Summertime—golden flakes of experience added to your hair which is consequently always blonder, despite your best efforts. You wear fishbraids to mimic the sea and you bathe in the ocean.

Freckles double triple quadruple, you say they give you character; the sun kisses you with smooth lips and you are the color of your mother’s favorite scarf—always scarlet. You lay perfectly still and embrace that it will end soon.

Your eyes are cumulus clouds from too little sleep and then too much—you are operating in Leiden or Laon or Ljubljana but not here. You find yourself always wanting lemonade.

Watermelon juice runs down your chin and you throw your head back, giggling. Your mother says that you are such a mess and you say she has seen nothing yet.

You sit on your porch with your mother and write a poem. She suggests you write about the brutal heat and the welcoming shade and you tell her to just keep drinking fresh lemonade.

The summers of our youths are combinations of overrated memories collecting dust in the corners of our minds. They only appear when a room is empty and we are lonely.


We were girls once, following the lukewarm musings of the ones we sought. When sunlight rested on our eyelids in front rooms, backrooms, and kitchens, our vision was full of motion. Our lives were full of brimmed one-sided warmth mirroring the smallness of our backs and our mouths and the things we saw outside our windows. We saw the streets and the soiled cars and the black tar but we didn’t think of those. Instead, our time dribbled quiet from the beams of our hair as we braided it down our backs and encouraged each other with our arms tucked and folded together, piled.

There they were. The boys walked on the outside, laughing flowers and kissing trees. They stood just beyond the window panes, absorbing shocks of light, coming in and out of focus with the gentle wind. They never looked in as we brushed our hair and lay on hardwood, letting the dust pile around our ears. These boys were living in ways we didn’t know how. They didn’t fear the electric wires or the radioactive heat flowing beyond the reach of trees. Invisible, we felt our bones cringe and our skin dangle, long and tattered, melting. We tugged our eyelids into our skulls so they wouldn’t close before the boys left our sight.

And our brains swelled gigantic above the blooming influence of their breathing. We watched. We watched. We watched the riverlike flows of hair and the golden haze of arms and the peek of mountain chests. They smiled again at unheard words echoing airwaves and ceasing at the cracks of our windows, those windows that wouldn’t let the world in. The ones that kept our lungs swollen with the smell of our own rotting skin, pubescent puckered pink and rosy. We were awake under layers of rot, where our souls resembled harmonic chords plucking at the flesh of our hearts and veins, digging the dirt from our lungs.

The boys’ shadows grew long and their legs swung on, past the patch of light through the window, farther and farther from us until they seemed more like dreams and fog than real images. They were sent off with our breath, through the cracks of our fingers and out of our hearts like ghosts, like geese in November we’d seen float past the lines that curve our vision into shapes.

We were alone, young frail girls locked firmly in the womb of a house, stillborn. We hummed like music understood us. We imagined the feeling of kisses on our hands and backs as the skin cracked and fell in dusty piles on the floor, each of us molting our cocoons carefully as the air grew warmer and warmer and split.  

We were called girls once, when the winters kept us safe and we could dream. But when summer came we cracked and bled and reversed into embryos, lost traveling into the misty blur of the world.

Under the window, we fold into bones and sleep.

Lana Del Rey’s birthday is tomorrow but I’m posting this today because why not.

I am completely and utterly in love with this woman. The very first song I heard by her was Born To Die and I was swept away. It was like love at first listen. It instantly attracted me to this never-heard-before singer and her gorgeous way of expressing heartbreak. Her way of using words was not only poetic but also deeply touching. It didn’t take long before I became addicted to her. I have thought about, fantasized over, marveled at and listened intently to her music every single day since. Her voice and lyrics are truly one of a kind: captivating, mysterious, haunting. I don’t understand why she’s been getting so much negativity in the press. She could have been invented by the internet, and in a way she was. She is a child of these times and this technology. She took an identity that suited her and discovered a way to present her inner world in music and imagery, compiling clips of old images. She released an independent album in 2008 that sold so badly that the record label withdrew it. She had been telling her own story, in her own unique way, to an audience of herself and her peers. And then the world spotted her, exalted her, and then, in the accelerated mania of new media, a backlash started before she had even begun. It really makes me angry that although she is incredibly talented and unique, people (aka internet trolls) still feel the need to comment on her lips, her face, her wealthy parents or how much she “sucked” on SNL (By the way, I don’t think her SNL performance was awful. Yes, she was too “awkward,” but that is what appeals to me—that she is not like everyone else and seems to be very humbled by how much people like her music.) I love her music for its cinematic sound and its references to various aspects of pop culture, particularly that of ’50s and ’60s Americana as well for the influence it draws from literature and film noir. According to Vogue Australia “what makes her music so haunting is her profound nostalgia, and what makes it odd is that she is singing about her adolescence like a novelist and not a heroine” and I couldn’t agree more. I’ll conclude by saying that Lana Del Rey is a well-rounded unique-sounding musician with a distinct style one can hear from miles away. Also, with her throwback beauty, it is absolutely impossible to look away from her. (And no, it has absolutely nothing to do with how rich her father is or how natural her pretty lips are.) Oh and did I mention how much she loves and appreciates her fans? She spends a great amount of time taking pictures with fans on their phones, patiently asking which button to press, signing autographs, and collecting drawings and flowers from them. She’s a sweetheart like that.

My Body

The bed was
unmade and unruly
and it never did
straighten entirely

even with the
corners tucked
so tightly in;

kind of like my mind.
even if it’s calm
and clear,
it’s still crinkled

not quite right.

How to Die Alone

I have been planning to die alone since I was fifteen years old, when I decided to never fall in love because love is dirty and painful and oftentimes not worth it. The thing is, love is all of that, but I will do it anyway. Several times. I will get married to a nice man and I will have two nice children, a girl and a boy, and send them off to nice colleges, and wait for them to grow up and have their own nice families. My husband will die of boredom when he is sixty-seven, and I will be secretly relieved because my hair is not what it once was, and nor are the breasts and hands and neck. I will travel around Europe and finally move into a small cottage by the sea, or maybe a studio apartment in the middle of the city. I will wear multitudes of glass beads and silk scarves from Paris. I will have two cats; a calico named Frank, and a tabby named Ellie. I will play a dusty piano, write poetry on blue ink, paint watercolors of scenery, knit sweaters for my grandchildren, and plant peonies and chrysanths and geraniums in my window box, or front yard. I will go for walks in the rain, do charity work with the church even though I’m not particularly religious but just like the community anyway, play Scrabble on Wednesday nights, and bake on Sunday afternoons. When I am eighty-nine, or maybe ninety-four, I will die quietly in my sleep, knowing my fifteen-year-old self couldn’t be more disappointed.

I comb dolphins out my hair,
cough out peonies and sit in the nook of the moon,
catching comets and planting their seeds
so they can grow back up up up
to the moon.

I create tempests, swell the oceans
and they are moved to applause.
I have primrose fingers and a fountain pen
that blossoms,
a springtime secret garden spilled over the page;
an entirely purple creation.

Lavender legs, I have lavender legs
and I stride down cloisters
leaving a violet mist.
A tea leaf smile, distilled and warm,
flora tumbling out of my ears.

Lavender legs, lavender legs,
I have lavender legs
and dolphins in my hair.


My spine was the most unappreciated part of me. You had never seen it in its bare nakedness, satiny skin stretched tight over a sensuous serpent of bone, but now, while the moon squirmed in the sky like a bug struggling feebly in a puddle of ink, you could reach across the cushioned expanse of the mattress and touch it.

You brushed my unclothed spine with your fingertips, examining each curve, each crevice, as gracefully as an art fanatic handling a rare vase. You could feel all the beauty in the world, a lone daisy growing in a festering swamp, a premature baby’s first intake of breath, a freak oasis in a desert full of wandering souls, epitomized in a single stretch of interlinked vertebrae and cartilage and milky white bone.

Beyond the window, the night trembled, like an alive thing. Your breath caught in your throat.

You wondered how it was possible for me to exist. I was as vulnerable as a naked flame in this world, this world full of gunpowder and venom and melting ice caps, this world where the sound of slaughter scratched desperately at the glass bubble of the atmosphere with bloodied, ragged fingernails. I belonged in fairy tales; I should have been fluttering my delicate tissue paper wings in a child’s dream-cloud somewhere, not lying here with you beneath blankets that smelled of sweat and mildew. it didn’t seem real. it didn’t seem right.

You told yourself that one day you would climb my spine like a ladder, use my ribs as rungs. You would clamber up into my head so you could see how you looked through my eyes, with your corkscrewed hair and your shadow-ringed eyes and the coarse stubble fondling your cheeks, creeping up the column of your throat. Maybe I could do the same for you, feel the ache that you felt when you looked at me, because I was the closest thing that anybody could ever come to seeing an angel while their heart was still beating.

"Why can’t you see how beautiful you are?" you whispered into my hair.

Unaware, I dreamed on.


I spent my time
memorizing your essence.
The texture of your skin
as my fingertips danced upon it,
the warmth of your mouth
as you kissed me goodnight.
Everything started
and ended with you,
you had become routine.

Now my hands search for you
in the midst of the night
grasping sheets
until I grasp reality.

Apple Seeds

The first time that he found me he asked me why I was just lying there in the grass.

The second time he joined me and told me that in his dreams he could swim underwater for hours without having to break the surface, he could just sit on the bottom of the ocean and watch bubbles pass his lips and float away. Then he said that he would wake up or drown or something like that.

And I didn’t say anything but I wondered if his air bubbles missed being his oxygen, and if his skin tasted like salt when he woke up.

The third time he didn’t join me and he just stood there until I knew what he was asking.

I told him how when I was eight I planted a handful of apple seeds five steps from the patio. I watered them all day and slept in the grass and when I woke up I wondered why I wasn’t in an orchard. And sometimes when I lay there I can feel the roots of my tree trying to break the surface, but I think that sometimes they’re happier down there and that’s okay.

blood in my hair

Some nights I drive all
the way home and then cannot
remember how it

was I got there or
how many people I left
behind; some nights I

feel like I could run
every red light and never
think of going back.