Prepared for Everything and Nothing: Six Word Story

She lives underground; Apocalypsed by love.

Mementos, Loveless Years, & Soliloquies

I’m stuck in this place
shut-in an inescapable destination
she lies about her love
and I wait for the moment
she confesses–it never comes

I am a forgiving person
I think–“she’ll come to her
senses soon”
but there is no soon
and I grow tired of
standing by a shaky
promise
it is flawed and broken

lately, I’ve been feeling
flawed and broken too
finally, she waltzes in
with gifts and sweet apologies
that melt my heart

I’m putty, a weakling
she has me right where
she wants me . . .

falling back into
her world, forsaking
and forgetting mine

only the courageous

I don’t know anyone
else who can make
me laugh and cry
uncontrollably in the
same conversation

you have a spirit that
will never give up
you’re a warrior
ancestors at your
beck and call,
assistance for every
attack

gifted, mighty words-worker
who turns sustenance
into art
you are before
your time, our time,
and the times ahead

it would be pointless
to simply say,
“I love you,”
I am blessed to breathe
the same air you
wheel into your
lungs

how can a world of
goodness dwell in
one person
this, I’ll never know
but I’m glad I
know you


For my beautiful friend, Heejin, who is everything amazing and so much more. This was my Valentine’s Day gift to her.

Wolf Mother

you are stronger
than you know
the power behind
a well-worn broken
heart, you are
remarkable, glutinous, whole

I admire you
you’ve given half
of yourself to
two different people
and they’re growing into their own
beings

Mother wolf, deviser
of solid plans
meshed in mathematical
data, intellectual spirit

your eyes hold
timeless love and
I stand on sure footing
bound to hear the
re-emergence of sound
from each blink


This poem is for my friend Alexainie whom we call “Zainey”, written on Valentine’s Day. It is my gift to her for being in my life and loving me as she does.

The Funeral

Microfiction

Photo by Wojtek Mich via Unsplash

She laid his suit out on the bed. A freshly pressed blue shirt. His favorite speckled necktie. Blue and black cufflinks.

He would look great at his final foray into the crowd. She’ll remember him fondly. His crooked smile. His hopeful laugh. The nasty nights of arguing. So many nights of arguing.

He never saw the machete she wielded in her hand. His last words were, “I never meant to . . .”

She doesn’t miss him as much as she thought she would.


Originally published in The Weekly Knob via Medium.