My Journal
Writing is an important way for me to process my feelings, questions, confusions, and experiences.
CW: some journal entries are about traumatic experiences
Uncatchable Muse
Maybe 3:22am is the time to write about you
Maybe 3:22am is the time to write about you,
because the rest of my day is diaper-filled.
At 3:22am, I can lean into our kiss slowly
and wait until my head finds just the right tilt
to make you happy.
You like it when I tilt to the right, right?
what i’ve known
Sometimes at night
my wife reaches out to me in bed
Sometimes at night
my wife reaches out to me in bed
and I notice how soft her hand is;
I hold it or kiss it, or give it our special squeeze.
Sometimes at night
my wife reaches out to me in bed
and my whole body jumps, heart screaming,
terrified of what’s coming.
Then I remember
what I’ve known.
8.5 cm
When I was in labor at 8 centimeters dilated, the process got stuck.
When I was in labor at 8 centimeters dilated, the process got stuck. I stayed there for hours, at 8 centimeters, breathing and screaming and moaning through each contraction, desperate during the breaks between.
At 8.5 centimeters - with the gentle urging of my doctor, doula, and wife - I got an epidural and it was just the medicine I needed. I took a deep, long, sleep and woke up two hours later to push my beautiful daughter earthside.
A few weeks ago, my wife told me that while I was sleeping in the hospital bed, she looked over at me and saw me curled up, sucking my thumb.
Imagine that – a grown woman, about to give birth, sleeping like a baby and sucking her own thumb.
We are all mothers, daughters, and grandmas. We are all here and beyond. We are all life and the darkness of death. And everything in between.
Potomac again
The river doesn’t rush the rain.
The river doesn’t rush the rain.
And the pull of my planet
sometimes intersects with yours,
making me forget my gravity.
I’ll meet you there,
where the river narrows.
Our bright eyes alive,
again.
gaslighting haiku
told him what happened
told him what happened
”do you know your memories
are real?” he replied
how could this be true?
Beach. Crying. 1:40am.
Beach. Crying. 1:40am.
Stars.
Digging as deep as I can to find forgiveness.
Help me, God.
Please.
He taught me about constellations.
He took me camping.
He ripped my body from me.
How could this be true?