Just so you know…

I Got It

I got
I got
I got that pizzazz
that strut, that sway
yeah, I got it
make you turn your head
want to stay in bed
yeah, I got it
got your time of day
send your thoughts astray
but you got
you got to learn
that you must earn
what I got
you have to woo me
and charm me
and never try to harm me


again and again…

again, and

I don’t even remember writing this. But judging from the notebook I found it in I didn’t write it all that long ago. Hmm. Now I’m wondering if I should turn this into something more substantial.

Human blood travels 60,000 miles per day on its journey through the body. She wasn’t sure why this thought came to her—now. But it was comforting to remember Mr. Klein, teacher of science for grades six through eight, imparting these strange tidbits of biological wisdom on his students in the hopes of piquing their curiosity enough to explore the wonders and mysteries of the natural world beyond the basics of the “chapter review Q and A” in their textbooks.

It was far more comforting to think of Mr. Klein, and seventh grade, and even Will Schneider, the little shit who tormented her until his family finally moved to Denver or Chicago or wherever it was during their sophomore year. Yes, even little Willy Schnilly was better than this.

She touched her forehead, wincing as she did so, and then studied the blood on her fingertips as she pulled her hand away. How far had this blood travelled, she wondered, through her veins and arteries, before being forced to change direction? And how much farther did it have yet to go?

…written immediately following a break-up. I found it on the back of an old bill I was going to throw away.

my love
I cannot stay
and so I give you
half the sky
I will keep the thunder
and rain clouds and hail
you keep the rainbows
and sunshine
I am not strong enough to
save us both
and I have learned I can
be my own sunshine


human thigh bones are
stronger than concrete
if only that was true
for the heart
no calcium strengthens
this soulful muscle

if I were to drop your
heart onto the sidewalk from
our bedroom window
(and I must confess I’ve imagined
doing this more than once)
if I dropped your heart, would
it survive the fall?
or would the concrete accept my
sacrifice and devour your
heart, drinking in the blood and
whatever life still flowed
within the chambers after
being removed, delicately —
or maybe not quite so
gently — from your vicious,
viscous chest?

blood and fluids seep into
the concrete through cracks
and fissures, and there are some
red splatters on the grass
at least, I think there are
it’s hard to be sure from
three stories up

What are you scared of?

There was a time when the answer to this question was obvious and straightforward: spiders and needles. Duh. Then, of course, there’s the usual fears about something terrible happening to one of my children. All mothers fear this, and that fear is simultaneously irrational and totally expected. And it will never go away. But what am I scared of? This has become rather a loaded question of late.

Because now I’m afraid to be positive. Usually that’s a good word. And can be combined to great effect with myriad other words — positive thinking, positive energy, positive affirmations, positive reinforcement, positive pregnancy test — although this last carries plenty to be scared of. Trust me. But one word that ‘positive’ does not go well with is ‘biopsy’. Last week I went in for a biopsy of my very own and am now waiting for the results.

And I thought waiting two minutes for the result of a home pregnancy test was hard.

I do try to put a positive spin on things (find the humour, look on the bright side and all that); my love of sarcasm comes in pretty handy for this. I didn’t know what to expect during the procedure (having never done this before), but I was, naturally, expecting it to be awful. I mean, there are just certain parts of the body that needles and scalpels and other sharp instruments should stay away from. Far, far away. And the words ‘punch’ and ‘vagina’ simply don’t go together.* At all. So I couldn’t help but be amused when the doctor asked me — in the middle of the process — if it was as horrible as I’d anticipated. I told her that only someone prone to exaggeration would describe the procedure as horrible and I never, ever exaggerate.

I am a writer, after all.

So now I wait. And if I thought the biopsy was bad, the waiting is even worse. The uncertainty. The not knowing. The worst-case-scenario imaginings. And my imagination has gone to town the past five days.

But I do what I can to stay calm. I breathe. And focus on the positive. But not being positive.

And I wait.


*Side Note: Who the hell came up with the phrase ‘punch biopsy’? Because I kinda’ want to punch that person in the nose.

Love notes…

This was not Molly’s favourite day. In fact, it ranked as one of her least liked days ever, second only to ten days ago when she came home and found Marc’s body.

Why? she thought. Why on earth would he do such a thing?

She thought they had been happy. She thought he had been happy. They’d been talking about getting married, maybe even buying a house. Things had been going so well. Or so she thought.

The funeral today had not brought any sense of comfort or closure that she’d been hoping for. Molly was relieved to be coming home, bringing this horrible day of mourning and mourners to a close with some blessed silence.

Out of habit Molly checked the mail before heading upstairs to her apartment.

And stopped, hands shaking, barely breathing. There, between the phone bill and a flier for carpet cleaning, was an envelope addressed to her in Marc’s impeccable handwriting.

A suicide note? An explanation? A tear fell, smudging the ink Marc had used to write her name.

She wanted answers. She wanted to fly upstairs and rip the envelope open. But she didn’t trust her legs.

With great concentration, Molly made her way upstairs, unlocked her door, and went inside. Slowly, deliberately, she opened the envelope. And then closed her door, wanting to be alone with her beloved Marc one last time.