gold bones

I pull and nothing happens. I pull again and nothing happens.

“Yo. Open up.”

I watch the little black lock-indicator relent through the passenger glass. In a brash motion I fling the door to its hinge's extent and fall in. I balance two coffees stacked on top of each other. The straws are inconvenient.

 “Soymilk,” I extend it.

His hand is bone and milk white as it comes and wraps around the plastic cup.  “Thank you.”

He is in messy hair and faded skin. I am in high-waisted shorts and a starchy new tee shirt. There is space in his skinny jeans but he's still breathing. There’s no pretty scenery but there’s some trees going out the windshield.

There’s a minute where nothing happens. The car is off so there’s no air conditioner noises and no bastille noises because the key it out of the mouth of the key receiver and the music died like don mclean said it would when I opened the passenger. a car door somewhere else opens and closes and I watch him pull the paper tip off of his straw with his teeth.

“you want to go for a ride?” I ask. “somewhere
where we can drink these. And look at

he shakes his mess. this is the first time he has been out in a week. his eyes aren't ready for the pretty yet, but they are ok with the parking lot. 

"okay," i say. sipping.

"its pretty
he says, moving some bones toward the glass separating us from the coffee shop.

"i'm looking"

"you see those

"i see them."

he leans back,
putting the
into his fist.

i move my eyes to the windshield and look at the trees. i sip the coffee in my hand. this  the first time i've
seen him
in a

i wonder when he's last eaten.

"man," he says. "look at those trees though..."

i say nothing for a minute.

"what do you see
when you look at those trees?"

he thinks.

i think about putting the music back on for him. would it make him feel safer to have the noise? should i give him the noise? 

"i see
tree skin." he says and moves the straw past his thin
tree tumors."

"i saw a bowl made out of a tree tumor at a museum once." 


"yeah, i don't know."

he swallows and then
leans his head back on the rest.
he is so tall that it just kinda drapes there, letting some of the
reddish blonde fall over the back;
coaxing his adam's apple to the surface of the skin wrapping his gullet. 


i agree.

he swallows and it's noticeable with the way his head is. the bump in his throat drifts up and down.
his eyes laze shut.

"you want me to put the key in so
so you can have the

he shakes his head
or tries

and then just says "mmm"

less energy spent in the murmurings than in the movements.
the movements are

"mmm" sounds like yes but i know him well enough to know it means the opposite. 

"i'm ok."

"you sure?"

"i'm ok."


he sits back up again and sips the drink in his hands, swallows some substance this time.
he laughs without parting his lips. the noise catches in the space between his teeth and skin.

the laugh is a swan
covered in oil;

pretty once
but half dead now. 

"why, you want the music on? i thought you liked talking." he says. "the quiet."

"i do." i say.
"i do like
talking but i
want you to be


he stops being
himself for a
second, looking.

"but you know..." he says. "like,

i feel like maybe i'm too

i'm too comfortable in a

bad way.

because my comfort zones... I don't know...

i didn't make them in good places.
so when i'm
in them, i'm

i'm in a not good place."

in a good place." 

"stop with your english," he moans. 

i laugh "i'm sorry,
i'm sorry."

he thinks, but i can tell it's about something else. 

"you know what's so weird though?" he asks, then goes on. "i
those places. the comfortable places. i
made that

head space."

"you can always make new ones, you know." i said.
"new head spaces."

"i don't
know how."

"you say
you don't know how, but
but you won't let anyone show you how." i said

casual but
but wanting to tear him
apart to

to get to the 

"it would start with
thing you
so much.

it would start with something light, like a croissant. maybe some soup. then a drive into the mountains. some clean air
in your lungs--
fresh air.
pretty views.

the trees here, yes. they're pretty.
but the walls in your bedroom can be pretty too
until you make them your
the coffee is good until it just becomes another
hunger killer.
the problem is, you're too
knotted up

in yourself to start building that new place to live in. you still obsess over what other people will think of you, or what your sick mind might say about you.
well listen, pretty eyes,
you're slow dancing death into a
and you're not letting anyone
cut in."

"it's hard to let her go." he says. "i... i don't know. i just..."

"what?" i ask. "you what?"

his tongue touches his lips. he shakes his head. 
so much space in those skinny jeans.

"i feel like i deserve her."
he tells me.

he tells me because he can't see
what i see.

behind those


i missed writing. i missed it a lot


notch || the road is home

Notch Trail || 1.5 miles
Badlands, SoDak

of all the places in this world i've been, the badlands are one of my most beloved. it's so quiet there, so quiet. i'll never forget the quiet. it's the kind of quiet like what the moon would probably have, i think. it feels moon-quiet to me; broken every oft by a cellphone voice or family of four. or seven.

i woke up early for this one, and put on gym shorts. momma had coffee going and i drank some and abbie put on her wide angle. my dad was scruffy faced and talking about the heat probably. the sky was opaque white over top of us as we drove to the trail head. it would shed its skin to a robin's egg blue later on.

we hiked, climbed ladders and rocks, and sweat some. i took pictures of abbie taking pictures, and at the end of it there was what looked like an ancient cave of bats that were birds instead. birds that swam up and dove down again like the thick air was water; messing up the silence with those heaven soaked voices.


where was the last place you adventured like an over-caffeinated fiend? 

the writers [the world changers] || Grace Anne

a writer does not write
because they want to

a writer writes
because they have to

a writer is a world
trapped inside of a human body.
they bleed stories
it’s not something they can help;
they’re born that way

a writer can make a trip to the grocery store
into a glorious adventure
a walk down the block
suddenly becomes a journey

oftentimes people are confused by writers
they don’t understand

how can they, when the writer can’t even understand

how can they understand why you suddenly awake in the middle of the night
and are found slumped over the kitchen table the next day
but happy
because you finally found the perfect sentence

how can they understand
the way the words become a part of you
pumping through your veins

they can’t

and that’s okay

because maybe writer aren’t meant
to be understood

maybe they are just meant
to be

just the way that they are

the way that their hair is always messy
and the way that they laugh a little too loud
the way that their eyes glaze over
when they’ve become lost in their own world
and the way that they feel
more deeply than you can comprehend

and that’s okay

they are the creatives
they are the world changers
don’t try to change them
let them change the world
let them be their strange
unique selves

because it’s okay


so blessed and stoked and torn to small joyful pieces over these needed, masterpiece words by Grace Anne. This girl blesses my soul, guys. Go show her some love on her beautiful blog space Totally Graced.

x O,


limping too

clean this up
change this part here,
make this part
make this part different

it's too messy
too much

just clean it up a little


cut and paste

scissors doing their
scissoring job
while i take out the face paint
and draw on the smile that the
magazine told me
would look better on me than the shape my lips formed as they
made way for the

"where am i in all of this noise?"

i may look better to you, i may sound better,
i may be carefully creased at the edges,
put away,
but my mind is gone,
my face,
where'd i put it?
i don't know where i am in all of this
tidy packaging
because i 
i was never meant to be boxed up i guess.
i liked it better messy,
i knew myself in messy,
and even when i let the scissors 
do their scissoring job
i'm still down here looking up, hearing footsteps on the ground above thinking

"i wanna be up there too"

because i'm not that tidy. 
i'm not folded,
and if the words flow better messy?
let them.
because hi
i am messy

i am incoherent sometimes
sometimes my face breaks out
sometimes i make no sense
sometimes i sit in front of empty pages like this one was and have no idea what i'm doing, and doubt myself and everything 


everything i've 
ever made, 
i am.

they invited me to the party, but i hear they have a 
they have a dress code,

and i'm sorry but if that's the case?
if that's the case i guess i can't come 
because if i come, 
i do not come to the party with perfect skin and clothes,

i come wounded,

and i'm not gonna hide the place where the bullets found me
where the words,
the cut,
found me.

because underneath the noise
the bass,
the velvet words,
the flawlessness?

they're all limping too.