Outside, the bees are cloying, bashing their velveteen bodies against windows and bleeding pollen. I could pick them up if I wanted to. I could taxidermy them. I could be a good little boy scout, or I could not be.

Everything relies on those little badges, promising to tell everyone what I know, what good I’ve done.

We kissed in a parking lot and you gave me a little ceramic vase. Hands are hot and sweaty. Lips are awkward and wet. Nothing is ever the way it seems it would be.

Under the disco lights I am sopping wet, drenched with rain. I feel mascara running down my eyes. I feel my insides drowning in salt.

Hello, world. It’s been a while.

A while since I’ve felt your screaming sopping abundance.

There is chamomile slowly growing in the garden amongst the wild decadence of weeds.

I planted it two years ago, and here it is.

See? Maybe I can be good, if being good means trying to change.

I promise if I’m yearning, I’ll swallow it down like saltwater.

It burns on the way down, but so do most things.

Featured photo by Hannah Bruckner on Unsplash.


In a dream, you saw a way to survive, and you were filled with joy.


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