Category Archives: love

Introducing Gut Punch Poetry

Hey Friends!

I started a YouTube channel for my poetry! It’s called Gut Punch Poetry.

I’ll still be posting here, but if you want to hear me read my work, please subscribe!

You can like, share, comment, and ask questions! It will feel more engaging and personal.

I’ve been putting it off because I didn’t feel I had the right setup (the right camera and audio equipment, the right space, the right lighting, etc…) BUT I just needed to BEGIN.

I figure I can make improvements over time, and I’m sure I’ll look back on my early videos with shame and embarrassment, but I had to start somewhere!



After the heart is broken
what choice does it have
but to bleed out
to scab
to scar
to somehow
blend in again with skin
that’s textured as yours?

After the heart is broken
what choice does it have
but to heal
to  hope
to wait
to somehow
believe that love
has been looking for you
and all it wants is for you
to notice it and stay.










He is out there somewhere
clinching his fists—
the man you ran away from,
the man who loves you anyway,
who brought you bleeding hearts
and lilacs and daffodils
and cayenne pepper chocolate bars—
the man who wrote your name
in the sand and on his heart
and would drive three hours
to see you for just one.
He is out there somewhere
wringing his hands
wondering where you are—
and why you still write poems
about how sad it is to live without love,
when his promise to you hangs in the air
like a thick morning fog
concealing a meadow full of sunflowers—
and all you need to do is walk toward him
and everything will become clear
and he will erase your doubts
with his trembling hands
but you are the skeptic
who believes that if you get too close
he will run away too.










“Sweets to the Sweet” by Edmund Blair Leighton, 1893

How to Love an Introvert Part V

He destroyed you once again
with his honest words—
with the explanation you asked for
then begged for,
hoping to hear it again, differently,
as if maybe you misheard him the first time
when he said, “Weekends are enough for me.”
as if maybe he really said they aren’t.
But because the frequency
of your perfectly spent days with him
did not increase
you began to wonder about the flaws
he must have seen in you—
the ones you believed you’d hidden so well.
And taking this to heart, you decided
he was almost benevolent
for spending any time with you at all,
and so decided it would be an act of kindness
to remove yourself from his company
and love him how he ought to be loved—
from afar.






“The Absinthe Drinker” by Edgar Degas, 1876



My days are spent
with a dozen children
who do not know
their mothers.
Mothers I pretend
are dead
were stricken with grief
the day they exchanged
their baby
for their freedom
from the life sentence
of a disabled child.
And though
my own children
were born
into perfection
I remember the way it felt
to see them struggle
with what would one day
become easy.
will not be
a part of these lives
but there are moments
with each of them
that inspire praise
and adoration—
a crude drawing
of a school bus,
a new word correctly used,
hard-won comprehension.
I like to kiss the tops
of their heads
and pull them into me—
and for a moment
I am their mother
in love
with my creation.







“A Dame’s School” by Thomas Webster, 1845

Storage Shed

The cardboard boxes
have collapsed under the weight
of this past year—
they have suffered the daily cycle
of dew and dawn and temperatures
that had no trouble penetrating
the sheet metal walls
of this storage shed.
I am here to empty the contents
of this small rectangular room
that you filled so neatly with your hate.
The first time I unlocked
the flimsy door and rolled it up,
my books (not even boxed)
tumbled to my feet like the lives
you believe I destroyed.
It took hours to chisel a path
into my belongings,
so haphazardly strewn,
that I could feel the pleasure you took
in purging me from your life—
from the house we shared
for a dozen years.
Who could blame you
for not letting me back in
after I told you what crimes
I couldn’t help but commit?
And as I carried away
the things I found I could live without
I began to imagine you
filling the boxes with resentment
and taping them shut
with sticky bitterness.
I imagined the involuntary smile
that would appear on your face
if you knew my favorite mug was broken.
My stained glass window, cracked.
The lemongrass basket, crushed.
I thought about texting you this news
because I knew it would give you
a small deserved delight—
but you’d misunderstand
and think I was trying to tell you
it was somehow your fault.






“Alvaro and Christina” by Andrew Wyeth, 1968