Sometimes, the only thing that saved me was music… and reinvention. “Free Falling” by Tom Petty–  I saw my dad before he died. I don’t mean that I held his hand as the light faded away, or that I saw his last breath leave his body, or that I was there when he coded 1,…

I am probably one of the most sentimental people you’ll ever meet. I rarely hold onto items and clothing, though. For me, it’s all about words: the ones I have written and the ones people have written to me –  and about me. I have binders full of letters, carefully preserved. I have boxes filled…

“We are an amalgamation of everyone we’ve known and loved.” I saw that quote, and it’s been there in the back of my mind, a whisper of a melody I long to hear in full. Some days I feel like a threadbare quilt, almost translucent, nearly gossamer. But I know I’m a tapestry, thick and…

I had a dream about him, and about her.   It wasn’t the story about the couple who were torn apart by a slip in time and space, who each entered a shop for Halloween costumes, and became stuck in two different worlds, unable to reach one another. Forever. It is not the dream about the…

Dear Younger Me, To the little girl Liz. You were so desperate for affection, even back then. You had it with your family, and you had a few friends who cared for you, but a lot of the time you felt like a misfit. A lot of times it was the bullies who made you…

The other day, my lovely friend Julie mentioned that she was reading her livejournal, and it sparked my curiosity. I wanted to read mine again. I do it every few years, laughing at how dramatic I was, cringing at some of the things I wrote, groaning over the grammatical errors and the little girl I…

Dedicated to my father, John. Happy birthday daddy-o. You always reminded me of who I really was. This is a story about a girl who lost herself, and the woman who found her. When I was a little girl, I had dreams about another land, and another time. There is one that sticks with me,…

Here’s one thing I hear quite often: “I notice your writing is mostly about love.” The question there, unasked, is why? There are, of course, all the usual reasons that love is the main subject of many poems, songs, books, plays, paintings, etc.: love is powerful, love is terrible, love is beautiful, love is a…

I long to be a love goddess, with raven dark wings, a rose quartz wand, a crown of peonies and magic sizzling like lightning at my fingertips. There is the magic we know, and the magic I crave. The magic we know is intention and rituals, candles and glass jars, obsidian and red salt, moon…

Would you keep the letters, and memories? Amaranthus flowers drooping over a crystal vase, fingers shaking, because love lies bleeding and I have it in a glass. Young raven wings tremble. One ebony feather drifting down to rest, I wonder if these wings will still fly, if I try. Is it will I try, or…