For Harding <3 KY


Perfectly in your blind spot was a mole,

One that sprouted a hair so mighty that

A buzzard could perch upon it to brood.

Gladly, I harvested said hair for you.


Below your eye and right above your cheek

was the space where hairline wrinkles brush across

Your face like child-drawn rays of sunshine.

Wrinkles created by late-night painful laughter.


Each time you sang “Rocket Man” in public,

I rolled my eyes with adoring tolerance.

Every indecipherable tattoo

I loved–for they were mine to consider.


Without anyone to drag in the mud

The smell of salt, sweat, and hay lingers still

Even though the corner by the front door

Remains bootless.


Absence & the heart 

In a long, drawn-out conversation, I told Corey that I don’t want him lingering around my life right now. That strange decision made sense at the time, as I suppose it does now. 

Some say Hope is dangerous, and I agree. I find hopeful anticipation really pathetic, disappointment and pain even more so. 

I thought I would be able to wash my hands of this really easily if I gave myself an answer– that answer being, “No.” 

Like a car circling the airport to pick up a passenger from a crashed flight, I have spent too long waiting, going through motions, stuck revisiting things that didn’t work out for me. 

It’s been four years since the end of me and Eric. (It was the end of me, not the end of him.) Why do I allow myself to regret? Why is he my luggage? 

I tell myself I’ve become hardened or that I won’t let love/pain/suffering happen to me again, but the truth is:

The idea of Eric still hurts me, and as long as it does, no one else has a chance. I’ll always be running or hiding some part of my heart. I’ll be here, immaturely and prematurely pushing people away. 


I tried to read up on what the significance of a blue bottle would be, but all I can find is shit about white women making “folksy” bottle trees. Us white people steal everything (see also: the Navajo cardigan I wore today).