A Week of Love

with You,
never feels like labor.
Your veins thread themselves
into my lungs
leaving me gasping for more…

of You.


You are a week’s worth of goodness
breathing life into eternity.

If I could count the ways
You’ve made my heart skip a beat,
I’d catalogue each murmur
like obsessive compulsive librarians
and cross reference each goosebump,
making sure that all is accounted for.
But even if I triple checked my work,
I imagine I’d still get lost in the arithmetic.

I mean,

You speak sonnets into existence
on the 14th day of February.
You hire haikus to lower my heart rate
to 17 beats per minute.
And your iambic pentameters
are mathematical superheroes
with the powers of 10.


Stars illuminate
at Your soliloquies.
Oceans tear up with joy
as You conduct orchestras
of ostriches into beauty.
And the Son shines brighter than
love like two dilated novas
colliding for the first time.


You call me to you like a rotary phone
that doesn’t understand answering machines.
Your voice is more decadent
than chocolate cake at midnight.
But Your truth stings sometimes
so I let the voicemail pick up
more times than I should.


I wear You on my tongue
because I can’t stomach anything else.
I wear Your glasses just to see
others for the beauty that they are.
Your Word is a delicate rain storm
wearing itself like an old itchy sweater
on a parched summer afternoon in July.


You leave my inhalers breathless.
You camouflage my depression
in the depths of your chest.
Green with envy.
And You lift me steady
like energetic flatlines
proving once more
that broken pieces
can always be put back together.


You have a way with words.
Your Spoken Words bring life.
Your flattery actually takes me places.
You are the rage in encouragement
and You intensify my love for You.
You see me for who I am
and You cheer me on like pom poms.
You rest in the busyness
that has become my life.

And whenever You look me in the eyes,
You softly whisper

“My love,
my love.
are very


One Great Day in a Sea of Crashing Waves

If I’m taking it one day at a time, I’d say Friday, September 29th was awesome. Without thinking too much about tomorrow or next week or next year, I’d even say the anniversary celebration event for The Definitive Soap Box was super fantastic.

In the midst of running around preparing for my boy’s birthday party with his friends, I was able to iron the draft of a poem that I eventually tried out and recited at The Soap Box. It was received well and many came up to me to commend my courage. With nearly 100 people in attendance, I owned the moment. I owned my depression. I owned…me.

Dear depression,

Shut the hell up!

Because I’m actually happy today.
Look at me.
I’m ecstatic.
I’m elated.
I’m ridiculously roused that I actually got out
of bed this morning.
And, yes, this is me being happy.

But if I’m being honest,
on days like this,
I still long to see the bottom of a shot glass.
Two shells,
cocked back,
sometimes aren’t even enough to lessen the blow
of your piercing criticism.

it’s your fermented fuse
that fuels the shrapnel
that I seem to flirt with every single day.
I’ve wishfully wanted to taste you,
but I’m always afraid of trying new things.
You intoxicatingly whisper sweet nothings
that I seem to always fall for.
And your cunning wit seems to be a lot more sharper these days.

Yesterday, you said goodbye with your silence.
And even though you never actually walked away
I hoped
I wished
I begged to never see you again.

It’s your silence that gets me.
Creepy like clowns,
but charming like chocolate.
Decedent and deranged
all at the same time.
Sickening like social media,
but comforting like the crackle of last night’s fireplace.

You can say nothing,
but it’s what you don’t say that bothers me.

And loneliness…
well, loneliness seems to have the exact same address
as her silent sister.
She’s always home when you need her to be.
I knock on her door when I need to escape,
but I’m also overwhelmed by her presence
when the doorbell rings
and life is waiting on the other side.

And even though I know
depression is a demented lie
drunk on our sour self esteem who
salivates on the first opportunity
of getting me alone,
I still flirt with his wily way of
convincing me that he’s all I’ll ever need.

And maybe he is.
Maybe he’s the only one
reminding me that I’m actually worth fighting for.
Maybe he’s the only one who cares enough
to keep me awake when I’m asleep.

just maybe he’s the only one
who thinks I truly matter.
Maybe I’m him.
And maybe I’m ok with that…

At least…for now.