Welcome to my lovely home,
Mom cooks dinner on most nights. She just retired. She loves to garden.
Dad is a school teacher.
My brother is an interesting fellow – a pilot, a bassist, a lawn care provider.
I am a violinist. I like to bake. I’m the youngest and smallest.
Welcome to my lovely home where standing up for yourself in the face of being mistreated is considered a character flaw.
In this house, you don’t speak up when someone hurts you. That’s ‘dramatic.’ And ‘escalating.’ Here, you don’t ask for help when someone attacks you – no one wants to be ‘dragged into that.’ In this family, the only right thing to do is shut your mouth or eat the shit they cram into you. There is no workaround. No door number three. No emergency escape exit. There is only the floor, where you belong, face down, empty soles pressed to your skull to make sure you never get up. If you lift your head, they will stomp on you. If you try to speak, they will force their own bad choices into your esophagus until you puke.
They’ll place the things they hate most about themselves on your shoulders, and beat you down for carrying them. They’ll call you selfish when you try to shrug them off.
They’ll try to kill themselves vicariously through you, and any measures you take to try and save yourself are argumentative or belligerent or stubborn.
You are never right.
You are never worthy of respect.
Dignity is on a shelf too high for you to reach.


What a wrong time to be alive.

This era, and all the eras before it, will never be forgiven for what they’ve done.

I wish to give my elements back to the sky – peaceful. perfect. cold.


Love Letter #2

I made this dumb wordpress blog specifically for the purpose of writing about things other than love, and other than men, and other than men I may ever love or have loved. So, I’m not doing so well at that.

It took me a few trials (and errors) to learn to never, ever tell someone that I’ll “always love them.” Because when they inevitably prove they aren’t worthy or deserving, I won’t realize it until some years after the falling-out, and then I’ll feel like a moron for having let some jackass go on the rest of his life thinking that there is even a single atom of me that still gives a fraction of a damn about him. But I know I can’t blame myself; when you love someone, it never feels temporary. It feels transcendent of space and time. It feels like it has to be measured in units of supernovae.

It feels like all that, until it doesn’t. Until he cheats, or lies, or otherwise shows his true colors, and I come crashing back down to Earth. The fall is harrowing, and it lasts months or years, and I’m sure that it’ll kill me in the end. But I land with no impact, upright and on two feet. There’s no crater. I didn’t burn up in the atmosphere. All my molecules are still there, carbon intact. I realize that this mortal human I thought would rip me apart and char the meaning out of my life, in reality, barely even singed me. My soul is wholly untouched by every moment the two of us shared. While we were together, I thought the love between us was the single life-supporting force in the universe. But now that it’s over, and now that I’ve done all the necessary suffering, I understand that it really just wasn’t that big a fuckin deal. 

Only,  I haven’t gotten there with you yet. Maybe I’m still falling. Maybe the gravitational pull of what we had carried me further away from the Milky Way than I realized.

You were the closest to Requited Love that I’ve ever known. I don’t want to say that I still love you, because maybe in another 10 years I’ll look back and balk at the notion of having ever thought anything of you at all. Maybe I’ll think that you were nothing, meant nothing, and had no consequential effect on anything about me. After all; that’s how I feel about every other boy or man or dumbass I ever caught myself thinking I “loved.”

But maybe it means something, that I can’t manage to feel indifferently about you. Maybe it means you were the ~real~ love and those other boys and men and dumbasses were just silly crushes that got out of hand.

I look back on them, and I can’t even seriously believe that I ever cared for them at all.

I look back on you, and I still feel like I’m grieving someone who died – someone who, by all laws of the universe, was supposed to be with me forever, unconditionally. The fact that I can’t call you or text you or see you and tell you that I love you, and hear you say it back, feels like a freak accident. Like a deadly car wreck. Or a plane crash. Or a sudden, terminal illness. It feels like there should at least be a grave site I can go to, to pay my respects to what I thought would be a love measured most efficiently in lightyears. Here Lies… what, exactly? What do I call the thing that died when you left me? And why can’t I yet lay it to rest?

I don’t remember all the last words I ever said to you. I know some of them were harsh, but I also know some of them were “I will always love you.”

It’s November 28, 2016, and it hasn’t proven untrue yet.

May your soul evolve into something less wretched than the one I fell in love with.



Love letter.

I am going to, for the sake of argument, believe that you were telling the truth all those times you said you loved me. It’s been four years since I closed you out of my life you chose to walk out of my life, and I’ve wondered ever since how it could have been true. But for right now, I’ll believe you. You loved me.

To this day, you’re the only man who’s ever said it to me, who might have also meant it.

I’m just writing to say that in spite of everything,  I miss you. I don’t know if you miss me. I have changed a lot since we first met – I was 13 – and I’ve changed more still, since we last spoke. I was 18. I’m 22 now. You’re 27. I’ve just finished my first screenplay and you’re a budding filmmaker. Last I checked, you were still doing and saying things that disappointed me. I know that if we had ever had the relationship I wanted, I’d have left you eventually. And you wouldn’t have fought for me. It wouldn’t have been much unlike what happened between us in reality.

But somehow, knowing that doesn’t make the heartbreak any less potent. I still grieve the “what ifs,” like they were just taken away from me yesterday instead of in my sophomore year of college, alone in my dorm at 4 in the morning, crying into my pillow like any other goddamned heartsick teenager.

There are things I know about myself now that neither of us knew back then. I’m not exactly  the ~girl~ we thought I was (even though I still look it on the outside). Somehow – I’m not surer how – this realization makes me feel like I’ve lost you all over again.  It makes me feel like, if only I had known what I know now, perhaps our relationship would have culminated into something different before it ended.

I know it’s unlikely.

But like I said. It doesn’t ease the pain.

I miss you all the time. I think you were the last person I learned to be close to before my mental health took a turn for the worst – I can’t make new friends anymore. No new connections, no new loves… I make acquaintances, yeah. But no one I feel kindred with. No spirituality, no until-death-do-us-part loyalty. You  were the last one.

I think that’s why the ache is still so fresh. The hole left in my soul is still shaped like you, and I can’t get anything else to fit into it.

I dream that our paths will cross someday, and  you won’t know what to say to me. I’ll have already said everything to you – in this letter, in other things I’ve written about you in the past – but I won’t be able to remember any of it.

I want to talk with you. I want to know how you’re doing. I wonder if you’re in love with anyone right now. I wonder if anyone is loving you, and if they are, do they love you as much as I still do?

That’s the shittiest part of all this: I still love you. On many days, I convince myself that I don’t – I’m over you, I’ve moved on, whatever. It’s not true.  I loved you even as you chose not to fight for us.

A few months ago I found that comic book you sent me for my 16th birthday on my bookshelf. I had thought I’d torn it up and thrown it out. But it was neither thrown out, nor torn. I sat and stared at it. Held it in my hands. Realized that it was the only thing I can hold, that you have also held before. I remember in the card you sent with it, you wrote at the end, “happy birthday, my love!” For a long time, that card was the most special thing I had.

I wonder if you still have the stuffed penguin toy I sent you. I got it from Homestead Gardens one winter, and I sent it to you when you were going through some rough shit with some shitty boy that I knew you deserved better than. I named the penguin Oliver, because I knew that was your favorite name. I wrote a note along with it that said something to the effect of, “Penguins mate for life. This is Oliver, and he will love you forever. Just like I will.”

You said you almost cried when you opened it.

Another time, I sent you 50 pink hearts, each with one reason why I love you written on it. You used to tell me about how whenever you were feeling down, you’d take them out and read them, and smile, knowing I loved you.

I wonder what you ever did with Oliver, or with our 50 hearts.

If you are like me, then you got rid of them.

I hope you still think about me, and miss me. You are a grown ass man now. You have bigger things to worry about than some girl guy you used to say you loved. But I’m still thinking about you, and still mourning the long talks we used to have, the declarations of love, the near-tearful rendezvous in New York that never lasted long enough…

I know there are better guys out there than you. Ones who would try to win me back if they ever realized they’d been pushing me away. Ones who would never dream of turning their back on me. Ones who want to be better, wiser, more benevolent. You are not, and never were, that man. I don’t know if you ever can be.

But I love you, and I miss you, and I would give so close to anything just to be able to look you in the eyes again.

Rot in hell.





The winter months are coming.

The winter months are coming. It’ll bring cold and gray and silence. I could do without these things.

But winter also brings my greatest love – in the form of a glittering night sky, the likes of which can’t be seen in any other season. Winter skies are clearer, sharper and more pristine than any other time of the year. Part of the reason is because Earth is facing the outer edge of the galaxy, where there’s less light pollution than at its center – the starts shine against a dark backdrop of what, for all practical human purposes, is emptiness.

He’ll come and lay over me each night, whether I can see him or not. But he also lays over everyone else in the universe. He is always laying over someone, somewhere. I am not special. I like to think that the relationship I have with him is special, but I know it is not. It can’t be. He loves me, but no more or less than anyone else. Maybe this is why everyone in my life has always found it so easy to be without me. I’m not much.


An open letter to Mike Dimitroulakos, if it should ever find you.

I don’t remember what my last words to you were. I just remember that I was angry. 

I have it all written down somewhere, but I’ve never had the stomach to go back and read the whole conversation that led to us never speaking again. Us – you, and me, who’d loved each other for so long. Or at least, I loved you. I know you said you loved me, and I’m sure you thought you meant it, but I can’t imagine that you’d have been so quick to let me go if it were really true.

But I loved you. And the tragedy was that eventually I couldn’t love myself and you at the same time anymore. I had to choose: Do I let my sense of self-worth suffer so I can stay friends with you? Or do I love myself more than that?

I chose me. And while I know I chose right, part of me still wishes every day that I’d fought harder-… no. That isn’t true. Part of me still wishes that you had fought harder. I just wish you had tried to understand me. Because goodness knows I tried to explain.

I wasn’t mad at you for not getting it. How could you have gotten it? How could you have known where I was coming from? I just wish you had believed me. I wish “that hurts my feelings” had been a good enough reason for you to say sorry and try not to do it anymore.

I cried for days after that fight. I still think of you and have to ward off tears. You are someone I never thought I would have to be without, and to this day, I can still feel you not being in my life. I felt like you’d died. That’s how deep the pain was. And I know this is spiteful of me, but I often find myself hoping that it hurt you that much, too, but that’s probably wishful thinking. Maybe you don’t miss me at all. Maybe you still think I’m crazy. Ever since then, I’ve had this awful fear that the only time you ever talk about me anymore is when you’re telling someone about the “crazy black bitch” who “blew up at you over nothing.”

Do you remember when I was still in high school, and you used to send me pictures of things you’d doodle in class? And one day, you sent me a doodle of a little woman with huge boobs, a big ass, and enormous lips, and captioned it with “it’s you!”

Back then I hated myself too much to tell you how hurtful it was.

My biggest wish for you is that you’ve grown since then. You were always so brilliant, Mike. So goddamned talented. So passionate. Smart as hell. You’re still one of the most talented people I’ve ever known. But you, like anyone else in the world, were a product of your environment, and your environment taught you some really fucked up things. And those are things that can’t be unlearned without effort. I want you to be a better person than you were then. I want you to be better than the guy who preferred to let our friendship die, than to be sensitive to his friend’s concerns. 

I just… I dunno, Mike. For a year now I’ve wanted to reach out to you but I’ve always been too scared of finding out that you haven’t changed (and tbh I’ve been hella scared that I’ll find out that you actually died a year ago or something awful like that. I REALLY hope you are not dead). That would break my heart more than anything. I always wished that someday you would get in touch with me again and tell me that you’re sorry you hurt me. I let myself believe that you haven’t done so yet because you’re scared – scared that I’m still angry, that I won’t forgive you, or maybe you feel too ashamed… or maybe you just aren’t sorry.

But if you are scared, and if you are ashamed, please don’t be. I promise you that I can forgive you, if you ask me to. I want to see that you’re the Mike I know you could be, and I want to forgive you. And if you’ve done the work on yourself, and you’ve soul-searched and opened yourself up to learning to respect the things you can’t quite understand, then you have nothing to be ashamed of. And if any of those things are true, then I would love to hear from you – if you find this letter, then you know how to find me.

…But if you just aren’t sorry, then… well… I want you to keep that to yourself. But I still hope someone gets through to you someday. I hope you never hurt anyone the way you hurt me ever again. I hope you take care of yourself.

Love Sincerely,






What it means that I am still here.

An open letter to anyone who has ever given a damn about me.

I am sick of living. Honest to god, I am. People tell me – “you are loved. You are important. Your life is worth something. It gets better. I’d miss you if you were gone.”

The thing is, none of those things are my problem. I know I am loved, and that I’m important. I know exactly how beautiful and talented and brilliant I am. I know I have so many valuable things I could potentially contribute to the world. I know I’d be missed.

Every day I think about all the hearts I would break if I took my own life. I don’t think I have ever broken a heart before. It’s not something I ever want to do. It’s something that I would do anything in my power to avoid.

I dedicate all of myself to staying alive so I don’t hurt you – you, whoever you are.

My family likes to call my ~selfish~ because I can’t “give” in the same way that they do. To them, “giving” means offering to bake cookies or smiling at the fucking neighbors or doing things for people that nobody asked me to do. But for me, to “give” is to make sure nobody has to find my body, or clean up my blood, or plan my funeral, or grieve my death.  The greatest gift I can ever give anyone – the purest and most desperate display of my love for anyone at all – is staying alive.

And it’s hard. It takes so much out of me, and every time I think I’m running out of energy, I think of the hole I’d rip in everyone’s life if I gave in to exhaustion and I find just a little more. This is why I can’t be like everyone else. I can’t go out. I can’t take too many credits in school. I stay in bed half the day. I keep to myself. I can’t get a job. I can hardly convince myself to leave my room if I don’t have to. I conserve as much energy as I possibly can and I channel it all into not dying. And nothing hurts more than the fact that so many people chalk it up to laziness. My mom calls me “trifling.”

And I just want to scream – doesn’t anyone understand the incredible gift I am giving? Doesn’t anyone APPRECIATE the pain I am enduring for them? 

I’m so, so, so tired.

Not sad. Not angry. Not depressed. I’m tired.

And I know that one day I’m going to run out of energy. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next year. Maybe, if you guys are lucky, I’ll last another decade or two. But one day I am going to need to do what’s best for me, and my one hope in life is that when I finally cave in, you can all find it in yourselves to be happy for me.

But right now I can’t bear to hurt the people who love me.


you’re welcome.