Home (In 4 Parts)


This is not home.

My chest feels tight and I stare at my mom.

This is not home.

Home doesn’t make me cry.

Home isn’t across the country.

Home doesn’t trap me between four concrete walls.

Home doesn’t remind me of a prison cell.

Home isn’t dirty with dirt of students’ past.

This is not home.

The walls are closing in and they’re leaving

They’re leaving

They’re leaving.

Home just walked away.

Home hugged me goodbye

Home told me I would be fine.

Home had to leave.

Home had to reunite with the house.

This is not home.

I’m crying while doing the dishes.

My new roommate will be here soon.

I count down the hours, not because she isn’t here, but because home is getting further away.

1 hour.

4 hours.

8 hours and we stopped at a hotel.

We love you.

This is not home.




The word is ripped from my mouth before I even know it’s coming.


But it’s not referring to the home I meant it to.


As in, I’m heading back to my crappy residence apartment.


Not as in, I’m heading to my family, comfort, and house.


The word tumbles out and along comes the guilt.


What would my mom think if she knew I called somewhere else


Why did I call somewhere else


I don’t want to.


That word was my last resistance to this new place – new




I’m back.

Back at home.

The real one – the OG.

The home where I’m comfortable and taken care of.

The home where my dog lays his heavy head in my lap and the other 4 animals make it too difficult to breathe through my nose.

I’m back.

And it’s a long visit this time.

A month back home over the holidays.

Home after a month of living through the November sadness on my own.

Home with my favourite people.

I’m back.

I don’t want to go back.

Back to the school and the stress and the question of whether or not this is what I should have done?

Back to feeling lonely and disconnected.

Back to therapy.

I’m back.

But it’s time to leave soon.

I can’t fall asleep and sneak into my mom’s room.

I whisper that I want to give up – that it’s too hard.

My flight gets cancelled.

I’m back.



I can’t wait to go home.

Back home after classes for a short springtime visit.

Back to my dog and cat; my parents and the vault.

Back to the busy-ness of the city (and the air that hurts my skin).

I can’t wait to go home.

Back to my new apartment and planning for Hawaii.

Back to you and my friends.

Back to the red cliffs and dark blue sea.

Home is here and there.

Home is where I grew up and home is where I’m carving out my own life.

Home is Toronto day trips and home is exploring out East.

Home is the sense of urgency and home is the need to slow down.

Home is here and there.

I am split between my two homes.

The groundedness of the city and the freedom of the island.

The sight of flying above endless lights and flying above a calm sea.

How lucky am I to have two homes?




Missing you

Does not make me a failure.

It makes me human.


Missing you

Does not make me a failure.

It makes me a person with many homes.


Missing you

Does not make me a failure.

It makes me someone trying hard to have new experiences.


Missing you

Does not make me a failure.

It makes me aware of our geographical difference.


Missing you

Does not make me a failure.

It makes me blessed to have a family worth missing.


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.


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.”