So starting something and having to come back to it later is not an unusual scenario for the average writer. In my efforts to clean house a little bit, I was looking through old website draft titles and then their associated content to see if there were any posts that I could possibly revisit or that it was time to delete—and we’re talking since 2013. What I found interesting is how the post titles of all these drafts represent little moments from the past 4 years; and to see the starts and stops, and to try and figure out why I gave up on writing them, has been an exercise in self-understanding.

The following are the title of drafts I have yet to revisit…and my favorite line from each (if their was content written).


Ill-Fitting, 2017

I have a bag of clothes that used to fit,
a blue duffel, filled from bottom to brim
with size 2 to 6

Shifty, 2016

I want to say it was difficult to tell him the truth, that I was never whom I said I was, but when your body changes as easily as your mind does it’s difficult to discern what’s real or what’s been transmogrified…

Wordless, 2016

The Car Accident, 2016

In October, another car kissed my car
a little harder than it’d like
to be kissed;
a little more tongue, than was appropriate;
a little less affection than was required
to make the relation sound,
and so
over time the injuries were hidden
by cosmetic change

Grouped, 2015

How to Fall, 2014

I haven’t considered falling. Haven’t fallen recently. Haven’t stumbled. And yet here are these words. And I feel the necessity to finish what they start

Power in Words, 2014

It’s Beginning to Feel a Lot Like Not Christmas, 2013

Lost Boy, 2013

When she whispers non-sweet nothings
in your ear
do you hear?

Yo, 2013

I’m going to be real with you
right quick
in a jiff
because it’s iffy
that I may or
may not find you sick
the equivalent, in slang,
of slick,
take your pick
the language
with every word
the music, the lyrics
words that used to shame grammarians
now heard
in classrooms
and grocery stores
and at home

html, a poem, 2013

Locks, a poem, 2013

My mom is blond-haired, never corn-flower yellow, but near white. Her mother, my grandma Nicoletta, had brown hair. Dark, dark dark, near black. And when she was older, she’d buy spray that looked like dark paint, to cover the bald spots.

The Twelve Steps, 2013

3 Sheets, 2013

I rock
back and forth,
a human cradle of faith,
falling asleep to lullabies
too many ropes exposed to the wind would make the boat rock.

Job Hunting, a Poem, 2013

I’m that girl.
Yes, her.
Head buried in her laptop
like an ostrich

The Ghost of Relationships Past, 2013

When we met,
I could see right through you,
or thought I could,
your skin a translucent shade
of tan

*, a Poem, 2013

When we kiss
I don’t want to see fireworks
or sparks
flying willy nilly
in the cliche breeze of romance,
I want light bulbs, flickering with
realization that
when we kiss it is because you like me…

Useful Thinking, 2013

My head is barely above the water
swamp water
murky and smells like ass
penny copper and tuba brass,
a situation that lacks shine.

(no title), 2013

This poem is not about you
nor ever was,
but may sound like it
because like songs,
it’s easy to associate
a lyric
with the truth,
as it is a line
with your guilt.

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