for me, this book is a stillness. a sharing.

a telling and retelling. an awakening. a remembering.

a door. a lock. a key.

for you, this book can be anything.

the words can leave little imprints on your bones,

or hide away until you need them.

can build smoldering fires behind your eyes

or kiss you to sleep.

can haunt you or leave you no better and no

worse than before you read them.

my hope is that it may serve as a window.

a heart in hand. a quiet escape.

a fingerprint on the glass. a beckoning into the open.

the inhale before fresh air billows past the heartache.

a steadying breath.

 

in the last ten years, i have lived in two countries,

three states, five apartments, and seven houses.

i learned how to drive, registered to vote,
became a college student.

i fell in and out of dangerous relationships,

rowed on a crew team,

discovered caffeinated chocolate bars,

and dropped out of college.

i moved to New York, drank too much alcohol,

and struggled to keep up with the rent.

i worked sixty-hour weeks at a karaoke bar.
i decorated doughnuts at a shop in Chelsea.

i took acting classes, auditioned for movies
and commercials.

i wrote stories on greasy napkins. i taught poetry
at a correctional center.

i met the love of my life.

in the last ten years, i have dyed my hair,

acquired four tattoos, and grown half an inch.

i have tracked down my biological family

and grown closer to my adopted parents.

i have gotten married, given birth to two miracles,

written three books, battled depression and anxiety,

and most importantly, grown into myself.

this book is the journey of my life

from adolescence to adulthood, from young woman to mother.

it is a series of stories. a series of small,
intricate moments

i have collected, here, among these pages.

think of these words as a guide, as trial and error,

as permission to question everything.

i hope you know that this journey is messy.

it is murky. it is difficult.

it is not always going to be apparent that there is a lesson in any of it.

lessons are usually tied to endings,

and the ending hasn’t happened yet.

your life is this incredibly brilliant,

vibrant, ongoing adventure,

and you are not, and have never been, alone.

 

this is a beginning.

a novel starts with

someone losing something beautiful or

finding something haunting.

a poem starts with someone sifting

through the remains of

what makes them human,

and then tumbling into the open like

scattered ashes.

like the wings of a great beast

encompassing everything.

a story takes shape first in the mind of

someone who understands

the world around them

to be a temporary place,

and then it unravels in the fingers.

in the pursuit of the right words.

a novel. a poem. a story.

a beginning.

it does not look like much,

but this is mine.

have we found it yet?

every road we travel 

empties into alleys. 

empties into trails. 

empties into fields. 

empties into valleys. 

and, like light, we spill 

from one home to the next.

not because 

we want to leave 

but because all we have 

ever wanted is to find 

somewhere 

worth staying. 

a woman yells at me on 14th street

sometimes the world watches us so closely,

i think they understand.

but even then, they miss all of the details of us.

the way our mouths stretch

from flat line to echoing laughter, slow and unapologetic.

the way joy shines through our teeth like everything is full.

how our cheeks flush when the steady rhythm

of the rain sounds like a lover’s heartbeat.

(how your hands are another thing entirely.)

admittedly, we have made it through

without feeling the true claws of society.

because we are nothing if not sheltered

from the brunt of it; this is New York, after all.

diversity, melting pot.

but the world? they see only big picture.

they see your skin and my skin and think

of nothing but the differences between us.

sometimes, i think the morning will come

and it will be safe to hold you.

and it will be safe to love you in the open.

and it will be safe to love you in the open.

and it will be safe to love you in the open.

gentleness

there is nothing

gentleness

cannot mend.

a picket fence.

the night as it tiptoes.

a fresh dream.

something new

as it forms

in the belly

of a

giddy, giddy world.

the heart.

earthquake

i have stood in my own way today

more times than anyone has closed the door.

i have yelled at myself in every language.

i have grown accustomed

to my own angry tongue.

i have spent

the better half of a lifetime

inside of a body

that does not understand

how to build something

from the ground up.

only that the ground

feels like the bottom.

only that the ground

looks like failure.

only that the ground is earthquake

and we are knobby-kneed and,

after all this time,

uncertain of our footing.