A letter to the past

A letter to the past

Dear you,

Twenty-nine drafts. Thirty really, if I don’t finish this.

I don’t account all of those to you but a large sum because for six months I was content with no need to write even when I started and now for almost four I haven’t found the words to finish.

I’m still fumbling over them.

I don’t remember what you sound like anymore, that’s a strange thing to get used to. Caught between trying to remember and then pushing memories of you strumming and singing (out of tune, I never told you that) at the edge of my bed.

New bedding, new room, new apartment.

I physically removed myself from places that you had the privilege to be let into but I can’t leave myself. The worst are the dreams of when it was good and in that brief moment of waking up and not having reality catch up yet I wonder where you are. And then your shadow follows me the rest of the day, dancing in songs and hiding in books.

I never realized how bad you were, we were. I fed into your every need, obliged your requests like nothing else mattered in the world. And now you’ve stained the future because I didn’t know any better and I can’t shake comparing. How dangerous is it that what I once thought was amazing and one-of-a-kind was just abuse verging on normality that I romanticized?

Half a year of thinking you were mine, half a year of you using me as yours.

Half a year of me not knowing better.

I wish I was a fast learner.

Never yours,






You need to know your heart before you let another hold it in their hands.

And that sounds easy until it’s so late that it’s the morning of a new day and you don’t know who you are.

You don’t know what you want, how you feel, where you want to be, who you want to be.

That’s when the sheets become chains and your apartment becomes a prison, even though you are the only one who holds the key.

That’s when you tear down the map that hangs on your wall because the idea of you not being able to see everything keeps you awake longer than any man you’ve ever met.

That’s when you give up on rest and turn to your phone that holds no messages, books that hold no comfort, and movies you can’t get to the credits of.

You keep your dreams in a hidden case because even you’re afraid to take a long look at them. Hopes in a glass jar that’s easily seen and just as easily shattered. Your goals can’t stick long enough to become something to aspire to and the future taunts you with sudden endings.

If only you could write as quickly as you could think.

Then the thoughts you twist into everything that drags your heart down could be teased out of your head and onto a page where they could be passed off as fiction.

The doubt that lingers on your tongue could be tucked away into lines of text and declared prose.

The impending heartbreak could be seen as a muse.

You need to know your heart before you let another hold it in their hands.

But if your heart feels empty then there’s nothing that will help you know what it wants.



I am allowed to feel broken but be strong. 

At what point did I decide to fake being whole again in order to please others, I do not know. 

Every day when I shove your name from my mind I feel it bounce back harder than the night before. And that’s when, just before I slip to sleep, the sheets feel tight because they held you and I realize I don’t get a last, anything. 

I close my eyes and I can see half of your face because that was my favourite smile when we were too close for me to take the entirety in. I can’t remember what it sounded like when you said my name but I can remember what it sounded like when you couldn’t form words. 

You always said you loved pieces of me. You loved what I did without asking. I didn’t understand the need to use such a strong word when you didn’t notice I am more. 

I cannot shrug you off as if you are a tainted memory because you are not. You are some of the best memories and you own too many firsts to count. 

But you didn’t give me lasts. 

You let me count firsts like they weren’t going to expire. And I blame myself for believing in more but how am I to know? My heart is not hardened to have disbelief, not yet.

I am allowed to be hurt. I am allowed to not want to turn off your mentors, not yet. 

I cannot assign a timeline to a feeling I’ve never known before. 

I am allowed to feel broken but be strong. 

Closed book

Closed book

I wrote this before it was over, before I finished the book

You know how there’s those books you put off reading because you know how you’ll feel when it’s over? 
The ones that as soon as you read the first line you know you’ll dread turning the last page? 

That’s what he is. 

When his mouth opens and the prose drops from his tongue you can’t help but soak it all in, and still thirst for it. 

He’s built in layers and chapters.

Layers in the way he wears shirts under sweaters like the room is never warmer than it should be. And taking them off to put them back on again has become a comfort. 

Chapters in the way you can tell when you’ve read all you can in a section and then it’s time for something new and you’re left with questions. 

But he’s still here, singing songs I don’t know and making tapes that can’t be played. 

And then the book closes. 



You call me when my phone is on silent, always.
Never leave a message but this way you can always say “I tried calling you.” 

And that’s all I ever need is you trying. 

You make it sounds like you put in these long hours, all this effort and work but at the end of the day your hands are still clean. You haven’t broken a sweat. But here I am bending over backwards. 

You’ve made me a cliché. 

You’ve made me become that girl, that girl that when I bring you up my friends roll there eyes and I jump to your defence. I list off all the good and deny the bad and the list is so unbalanced. 

I don’t remember the last time you made me happy, but I can sound off all the times you made me sad without thinking. 

Excuses are your first language and I hang on every word you say like I’ve never heard them before. You’ve said “I’m sorry” more than “I love you.”

This should be a bit of reality, something I should take in. Something I should consider. 

But tomorrow you’ll call me when my phone’s on silent and all I’ll think is you tried calling. 



We’re at 7.3.

But, follow your heart kid, don’t listen to me. Unless you want some advice, it’s been awhile since I’ve helped someone and hell it might be nice. Look, I know you’re discouraged. She was “the one” she was “it” but I’m going to try some truth and maybe I’m right or maybe it’s shit. I don’t know. You need to know that she wasn’t. Because I’ve met my 7.3, and it is true what they say. It’s crazy, it’s weird, words I once had, now gone array. A life changing moment in a normal day. And it might not be the forever you were promised. Life’s funny that way.

But if only for a minute be there. I’m begging you to be there, if not for you then for me.

Because when you meet your 7.3, a minute lasts an eternity.

Me & my shadow 

Me & my shadow 

Have you ever thought about how alone you are?

Maybe it’s just me, that I just think of such a startling realization before I drift to sleep. And yes I know I’ve got family, I’ve got friends, I’ve got you, whoever you are reading this. Or you’ll have those people who say they’re always there but then they simply aren’t. The idea of them is there, and that’s what you hold on to. You deny that they aren’t what you need. Wait for them to prove you wrong, they hardly do.

Read more

Show & Tell

Show & Tell

If she runs when you’re still standing still, chase her.

When her voice trails off and her mind begins a trail of what ifs, guide it back. When her body stills at your touch and her hands go limp, warm her up. When she locks the doors before you have a chance to open them, knock anyway. When she threatens to break, hold her back together again. When her eyes look past you, drag them back to your face.

Let her see you. Let her know you’re there. Be there.

You don’t have to say you’ll stay, you don’t have to say anything. It’s better to show than to tell.

If she’s turning into the wind and grabbing closer at her sweater than she is you, chase her.

But if he doesn’t chase you, don’t look back.



Being wrong is exhausting.

I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips and that’s not the way it’s supposed to be. I stopped meeting the eyes of strangers on subways because I thought I didn’t need to meet anyone else. It was sudden. Neck snapping fast. I wanted to hear you talk but you wanted to shut me up with your mouth. It felt good but not right but it fit. And closed eyes are the perfect background for moments you don’t want to see but they replay. So close my whole vision was blurry and I couldn’t feel a thing. A heart should leap, thud and skip but never fall as low as it can reach. Can something have an end that jumped right to the middle? I should be able to sleep the night through without reaching for something that isn’t there. This is what you want, they said. I’m not what you want, he said. I don’t know what I need, I thought.

Being right is exhausting.



Who understood? I did. Yes, the quiet kid. Cut of the same cloth or whatever they say. I wish I knew that man better, I think it every day. A life lived in solitude.

On that farm all alone, sat a man in heaven, one he called his own. Do not feel remorse, this was the life he chose, a man his dog and the horse. In the spring he’d survive, he’d outswim that flood, a strong man I knew, a man of my blood.

Sliding back as I push forward. It won’t accept all of us, it’s just not meant too. But I know how it feels, I’ve felt it in the sun. I’ve seen it in a thousand stars.

So don’t think I’m deprived, I have what I need.

To live. To survive.