Versatile Blog Award


Congratulations to Henna at Murder Tramp Birthday for receiving the Versatile Blogger Award! Henna’s writing is fucking bananas, and I greatly admire her.

Thank you, dear heart, for nominating me.  ❤

So, the rules this time around are to write seven interesting things about yourself, then choose fifteen of your favorite bloggers to nominate.

7 Things You May or May Not Care to Know About Me

  1. I’m incapable of reciting the alphabet backwards.
  2. In my mid-twenties, I was a lector at my local Catholic church. I was most often hungover, or still drunk from imbibing the night before, but no one ever knew because I’m the balls.
  3. I partied with Gaelic Storm at a Holiday Inn hotel bar in 2008. I have photographic evidence.
  4. The kids at school used to call me Spock because of my misshapen right ear.
  5. In 2009 I was nearly thrown in airport jail at Heathrow. My passport is tarnished with an angry red stamp.
  6. I don’t have any tattoos.
  7. I dropped acid once, when I was seventeen.

As many of Henna’s fifteen nominees are my favorites too, I’m just going to add a few writers you should totes check out, dudes. (I know, I’m not following the rules.)

Damn, Girl

Free Verse Revolution 


Silent Hour


Quotes from Magpie in August


“We’ve eaten lots of breakfasts as a family, but this one is the most important to me, and that morning is alive too, sharing space with my guilt.

Strange how trivial things, the details of a single morning in five-thousand and some can so cruelly become the richest, most bittersweet of memories.”

–Magpie Carey

“The sun is shining colorless through layers of drifting clouds. I’m looking for traces of blue within the holes, but I only catch glimpses of a sky silvery white.”

–Magpie Carey

Recipient No Longer Exists

Your invitation has been rescinded—

no justice

inside a.m.

Name stricken from the guest list just this


cos you don’t have a thing to wear.

My daughter asked me to email her the wedding guest list so she and her fiancé can finalize the count, and begin mailing invitations. I looked it over this morning to make sure I wasn’t missing anyone before hitting send.

I was missing someone.

I highlighted my mother’s name and address. And I cried. I hit delete. And I cried.

I cried yesterday, too. Nicole had selected the most beautiful wedding dress—she looks like an absolute doll in it. I took loads of photos of her standing on the pedestal before a three-way mirror. I was so excited, I attached the images to a text message.

Then I remembered my mother wouldn’t receive them.



A Peculiar Dream I Had

B & W

I dreamt you were a naked doll, sized true-to-life. You were assembled like the art manikin I use for sketching, only your head was your actual head—your face was arranged in a placid expression. A random little girl had fished you out of a cold river, and I snatched you from her greedy arms as she was celebrating her catch.

“She’s too big for you,” I cried. Cradling you, I carried you away from the shore lowly lit by a dull sun, and into the damp grey woods. I was chased by faceless men who wanted you, and I heard the little girl lamenting. “Fuck you! She’s mine,” I kept yelling. “You can’t have my mother!”

Then you were alive, penned in a clearing. You were dressed in a red shirt, and faded blue jeans. I couldn’t make out the silent words rushing from your mouth. I could only pay attention to the man with a sword. You were murdered in front of me. I saw the long blade enter you through your back—through your thoracic spine.

The death scene repeated like cruelly spliced film. I watched your face fade away and reappear again and again, for an immeasurable space of time, until the phone began to ring.

Stood in the driveway of our house in Lapeer, I kicked at the loose stones, waiting for the ringing to stop.

“It’s for you,” said someone lounging in the bed of a pick-up truck. An unrecognizable guy with long, dirty blond hair. I took the tan receiver, and pressed it against my aching head.

“Mom.” I knew it was you. And I knew you were dead. I know you are dead. “I love you. I miss you so much, Mom.”

There was a long, crackling silence. Then you said, “I think of you all the time.”


(image: Freepik)

You Never Could Help Me With Math

Something happens, and I am reminded that

all of the good words have been taken by the 80s.

I can’t write you a heavy synth song, penned in black kohl;

can’t dip my heart into inderivative hair dye—

there’s no such thing, really.


Something happens, and I am reminded that

I can’t call you.


Something happens, and I am reminded that

I can’t hug you.


Something happens, and I remember that

I’d forgotten to miss you for 5 whole fucking minutes.


There are 300 seconds in 5 fucking minutes, and 3,600 seconds in 1 hour, which means there are 86,400 seconds in 24 hours, or 1,440 fucking minutes in a goddamned day, which means there’s a lot of fucking time spent forgetting to remember that you’re dead.


And I can’t even manage to write you a love song.




Intermittent Bullshit


You were goddamned gorgeous, and a fucking conundrum, my mother. When I think of all the men in your life who’d tried to solve your riddles, I laugh. The relics of those men inhabit a corner in the catacombs of my heart. I don’t want them, but each one retains a precious part of you, so there they shall remain. Yes, I’ll keep those tokens to remind me that I never want to be like you—insecure.

You’d always believed you required a man’s love in order to be completely happy. From the depths of my being, I am so sorry you’d lived your life on the cusp of a chasm so black. I wish you had known your true self through the eyes of your daughters; and I don’t understand why Tara and I weren’t reasons enough for you to be content.

I’m angry tonight—angry about your failures as a mother. And I’m pissed off at myself for even thinking about all of the men you’d put in front of me and my sister. You’re fucking dead—anger is a waste of my energy. What kills me is that I’d believed this shit was behind me. I’d forgiven you a long time ago. So why am I reflecting on my adolescence all over again?

Maybe forgiveness is infinitely intermittent, and real acceptance is bullshit.