“Typical female behavior.”

As if this is an insult,

as if this was not a product

of the patriarchal society we live in.

“Typical female behavior.”

Such a generalization, but

who am I to disagree?

“Typical Female Behavior” is a symptom

of the world you’ve been living in.

“Typical Female Behavior” is an excuse

to avoid your own eye in the mirror.

TypicalFemaleBehavior is bullshit.

Who are you to disagree?


The spaces between words do not get attention;

you only notice whenthey’renotthere.

Riding on a train,

our eyes glaze over and we are lost in our own worlds.

That is where I go in my mind:

on the trains stuffed–

but not too stuffed–

with blank-faced people

who do not care that my eyes may fill with tears,

who do not care when I hide my smile in my fingers,

trying to catch the last few rays of happiness before they dissolve

and I’m left cold.

I strive to be the spaces between words,

simultaneously undeserved and resolute in their power,

separating one love from another.

I need to be noticed;

but only when I’m gone.



I wish I knew what to say,

when you give me that smile.

Because my thoughts turn

bright green and pink

Like a ripe watermelon, split open.

My personal colors of happiness.


I wish you knew how to react,

when my gaze distances itself.

Because my thoughts are a river of muted colors:

flesh pink, blue- gray, sad purple,

Like when the sun first greets a sleepy sky,

The colors of uncertainty.


Colors stain my emotions

and help ease my mind,

when I don’t know

which way is up–

or which way is down

–or how to breathe.


I have a playlist for my

blackest emotions

entitled “Mad”

made for the days when

I can’t figure out

which way is up.

I have a playlist

entitled “Sleep”

for when I can’t seem

to shake the haze

out of my eyes.

I have a playlist

entitled “Current”

which isn’t, in fact,

that current at all.

I have a playlist

entitled “Work”

as if I could concentrate

when my favorite songs play

on repeat in my mind.

But I don’t have a playlist

for the way I feel

when you smile at me,

or when you say I’m beautiful.

I don’t have music to describe

the beauty of the world.

I only wonder,

what does it sound like?

He said to me,

“I am experimental with music.”

We long discussed what we liked and didn’t,

what annoyed us and what made us happy,

but broaching the subject of music seemed tedious.

As I try to think of the adequate way to list the artists and songs I love,

to classify them under a phrase or genre, and realize it’s not possible.

Macklemore, Lorde, Bastille, Justin Bieber, Genesis, Relient K, Imagine Dragons, All Time Low, Ed Sheeran, One Direction, Imogen Heap, Three Days Grace, Alkaline Trio, Nickelback, Paradise Fears–

They are not under one umbrella,

My thoughts are not easily explained.

But I do not doubt

that my point will eventually come across.

I am experimental with words.

The love that traveled my bones kept me at a distance,

I wanted the serenity of being with and apart, together but not.

Now, I crave the closeness.

Grasping at each other in the darkness,

Wanting nothing more than to never let go.

My stomach twists at the idea of it: having someone,

or maybe not having them.

Is this new feeling a different form of love?

Some metamorphosis my body went through, and failed to notify me of?

Or is it lust,

Newly awakened, a fire coasting along the pulses of my blood?

Either one is fine with me.


I had a bad dream.

It featured my mother, myself, and my roommates. Two of them were missing, somewhere in Ruggles. The three of us–Mom, me, and Cassidy, I think–entered Ruggles. The t was packed. I tried texting them, but my phone screen wouldn’t clear. I suggested giving up, even though I was sick at the idea of having cost each of us precious money.

A homeless man had walked by while we were debating, and I got the feeling of missing something, but not knowing what. And then a t security officer takes a bag away from him and gives it back to my mother. As the homeless man–the pickpocket–makes another pass at us, I realize I have to watch my purse and make sure he doesn’t try to take it.

And then I feel his fingers in my jeans pocket, twisting away from me. When I grab his hand, I find my ID in his hand, and a wad of cash halfway out of my pocket.


The point isn’t the dream. It’s the feelings afterward.

I never remember my dreams (that’s not true. I usually don’t remember, and if I do it’s only because they’re so realistic to the point of me thinking it actually happened, which is what happened here). The feeling left me gritty. Dirty.

Laying in the dark made me feel unsafe.

In a pool of light in the living room, I contemplated the dream.

It was real, to an extent. Cassidy’s face was blurry, and we never found Lizzy or Becca. I’m not even sure if I have them right. Maybe I was with Becca and it was Lizzy and Cassidy who were lost? I know I was focused on finding Lizzy, because I thought I would recognize her first (probably false, Becca and Cassidy have their own very distinct looks). My phone would never not show me their texts, or have the application freeze/scrambled. A stealing man would not be that blase about being caught–and the officer never would have just given the bag back to my mom, he would have arrested the guy or something. A stealing man wouldn’t then try again on me.

I felt a lot of things after the dream, though, inspired by events earlier today. Fear, certainly. Guilt. Outrage and a knowledge that this man could harm me. Fear for my mom, for putting her in this situation. And then it sets in that my mom’s in San Francisco, celebrating her birthday without me. And I feel homesick. So, so, so homesick. That’s all I feel now.

Uninspired Moody Whining

I wish the world was a better place.

I wish people didn’t go hungry; people didn’t fight; people didn’t hate.

I wish the only violence was committed against abstracts,

and people stopped picking on each other,

picking at people like scabs on their knee.

They both bleed, after all.

It’s an easy comparison.

Let’s pick at the abstracts:

Deconstruct what others have laid down before us.

Don’t take for granted the views of our elders; don’t swallow the medicine society puts in our mouths.

What happened to differing opinions?

What happened to being cordial? To being receptive to new theories?

We’ve become computers incapable of accessing the internet.

We’re hardwired with the information we were given;

No more, no less.

I just want change.

I want happiness.

Butterflies and full tummies;

sunshine and eternal warmth

inside and out.


The chair’s feet are uneven on the tile.

When the baby leans back, it rocks unsteadily.

Unsteady, like my heart.

It beats irregularly.

Beat, pause. Beat beat, pause. Beat, pause.

Is this a side effect of some choice I made in my life, or am I broken?

A clock that only ticks every other second.

A phone that can only receive calls.

I am irregular, one way or another.