A Love Letter to Dance

*This is a older project that is being re-posted on this blog. It was originally published by Quetzal and can be found here.


I don’t think I’ll ever miss you.

I don’t think I’ll ever truly let you go either.

That’s the way it’s always been for us. I could never fully commit- or ever fully quit. You teased me with the idea of freedom, but you never meant it.

You made me feel alive. Like I was moving through air. Your song coursed through my veins and begged me to stay. Whispering my name.

But you were killing me.

While my body loved to move; loved the feeling of floating, my mind was screaming- crying- begging me to stop.

Every day I stood in front of you while you judged me. While you held me up against other girls- younger, older, prettier, more graceful, flexible, able to nail that 5th turn every time- and told me that I was never good enough.

At one point that drove me farther. Eager to test the limits of your love. Eager to be the best you could have.

And then I just stopped.

Because I no longer wanted you to love me. I wanted to hate you, and I did. I do.

Your kiss was teasing, taunting, enticing. It was the kiss of death, but one I always craved.

After all, you’ve always been a good kisser.

Without you, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I wouldn’t be strong, I wouldn’t be free.

But I also wouldn’t be so quick to tears.

So quick to know that you hated me. Everyone in your world was harsh, and capable of bringing any girl to tears with a single look.

Because judging is the center of your love.

Judging and competition are what make your love stronger.

And if someone makes it into that center, and doesn’t want to scream and jump off the edge, then they win. They win because they won your love.

And that was all any of us ever wanted.



You’re not in my darkest thoughts, but you’re definitely in my dirtiest.

Sheets tangled around our legs,

Your whisper in my ear,

My tight grip in your hair,

The feel of your tongue on my —


You don’t consume me, just appear when I’m lonely.

When someone asks me about you,

When the holidays come and I want someone,

When the throwbacks remind me how close we were,

When the realization hits me that we could have been something if I had just —


I’m happy for you, until I’m not.

I was too quiet, then too casual, then too late,

She’s adorable and I’m really happy you two are together,

I think about you to torture my soul,

I wish I had taken the chance when —



You’re not there all the time,

But you’re there enough.

I think you’re my new favourite what if.

I am a writer.

Fall in love with a writer.

You’ll be preserved for forever.

Every little thing you do – the things you don’t even think about – will be written down for everyone to read. How you duck your chin into your neck when you feel shy; how your laugh sounds like little bells chiming together; how the sunlight caught your eyelashes just right that one late Sunday morning.

A writer will take the little things and show the world – and you – your beauty.

Fall in love with a writer.

They hide behind their words, but once you speak the language, my god.

You’ll be introduced into a world of emotions deeper than you could ever imagine. You’ll see right into their core, their heart, their soul. Once you speak the language, nothing is hidden.

Fall in love with a writer.

And watch them cut themeselves open to bleed for you.

Words on a page are not just words on a page. These are the deepest secrets, truths, and thoughts of your writer. This is pure blood, raw emotion. It’s overwhelming and intimidating and oh so real.

Fall in love with a writer and you’ll never be the same again.

Don’t fall in love with a writer.

Everything is a fantasy.

Even their written down version of you. It is not you, but the you they wish you could be. You will never live up to their version; you will never follow their script.

Don’t fall in love with a writer.

They’re experts at manipulating words. You’ll find yourself tangled in webs of emotions that they made you feel just with a few well chosen words and points of emphasis. There are lies and exaggerations down every hall, and a laughing writer around every corner.

Don’t fall in love with a writer.

Especially if you don’t plan on staying.

You’ll be preserved forever. In between the pages of their book. Everyone will know it’s you because writers don’t forget, and writers like chaos.

Fall in love with a writer and you’ll never be the same again.

I am a writer.

I mince words. I am a fan of manipulation.

I tell lies.

I will make you feel things.

I will make you hate me and yourself.

I create your wildest fantasies and can tear them all down with a few lines.

I am a writer.

I will love you more than anyone else.

I will bleed.

I will hide my feelings in subtext. I will show everyone you’re beautiful.

I will notice the things no one else does and will treasure them for always.

I will make you love yourself and me.

I am a writer.

Fear me.

Love me.


I wonder if anyone thinks about me; I wonder who thinks about me.

I wonder who thinks about me slinging a leg over their hips, pressing down, hands flat against their chest, my hair falling over bare shoulders.

Do they think I’m loud? Head thrown back, cries and moans falling out of my open mouth?

Do they think I’m quiet? Breaths and gasps whispering past my lips?

(I don’t know who wonders, but I know who’s right.)

Do they picture me like that? Raw and exposed? Soft and wanting?

Do they picture me like this? Fiery and demanding. Fucking in charge.

What do they think about? When they hear my name, my voice? When they see my lips, my eyes (my shoulders that I constantly bare)?

I wonder who thinks about me?

Do you wonder about me?

Like I do you?


Red Sands

My feet sink into the red sand beneath me. I’m watching the tide go out. Slowly – pulling the red along with it.

I want to go with the red sand. I want to go with the ocean.

I’ve never stood here before.

The waves are still rocking past my ankles. Running towards me, a teasing splash, a little further, and then a small tug as they retreat back to the sea.

I close my eyes and just listen.

Splsssh, splssh, splssh.

I want to follow the red sand so badly that I imagine the waves tugging at my ankles.

Another tug.

It feels like the ocean has wrapped its fingers around my ankles – whispering for me to join them.

I look down and can no longer see the red sand. My feet are buried under seaweed that has wrapped itself around me.

The ocean’s fingers.

Another tug.

I take a step forward as the waves move further down the shore.

Every time the waves reach my ankles, more seaweed joins in the pull.

Water running, splash up, cold grab, sharp tug, and a step forward.

Whoosh, up, grab, tug, forward.

Up, grab, tug, forward.

Up, tug, deeper.

The waves are bouncing along my neck now.

I’m splashed in the face – up.

The seaweed wraps around my hips – grab.

Join us – a whisper.

The rush of water filling my ears, my nose, every pore on my body – tug.

I can’t see the red sand anymore.


I Blamed it on the Solar Eclipse

You popped into my mind and I almost drove through a red light.

I blamed it on the solar eclipse.

It has nothing to do with me still knowing your birthday.


My thoughts drifted to the feel of your body pressed against mine.

I blamed it on the solar eclipse.

It’s not because I still think I might love you.


My stomach feels empty and I turn away from the food on my plate.

I blamed it on the solar eclipse.

I forgot that I don’t eat when I’m stressed.


My eyes have been puffy, red and sore all day.

I blamed it on the solar – actually I blamed this one on my allergies,

But one pill and four hours later and the pollen levels must be pretty high – I didn’t spend the whole night crying.

Good Enough

He was a heavy weight on her heart. His sweaty chest pressed against hers, pushing her into the mattress below.

She was trapped.

She rubbed her hands up and down his back, willing him to roll over.

He should know by now. She didn’t like him crowding her. She needed her space afterwards. She needed room to breath.

He sighed and rolled onto his back.

She missed his heat.

Was she really ready to let that go?


He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Come back.” She commanded to the ceiling.

He rolled back into her, pressing kisses along her neck. She closed her eyes and let herself melt into the touch.

This – this was fine.

Good even.

He cared about her, more than she cared about him, but the love was still there.

Her thumb rubbed against her ring finger; a nervous habit she had for years, but now it glided along her new engagement ring.

She wasn’t nervous about being a bride. She’d been waiting for it for years! She planned on getting married at 25. It’s not her fault that he didn’t show up until 27.

She looked down at him snuggling against her neck.

He’d be fine right? He could be the one?

“Mmmh,” he hummed, “How was it?”

She could be happy.

She could have someone who loved her. Someone who was passionate. Someone who showed her respect. Someone who didn’t ask too many questions when her eyes wandered.

Someone who was perfect (just not for her).

She could have love. She could have a husband.

She met his eyes for the first time that night and smirked.

“Good enough.”