Some days, we chase the tiny hands around the face of the clock.We lap up every second, pretending the bowl will never run dry. Some days, we wear the day like a second skin—muddy, matted, made to shed. Some days, we play pretend.Other days, we just play.
Author: ourcityheart
Rooted in Lasting Notes
Baa’s house was all bursts of purple and sunshine. The back room TV screened nothing but old Disney cartoons or classic black and whites, while she sat front-room-piano-playing with Pappou in the big chair beside her and the family gathered ‘round. The noise of all of us storytelling on top of one another mixed with the…
From Pain to Poetry: How I Stitched Myself Back Together, One Word at a Time
In the depths of grief, I found myself unraveling like a moth-eaten sweater. Each thread, once strong and woven into the fabric of who I was, seemed to fray beyond repair. Yet, inside of each of those very holes, I discovered the threads of my resilience: words. This is the story of how I stitched…
Bloating
My swollen, aching stomach is no place to raise a child made from scratch.
Little Birdy Must Have Told Them
NOTE: written a loooong time ago when I worked in a public office in Downtown Long Beach “Let’s see if you can understand …” even as the words tip-toed through her pulled-tight lips, there was doubt. She said she fills her backpack with little birdies and crayola and writes about envy and love Who could…
P.S. My hair is super bright green
hair that stands to greet the brightness of the morning with joy of its own — that’s the only kind of style I’ll rock for a while to feel right at home. a pile of green frizz wild, free, and loud as can be, that’s how my hair is. it didn’t just wake me from…
Time to Clean House
Like sitting on top of a pile of mixed clean and soiled laundry, waiting for an outfit to wrap itself around me so I can start my day — I’m an undressed mess of stories, some need folding and some need sorting, and I’m too tired of naked waiting to tell the difference. My ideas used…
Stake the Day
you’ve nothing to prove except that your lungs can still open, close, and fill and empty and fill, fuel and drain and over again, like always.
Goodbye, Good Boy
Boy, funny how small you looked on the doctor’s floor sleeping still for good. Boy, both ears folded against your big, black Pit face tuned us out for good. Boy, your huge, leathered paws don’t fill easy now they’ve stopped walking for good.
Moth-Eaten Sweater 