My Own Bohemia

Self Seeking Science
March 5, 2015, 8:50 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

What is this insatiable need.

This constant hunger.

I am a prostitute to paranoia.

A self proclaimed Browns fan.
A blonde haired blue eyed tornado who smells like tea tree oil at night and cares far too much what people think of her.

When the hell did that start?
Better question-

When the hell will it end?

I am blessed beyond measure. A it’s not just the fact that I have a boyfriend who will surprise me with snowy trips to bed and breakfasts and laugh even when I’m not sure I’m being funny and let me be the lovely, unfinished wreck that I undeniably am.

Or that I live in a house where the walls are covered with sweet smelling memories. Where we can make Jamaican snowmen and Easter Island heads. Where a shaggy puppy named Sadie greets us everytime we come home, and a shaggier puppy mourns us every time we leave.

It’s not even that I have the world at my fingertips, even if, occassionally, those fingertips are so covered in glitter and chocolate they aren’t sure how to hold the world without making a beautiful, tasty  mess of it.

No, I am blessed because under this roof, beside this boy, with the world in my hands, I KNOW my hands.

I know my flaws. My need for attention. My unsightly insecurity. My habit of hoarding. My pretty procrastination. My constant need to be loved because there are times when I cannot muster the strength to love myself for reasons that words may not do any justice.

Sometimes words. really. aren’t. enough.

But, usually, they are.

And that’s why I turn to words. I am verbally investigating this woman that is Me. I am picking her apart and testing hypothesis’ and creating theories about how I became so needing of love. So wanting of affirmation. So tragically prone to lust for the approval of others that I forget that even WITHOUT that approval-


I still have this boy. I still have these pictures. I still have the world woven messily around my fingers.

I still have my voice. I still have those who DO adore me.

And they are worth far more than the disdain of a thousand people.


is my final conclusion.

The end of my experiment.

For now, anyways :)

My Silly Hands.

My brain is connected to my hands.

It says write this

So I do.

It said hold him

So I did.

It said make something beautiful.

A masterpiece

A skyscraper

-and I hesitated.

Because somewhere along the line

My hands forgot how to play.

How to reach out for the unnattainable

How to hold constellations in the small cracks between my fingers

I let my hands grow up

Painted those nails a fierce, hard red

Stopped believing that sonnets and songs and miracles could explode from my fingertips

But my brain,

My brain knows better than my silly hands.

My Fix.


I am so tired of comparing myself to myself.

My eighteen year old abs to my twenty four year old softness.

My 16 year old size 0 to the yoga pants in my closet.

My teenie, tiny body I see in photo after photo and lust after when deep down I know that that sunny, skinny blonde wasn’t anywhere near as happy as the woman whose fingers are pounding on this keyboard tonight.

Why do I do this to myself? My mind creates memories that were never a reality. Our version of “health” becomes distorted, and we use “nutrition” as a cover for our neverending quest to achieve perfection. Beauty. Someone to be ooed and ahhd over.

I am realizing that I do not need those “oohs” and “ahhs”, at least not as much as I used to.

There was a time, not long ago, when my life depended on them.

And while it sounds silly and petty to say, at least I can admit it to myself and to the world.

I needed the sweet taste of validation on my overly glossy lips. every day.

I craved it with the same hunger an alcoholic craves a scotch on the rocks.

A cutter craves a blade.

A druggie needs their fix.

I needed my fix. 

But now- I am trying to fix myself.

I get a fix from the look on my professors face when I ask a question that catches her off gaurd.

I get a fix from seeing my siblings respond to the words I have written and feeling close to them accross all of these thousands of miles for the first time in months.

I get a fix from knowing that the most amazing man I have ever loved loves. me. back. 

Enough to build me an adirondack chair for our front porch with a matching table for my wine.

Enough to tolerate me putting empty peanut butter containers back in the refrigerator.

Enough to hold me when my world continually shatters and instill within this shaken girl the strength, confidence, and endurance to face it with my head held high.

I get a fix from the life I am creating away from the ones who tried to drag me down.

I get a fix from knowing, I may not be that girl anymore-

Because I have grown into a woman.

Peter Pan
January 16, 2015, 11:22 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized


It’s a strange thing, to watch a boy become a man.

To see the same mop of blonde hair that once tumbled effortlessly into blue eyes identical to mine take shape. To watch my tiny brother grow until I have to strain my neck to look up at him. To see his hands placed firmly upon the wheel of a sports car as if he had been driving for an eternity. As if just yesterday he hadn’t been shooting Hot Wheels accross the kitchen floor, grinning ear to ear with ketchup still staining his upper lip.

The grin, though- the grin is the same. No amount of years could age or damper the beautiful lopsided smile that belongs to my baby brother. That goofy, God-given grin. Sometimes I will catch a glimpse of it now, out of the corner of my eye. While I drive my messy car and fiddle with the radio. While he struggles to fit his long legs in the passenger seat. I look over and with a trick of the light I am sitting next to a seven year old again. Watching that same easy, contagious smile creep accross his face. Trapped somewhere between boyhood and the land of adults that we all yearn for until we enter it and then desperatly try to retrace our steps.

Find our way back.

Reclaim what we were.

I do not worry about you losing that magic, blonde haired brother of mine.

It has always lived so deep down in you- no circumstance or heartache or minor loss of faith could ever steal that sparkle of innocence away from your laugh. Life cannot steal your goodness, you have always been the purest soul I’ve ever known. Please don’t forget that.

Don’t forget the forts we made or the worlds we created together. Don’t forget the songs and the midnight snacks. Don’t forget the nights the three of us would cling to eachother because being in eachothers arms meant we were home. Even if we didn’t know what home meant.

Don’t forget our accents, our TV shows. Don’t forget our fights- because those imperfections are what make us family, after all.

What I want for you, my big little brother, is to see the world. Break some hearts. Soar like the seagull you got tattooed on your back. Grow but hold onto that little one inside of you. Be reckless, but not with your own heart. Learn and teach and sing rock n roll as loud as you possibly can.

Because bro,

you have a better voice than me. Please don’t lose it.


Holding onto Hugs.
January 16, 2015, 10:29 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized


I miss our morning walks. Your round belly growing each and every day that we quickly scampered down hot black pavement. Talking about the miracle in your perfect porcelain stomach. Planning his first word. His eye color. The future beauty queen who would break his heart.

I miss our two AM’s together. Waking up and watching you be a mother. Holding him with the same fingers you held your Bitty Babies with a million years ago. Tenderly rubbing his back, whispering in his ear, reducing his cries to whimpers. Motherhood flows out of you effortlessly and endlessly. You are a waterfall of a woman, my little sister.

I miss smoothies, even in the winter. Sucking them down until we had brain freezes and craved overpriced coffee. Promising eachother to workout later and going to Target instead. Buying clothes we knew would end up in the others’ closet one of these days.

I miss your taunts. Yes, it’s hard to believe. But I do. Your sarcastic punch lines and sideways humor. The way you somehow made me laugh even when I wanted to hit you on your perfect Marilyn Monroe beauty mark.

I miss secrets. And sorrows. And sins we only shared with eachother.

I miss sisterhood. That sacred, sweet safety of having you within my grasp. A five minute drive away. My best friend right around the corner. Waiting with a baby in her hands and an insult on her lips and a hug in her heart.

I’m not quite sure those Arizona skies deserve your Midwestern Beauty.

But I’ll be saving that hug until I see you again. <3

Nightmares and Mornings.
January 16, 2015, 10:16 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , ,

Restless nightmares beneath sweat stained sheets.

Grey IKEA starch fabric pasted to your cheek as your fingers flail frantically

Looking for a familiar face to cling to

Desperatly grasping for some affirmation of reality

A three AM reassurance that the black licorice flavored darkness in your nightmare was a sick twist of the moon

That those demons don’t belong in your waking world.

Everything looks so pretty in the morning

WHen the squirrels perform their acrobatic dance outside your paneled white window

Scampering accross their trapeeze

Defying gravity upon a telephone line

Starring in their own unspoken spectacle

Morning, when the hazy, golden sun streams in on his face and I watch the subtle flutter of his long blonde eyelashes

Thanking the universe he’s mine

Morning, when that curly haired pup breaths his adorable sickening breath on my neck and finds solace in the small space between the two of us

These are the mornings that give me the strength to face my nightmares

Because when the alarm clock sounds

And a new day breaks

I am a lucky, lucky girl.IMG_4110


A cut on my lip from clumsily dropping my phone on my morning face. A scab on my nose from tripping over the laundry and falling into a door. These days seem like a series of unfortunate events and I take a deep breath and wait for someone to wrap me in Caution tape. Declare me a crime scene, a hazard to myslelf.

But as I lie in my clean room, under my fluffy hypoallergenic down comforter with my beautiful blonde boyfriend I remind myslef to breathe. And be thankful. After all, Thanksgiving is upon us, and despite the Turkey and wine isn’t that what Thanksgiving is all about? Being thankful for these tiny and completely beautiful nooks and crannies of our lives that are so easily overlooked when we feel pain and decide to let that pang of emotion take precedent over the sheer and utter miraculousness of every day life?

I am thankful for my mother. This beautiful, whimsical woman who turns each day into poetry, and lets me sleep when my eyes are heavy and makes me spicey pizza while I dream. The amazing woman who introduced me to oils and scents and journaling and laughter and  love without limits. Who lets me fuck up over. and over. and over again. But still looks at me like I am the woman I one day hope to be. In so many ways, I am thankful for her. I could hold an entire Thanksgiving for her and her alone.

I am thankful for the boy dead asleep in our bed upstairs. The one who tolerates my “lack of real life skills,” and may just love me in spite of them. The one who dances on tables in Jamaica and has very dry eyes. The one who cheers me on when I am ready to give up, the one who has no idea how handsome he is.

I am thankful for my grandma. The most beautiful 70-something I have ever seen. The one who makes people at the checkout at Krogers laugh for the first time all day. The one who loves people in the purest way possible and doesn’t know how to swim.

I am thankful that I can sit on this couch in the darkness of our house, and write these words because they came to me. Because they needed to be written. Because a writer, has to write.

What are you thankful for?


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