I need to move but I cant
Narrate my scenes before
Getting to the stand

knots in my hair and
nails split, I can’t do it
I can’t do a thing

you say you love me but
you can’t mean it

too torn up to elevate a lie
try to warm you
there is no fire

hey, how’re you doing?
did you have fun?
jokes on you,
looks like its done

please don’t leave me
but i know you could leave me now
air out the bedsheets
knock me down

when i get lower, I’ll have to
touch the ground

tried to tell you
to try and believe in me
you tell your friends you need me

now I’m too tired
to defend me
broken up about a man
who wouldn’t protect me

I need to move but I cant
narrate my scenes in

did you have fun?



Sit by your wineglass like a funeral
a kitchen just like a pew
never thought I’d be here like this
spilled my soul out
to a dirty floor,
sold my soul out
to a revolving door

and I can’t stop thinking
as I look at the ceiling where
champagne has wet and dried
where celebrations came to die

what if I had put my plate
a little to the left,
what if I had done would you said,
would we be in the right place?
would we be sleeping in bed?

A 30 second window,
now I sleep alone instead.


I’m your holiday from thinking,
respite from the drinking,
just take a breath and say it,
I know it’s easy for you,
please just say it

no need to feel your pain
if you can hide it in me,
you can pull back, not narrate,
I’ll take your feelings
in absence of words.

I’ll be your reason to go,
not to sit by the fire and smoke,
the catalyst for your storm, but,
you’ll be held to your stories
when I’m heading back home.


you leave me as soon as you can,

foot dead on the pedal,

should I say this?

foot dead on the pedal,

I wish you still had the ability

to bring me to my senses, but I

think I’m going to drive.

Save that face for anybody else

I’m looking up while you look away,

you just don’t see me, anyway.

Tired of calling you back,

I wish you’d just stay,

you never had my back

just saying anything,

keep my feet down,

weighed down,

ignore the red lights.

keep my feet down,

weighed down,

tired of losing fights.


I see our history sometimes and I still feel the same paralysis about what happened. I see you as I watch a comedy show, the audience laughing as a method of suicide is depicted to illustrate how a character feels about an off-putting part of his day.

I thought of you as the audience started to laugh. It wasn’t funny, it was disturbing. They were in on a joke that would not go home with them, while I was still unearthing what it meant to have spent that time with you.

In that moment, I was back on your bed trying to pry the rope off your neck. I caught you early. You laughed like it was a joke. There was no clapping or audience, just the two of us.

I was sure when you told me about your knife, how you had kept it and used it to hurt yourself. I was sure when you let me hold you as you sobbed on a rainy day, recalling all the things that brought you to that place.

I was sure when I took your knife home and put it away in my drawer, a reminder for later. I was sure that we could get you back.

I was sure.


I can’t think anymore
you’ve finally taken me down
a cup tipped over,
stalled out on all roads,
full in all this space,
I cant,
there’s no room

I don’t bet on it, but
I bet you know this
I’m embroidered by this scar tissue,
the maps you left on me
leading me to empty streets

I know you left me first
I hear your plans from other people
bury you in my anger
I guess we ruined everything

I had my feet on the ground
so sure, had my arms to the wind
thought I was so free
but running brought no sheath
to the dagger that you leave

you’ve finally found your out
leave me responsible for myself
leave me cluttered and spent

I chase you in my dreams
a fractured sort of sleep
maybe we miss each other
even if we had to go,
maybe it’s never leaving
if I can’t let you go.


I counted the days since you left
until I could not count anymore

You`re the one who told me
I was going to be great
a fondness for the candour,
my scathing sort of wit

I counted the days since I last saw you
until the numbers stopped coming

credit where credit is due,
I gave my life all to you
the power of dreaming
with this empty feeling
I am because of you

I buried your last words
so deep I couldn`t hear them
my heart sinks to your faith
god, I wish you could stay

you were the place
where being believed wasn`t
so unbelievable at all

I counted the days since I last saw you
until it was just our moments

until it was our moments leaving.


I rest my head on your shoulder
you take the picture and let me go
take the picture and I don’t know,
if it’s all the same to you,
I don’t want it this way

You light a cigarette
ducking under an umbrella
going out into the rain
I taste the smoke as you go,
if it’s all the same to you,
I’m a little over the burn

You sit on the edge of the room now
indentations in the middle cushion
where you used to be,
won’t retract, no welcome back,
if it’s all the same to you,
I think I’m gonna spread out now

I’d show up for you out of love,
ride the aisle seat so you can see
be a window ornament
while you sit on your phone,
If it’s all the same to you,
I think I should sleep.

smooth white, you find the walls
more interesting than my eyes,
your drink is a better walk
than a walk with me,
If it’s all the same to you
I think this is it.

Stories From Growing Up: If I Could Go Back

“We were just having a conversation about what she would change if she could do this all over again.”

he looked at me in that calculating way, savouring the moment. Like there was a pleasure in delivering something that only served to cause pain. As if he felt there was righteousness in chipping at my self-worth, never letting me build it back up.

I was prepared. He got nothing from me because I knew the answer years before it came out of his mouth. I felt it before he ever put it into words.

“If she could change it…She wouldn’t have had you.”

I am a product of regret. I will never have to explain that feeling again.

Stories from Growing Up: The Worst Possible Thing

One time, when they were finished fighting, I walked out of my room to see him sweeping up broken dishes from the kitchen floor. As if the moment was disappearing because he was cleaning up. As if what happened didn’t permeate the entire house.

The fighting felt like the worst possible thing. Like my heart sinking out of my chest and the world was falling apart. I thought that was the worst thing, but the honeymoon phases always rolled back in. I could do my best to roll with it.

I could not bear being left behind. They had a blowout fight. She collected my siblings, intending to leave. I told her that I didn’t want to go, I was scared, so she left me.

I watched her go up the driveway with everybody but me. I watched her decide that it was more important to make a statement than to love me. I watched her decide that it was okay to leave me behind in a situation that she herself didn’t want to be in.

That was the new worst possible thing. Being the one left behind.