I am a LGBTQ + Writer, Storyteller, & Editor

Media Projects

Video Production | Sound Design | Screen Writing | Radio Writing | Video Editing

Public Relations

Feature Writing | Press Releases | Pitches | Social media

Creative Writing

Non-fiction Essays | Short Fiction | Flash Fiction | Micro-Fiction | Poetry


She glances at the passenger seat. Blood speckles the tan canvas of her duffel bag. She didn’t realize how much there was. She didn’t think he would hear her. She didn’t hear him. He was supposed to be asleep. But there he had stood gripping her bag, the one she had behind the washer he never touched and then the bag was connecting with her face and she was in fight mode, no flight mode, no both. They’re the same when you’re cornered.

What she did hear was the thud of metal on his skull when the lamp connected with his head. What she heard was his slow exhale as he doubled over and clutched his newly slick head, his gasp when she wrenched her arm free from his grasp, his scream when she shut the door on the hand straining to retain its grip on her bag, and finally the sound of an engine starting – the sound of promise and possibility

You say, “I’m sorry” because you forgot to send him that email. You say, “I’m sorry” because the dog came back covered in mud and tracked it throughout the house. Because dinner was over-cooked apparently. You say, “I’m sorry” because you don’t want to hear your mother’s, “I told you so”. Because once a month she gives you that look when you drop off the kids. You say, “I’m sorry” because you made a choice 10 years ago that good Christian women stand by and you are a good Christian woman, damn it. You say, “I’m sorry” because that is the woman’s role according to your Sunday sermons.You say “I’m sorry” because his voice is getting louder, and veins are beginning to surface. Because doors are slamming, and the garage door opens at 1 am. Because you cling to your Bible as if it can save you. You say “I’m sorry” because at night you whisper on the telephone with your sister-in-law as you sniffle and rage and apologize again. Because you spend every day walking among broken glass afraid you’ll lose your balance. You say “I’m sorry” because it’s easier than having the same fight over again, and again, and again. Because you know that things will never change. Because it’s been 10 years and you don’t have your own bank account anymore. Because you believe you deserve the separate beds and the soon-to-be estranged son. Because you chose wrong. You say “I’m sorry” because you don’t know how else to preserve the ties connecting your family. Because you refuse to see the barbed wire wrapped around them for anything but a thread. Because you spent five dates finding a man able to give you a family home full of kids. Because then, finally, someone would need you and love you like you needed and loved them. You say “I’m sorry” because it’s all too much for you to bear. You say “I’m sorry” because there’s a gnawing, whimpering thing in you pulling you down, trying to stick your leg in a trap.

Because the air mattress you slept on
Popped 10 months ago and
the futon that took its place
Now has worn in dents

at 1am
I hear your
Muffled gasps and
Wet breaths
Against your pillow
And I worry

Because when you speak
of the future
You think I don’t notice
That you don’t include yourself

So, sometimes
When I come home and
you’re not there and no one
can tell me where you went
I fear you’re crushed
within mangled metal
I fear I’m newly orphaned.

Because ever since
I can remember,
You have folded your hands
and asked God to take you home
At age 13 I stopped folding hands
To a God that let your every step
to be over broken glass

But sometimes
Sometimes, when you talk about
Walking across cobblestones streets,
The Mediterranean to your left
and new freckles squeezing
onto your already crowded skin
I think I see your shoulders soften,
And scar tissue forming over old wounds.
My hands get ready to fold and thank God
until you tell me “I’m fine”
and I worry some more.

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