books, writings, shoes & nudes

Tag: poetry

  • blooms

    You were my most stable flower. Beauty in your own right. You weren’t my person, but you were such my person that I no longer know how to do this life without you. You were my base. Mine. My stability when Gwen visited, when ghosts from the basement of my brain would darken the hallways, when the color red blinded my eyes. You were the stable brick house with the smoke coming from the chimney I could run to when running in the forest from the big bad wolves of my past. You loved me, you never said it, but you cherished me. You heard me clearer than anyone. Even when I couldn’t pay you, You still had ears. Never was it you and I against the world, it was you, me, and Little Lindsey against all the voice boxes and swinging rage. I miss you swaying in my meadow. Whenever I looked, there you were standing tall. You’re not there any more, one too many rough seasons took you away from me. Nothing left, not even petals to collect. I miss you deeply, my beautiful flower. The growth in this field may never bloom the same.

  • an unsent hoodie.

    a bittersweet reflection on something that didn’t quite work out—maybe the relationship or the favored chapter in life. acknowledgment that things don’t always fit perfectly, and that’s okay. feels like a metaphor for life’s unpredictability and imperfection.

    even if the experience was complicated or bittersweet, there’s something valuable in it, especially when you savor the last moments. hints at a sense of finality and moving on. leaving behind chaos or pain for peace and healing.

    a touch of warmth and gratitude, implying that despite everything, this experience has a place in the story of life, like a decorative piece at a family gathering—something to remember and appreciate.

    accepting imperfection, finding value in endings.

  • this is so not the right time

    a new feeling stirs, unexpected and loud,  

    like a sudden storm in the middle of a drought.  

    the timing is off, the world feels heavy,  

    and yet, there it is—bright, confusing, and unwelcome.  

    you catch yourself staring, heart skipping,  

    but the calendar reminds you—now is not the moment.  

    there’s a weight to this crush, a quiet tension,  

    because sometimes the heart wants what the mind knows it can’t have.  

    so you hold it close, a secret wrapped in hesitation,  

    waiting for the right time to let it breathe,  

    even if that time feels far away,  

    and the feeling lingers, restless and unresolved.

  • Girlfriends in my corner, fierce and wild,

    Sharp like a blade, untamed and styled.

    Not just pretty faces, but warriors in the fight,  

    Lighting up the dark with their rebel might.  

    We laugh in chaos, break every rule,  

    Living loud and proud, no one’s fool.  

    Together unstoppable, a storm that won’t bend—  

    Yeah, having girlfriends like these? That’s the real badass blend.

  • he’s still in there, but i’m not.

    I saw his dark blue eyes, they were the same as they always were. They’re missing the passion and the spark, but they’re the same eyes I looked into when I said “I do”.

    It’s hard to find him, but he’s still in there. I married him because he was my definition of a “man”. No toxic masculinity or beta energy. Just simple good human energy. He cared about the people in his orbit. I loved that.

    He talked about all the things in his little world. Tame compared to mine. I listen,, searching for the glimpse of him lost in a sea of memories. I can find him. The him I needed then. I needed to walk down the aisle, I needed that to happen. I can find him in between words, but there is no trace of me.

    I no longer see who I am in the same eyes of who I was. The love for him so different now. Still there, but different.

  • i had a good run

    I’m not afraid of death; I’ve had a good run. It’s inevitable, regardless of my fear. Being scared won’t make it slow down. Won’t make it less real. Fear won’t make me die less. Fear doesn’t make people less sick. Within at least 2 years I’ll have done the things. The book will be publish. The building will be ready. I’ll have ran a marathon. I’ll have had a successful business for 7 years. 7 is my favorite number, so it seems fitting. I will have read 3000 books and taught so many people all the things I can. I think dying young feels ok if you’ve lived so many lives. I was told I was going to die 10 years ago, and here I am. Every day since then has been a bonus. I hope they forget me. I hope they don’t remember. I know I was joy, and bright days and boldness. I hope they find someone else to fill that void. I don’t want to be remembered. I want to go peacefully into the forgotten bliss in their minds. I don’t want them to grieve or reminisce on the things I did or say. I don’t want the sadness to be the lingering love they had for me. I want them to move on. Not hold on. I don’t want something named after me. I don’t want flowers on my grave. I don’t want my name to be remembered, I want the legacy to live on. I want the things I started, the choices I made, to just keep going without ever knowing the author. I want the stories to be retold for years to come, but I don’t want them to be signed by me. I want to silently disappear as I go. Because I’m not afraid of death. I had a good run.

  • it’s a lot to ask.

    I know it’s your right, but please don’t leave me in this world alone.

    Please don’t leave me in this world without you.

    Please don’t leave me in a world where my abuser is still alive and you are not. Where Trump is golfing and you are gone.

    Don’t abandon me in a world where rapist walk around freely and you don’t.

    I know it’s selfish I ask, but please keep fighting your battle so that I can fight mine with you beside me.

    Please don’t leave me in a world where your smile is only a memory.

    Our last interaction wasn’t enough for me. I want more. I need more.

    Please don’t ask me to continue while waking up without you.

    I know I have no idea. I know I don’t understand. I know I can’t imagine. I know it’s not fair for me to ask this of you.

    But please. I’m asking for you to do this for me. Please don’t leave me behind in this world.

  • arthritis

    sharp pain shoots up my hand reaching my fingertips. it’s a particularly rough pain day. remember when you snapped my fingers like a carrot. they dangled there. you did it multiple times within 5 years. the knuckles don’t even exists anymore.

    i don’t take deep breaths without gasping. hiccups are a repetitive shock to my system. tears blur my eyes with every little blip. stops me in my tracks. remember when you gave me cpr when i didn’t need it.

    remember when you held me under the water until the bubbles stopped. my sternum still clicks in and out like your palms are still pressing. you never really let me go.

    collarbones pinned under your kneecaps as your open hands struck my kidlike face until they cracked unable to hold your weight. not stopping until I begged “like the annoying bitch you are”. and I begged. every single time. i begged my last with you.

    no one knows about the bald spot hidden in my perfect hair, your second favorite handle. i will forever have a side part.

    the body you had no right to wreck hurts more in the cold. little acts of rebellion like hating socks and not wearing gloves. spite warming the blood. i hate that our days together linger on my being most in the morning.

  • god, the scapegoat

    I want there to be a god. I want to believe I will see my people again. The gates can be whatever shade of white, as long as they get to walk through them. I’m ok with the threat of hell as long as they’re in some kind of heaven. Eternal punishment sounds fine for me, as long as they get the peace they deserve. Peace in their world and peace in their minds. Angels or fluffy clouds, I don’t care.

    I just want it to be real. I want to believe there’s a purpose. Something better than us. I want to believe there’s a net to catch us all as we fall. I don’t believe. It won’t change my behavior, I will still choose to be a better human every day. I miss it. I miss talking to someone more powerful than me. The hope it brings. When it gets so very bad down here, we can just pray and that’s our I-did-something-to-help box to check. Without the box, we have to actually attempt to make things better. Everyone has imposter syndrome, so no one will. Without a god guiding us, who’s going to make a move?

    I want to believe there’s justice or rewards in some kind of afterlife. Some magical equalizer. I want to believe when we die, you sit in a room and watch in 3D all the moments you hurt someone else. You have to feel all the feels your victims had to endure. I want to be in that chair. I want to know what I’ve done, how it felt and the impact I made. I deserve that. I want the people that hurt me to have to sit in that chair and feel how I felt. They deserve that.

    I want the foster mom with all the love to give finally gets her reward. Her throne. All the medals to make it all worth it. To remind her that her life’s choices weren’t for nothing. I need a god to tell her she did well.

    I want to believe I was created for a reason. My meaning bigger than I can imagine. I want to believe someone loves me so unconditionally they know every hair on my head. Almost desperate to believe I was known before I was in the womb. I want to believe I belong to something only made for good. How comforting that must be.

    And so, the echos of faith and justice linger. Yearning for a world where shadows yield to understanding.

  • walls

    The walls have known us all along.

    Seen the fights, sang along with the song.

    They seen us ugly, they’ve seen us proud.

    If the walls could talk, what would they say?

    Would they tell us we were in the wrong? Would they validate or comfort?

    Would they be traumatized by the secondary trauma?

    I stutter over my words but would they know what I mean? Because they’ve heard it all.

    Seen the tears, echoed the laughter. They held the art and steadied the furniture.

    They’ve been steadfast through the move ins, and the move outs.

    Housed the moments. All the moments.

    New paint colors hiding the memories we never want to remember.

    Holding in the secrets, only the walls truly know.

    Held our bodies as we were pressed against for that storybook kiss.

    Kissed our foreheads and palms, took our abuse when we lost it all.

  • week 35

  • dear paternal issues,

    I don’t write about you too often because you’re so 1900’s trauma, but today I am feeling particularly gynarchal. I don’t even know you, but I still have a lot of recordings of the speeches you gave me on repeat in my brain. Even now. 34 years and the daddy issues are still there. 

    I am reclaiming those. You were never an actual dad (insert Mim’s dad joke here) so I can’t REclaim being my own dad, so I will just have to claim. 

    I am now my own Daddy. Back up bastard mentality I gots some shit to say.

    I was a 4.0 student, Dean’s list, merits out the ass. I am a successful business owner. A business that was built on brutalization that I survived by myself. I am the strongest of all the sons. I went ahead and got all the therapy so I could stop that generational trauma. I’m not a cheater, so that’s a huge win from the blood line. I crawled through glass of my own guilt and loneliness to get to be overwhelmed with the amount of people who love me. I get to be authentically me and people still adore me. I have a hot bod, great feet and I am really fucking good at educating myself. I’m financially independent and own 2 cars, including my dream car. I have no children, so no child support court cases in my routine. I speak up for myself and others. I am an undefeated state champion in Brazilian jui jitsu. My skeleton is broken, like super broke, but I am still joy, I still coach, I still run and I’m still great in bed. I fucking taught myself how to read and read more books than Valkyrie’s professor does in a year while my brain is actively trying to make up letters and sounds. I will be Dr Lindsey fucking Falcon and I’m really fucking proud of me for that. I sometimes still have dirt under my fingernails and my hair is always a mess. But I’m fucking funny. And quite frankly I’m the best damn father I’ve ever had.

    So you sit in your unfaithful 18th marriage, and I’ll be sippin’ cold brew out of my #1 Best Dad mug.

    Sincerely,

    The spite-filled oldest daughter.

  • i will let the past have it

    I loved you deeply, as deeply as I think I could love a sister, but I had to love me more. I miss your curly hair and the tone-deaf duets of Christmas music we would sing in the car.  I think about you often. How I could change your entire existence with the magic of Thrive. But I must let you be lost in the tight grip of the past. 

    I wanted so much more for you. I wanted you to be great. I wanted you to be traveling some far off place and not have to keep you at least 500 feet away from me at all times. You chose the end for both of us. I will eventually paint over the blown kisses and butterflies. 

    I chose you repeatedly. I dropped everything and ran when you called. All I needed was for you to love me. I wiped your ass, canceled your cable, spent money I didn’t have, and you still chose to save your poison over me. 

    I broke myself for you. I lost sleep, I lost days, I lost time. You got drunk. I cleaned up your blood, your drool, your piss and your vomit. You got high. I looked high and low and every fucking nook and cranny in-between to fix it. You looked for an escape. I stressed over your daily being; you gave no fucks. You were perfectly ok with making a mess and having me safely clean it up.

    You made a mess of things. I trusted you without ever trusting you. I believed your buckets of trauma and sob stories just to kick those buckets over when I had enough. You were 6 feet 7 inches of territorial diaper wearing mommy issues. 

    I trusted you with my NDA.You weaponized my secrets. You went against the one thing you can not do. The one thing. “I know you.” You’re so careful to never say it. But you said it in the worst way you could have spoke it. I’d rather be strangled, because this was so constricting. Although I won’t be letting the past have you, I will be letting the past have the version of me that allowed you access. And you’ll never even know it. 

    I will let the past have it all.

  • the end

    This is it. The whole story. The last chapter. The last page. We had a good run. Went on some crazy adventures. I think we made an impact. Made a big enough stain on the world.

    This is it. My whole story. My last chapter. My last page.

  • I think I change all the time. Not all at once, not cold turkey, but ever so slightly. I don’t even notice a lot of the time. One of the carved into my skull quotes was from my high school boyfriend. “Lindsey, you are ever changing.” Under that is a quote from my mother’s speech at my wedding. “Lindsey is an ever changing person, if you don’t ride the ride with her, it will be the thing that destroys your marriage.”  I am an ever changing person, but it has been how I survive through the uncontrollable life I was force to exist in. I run full steam ahead changing the directions as I go so I never get trapped in a box or hit a dead-end. I equally need change and fear change. Change is the control I have and the master I am a slave to. Change is the calm and the storm I am creating by changing. 

  • tell me

    Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me something that will change how I feel. Tell me I am making the correct decision. Tell me there is a bigger meaning. Tell me there is a god and my small human brain just doesn’t see or understand the bigger picture. Because I feel like I’ve figured it all out. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me there is more than this. Tell me I don’t have to gaslight myself for the rest of this existence. Call me, text me, DM me. Do something so I can have even the slightest glimpse of faith. Tell me this is the fire and we will regrow through the ashes. Tell me this is as worst as it gets. Please tell me something. I’m losing the spark. I’m telling you I can’t hold it much longer. Please tell me something. Please.

  • I’m not that girl. I won’t be that girl. I have worked too hard to become a good human. I worked too hard to like myself. To be someone to be proud of. I won’t become someone little Lindsey wouldn’t be proud of. Nothing is worth that little girl’s opinion.

    I will stay determined. I will stay focused. I will not break. I will not be weak. I do hard things. I will be the most regulated adult in the room. This will not be my story.

  • She is loud. She is powerful. Mountains question how far when she tells them to move. She never shakes or quivers. She is bold and sharp.

    She is the best friend standing up to her narcissistic father. She is the only one calling out her little brother’s coach for bad behavior. She is the soft soothing I-love-yous and you’re-so-goods spoken to so many broken children.

    She is the fake apologies that comes with being the bigger person.

    She is the yes’s that has made life an adventure. She is the voice of reason. She is the important information the doctors needed.

    She is the advocate for the little one.

    She is the “no” that needed to be said long ago. She is the grounding needed to make it through. She is the voice of the voiceless. She is the cheerleader to remind you you’re made for this. She is the mistaken outbursts. She is the heart on your sleeve.

    She is the healer and the fighter. She is the passion. She is so loved when she came from so much hate.

  • too small isn’t the problem

    I’m not a size 4.

    I don’t use my blinker while I drive.

    18 unpaid parking tickets live in my visor.

    I’m the loud one that tends to interrupt.

    Too small isn’t the problem.

    I eat dessert with every meal.

    I will talk about sex & my life all day long.

    Cracking jokes, there’s a time & a place for that, but I haven’t learned when or where yet.

    I toot in my sleep.

    I wake up early and expect everyone else to be awake as well.

    I try new things and quit often.

    Too small isn’t the problem.

    I share opinions without being asked and rant for days.

    I’m a complainer and I can’t keep a secret.

    I’m a hypocrite.

    I will forever choose to dance in the rain.

    Awkward silences feel like it’s my duty to kill.

    Too small isn’t the problem.

    11.9.23

  • week 33

  • at your core

    It’s the thing I feel most passionate about. It’s the only time I feel fully in my body. I can recognize the feeling of my toes clenched. The hair tie in my hair. I can feel my eyelashes on my skin. I feel most in control.

    I like the pain in the corners of my mouth. The taste of latex. I feel all of me. Existing in this intimate moment. Bodies on bodies. Sweating, breathing heavy. Nails scratching. Exploring different and new positions. Sore for weeks after.

    Brazilian Jiu Jitsu is the wildest side of me.

  • I hope I still live there.

    The house I methodically built.

    Filled with different voices, moments, and energy.

    I hope the smell of wild flowers and honeysuckle still clutter the front lawn.

    I hope vacations and trips make you home sick.

    I hope I still live there.

  • thinking about someone all the time

    is not enough to make them

    deserving of your thoughts

    sometimes it’s not a sign

    it’s just something you do

    until you don’t

    r.h. Sin

  • No longer am I going to apologize for behavior that isn’t mine.

    I won’t shield you from the consequences of your own choices.

    I won’t apologize for who I had to become to be able to survive.

    No longer apologizing for the versions of me I had to kill to become so hard to kill.

    I won’t lower my voice or apologize for the brutality of the words I speak.

    I fought for my place and I am no longer apologizing for not making myself small.

    I won’t express counterfeit regret any more.

    I will no longer apologize for the failed attempts at loan sharking.

    I’m not going to beg someone’s pardon for not following social norms.

    I’m not conforming into any box that handmaids fit into.

    I won’t eat my own words or take a bite out of the humble pie.

    This life isn’t real, everything’s fucked, I am human and this is fucking hard.

    I’m no longer asking for forgiveness for the boundaries I set to make this fake life less hard.

  • Some people are held captive by their own minds.

    Some people are ripped apart and tortured by the person they see in the mirror.

    I can’t do that.

    I can’t look at you, knowing what we know and hate you.

    I see the x-rays, and I feel the shifting bones.

    I know the damage and the stories carved into this body.

    If I let you be my enemy, then I will be truly alone.

    You, my mighty protector.

    My house still standing after the big bad wolf came to blow you down.

    You still stand after the fire, the hurricane, the earthquake and everything else he threw at you.

    How can I hate these feet that keep me moving?

    These legs that spent years being cradled and sobbed on?

    I feel the divots and sharp edges of what’s left of your rib cage.

    You were crushed over and over but these organs still working.

    I’ll take the occasional pain as reminders.

    How can I hate Cleopatra when she still gives such pleasure, beauty and power after being brutally invaded and violated. Saving me from much worst warfare. Being the sacrifice.

    How can I hate these arms that protected my face from becoming a billboard of my past.

    The dark memories are vandalized on the wall of my skull.

    This mind of mine was once my safest, happiest place to live, how can I hate it?

    It’s where I hide the treasures.

    The things just out of everyone’s reach.

    The only place he had no key to.

  • your heart is an empty room.

    The piano sounds Apple says I listened the most to in 2024.

    Her hyperness when her meds wear off.

    The green of his eyes I see every time it rains.

    Good morning texts.

    Holding of hands that once shielded the abuse.

    My blue couch.

    The tone of her voice when she says, “GUTTER BITCH or titty baby”, her fake Italian grandmother’s accent.

    Blue

    Showers too long.

    Giggles, stories, jokes.

    Seeing her face walk through the door, knowing she won the war of getting out of bed.

    Cinnamon Tea, and coffee, Hallmark movies.

    Doris Doloris, who will be the biggest heart break of all.

    The shock in a broken face meeting strength for the first time.

    The Professor getting excited to tell me about the girl he likes or the sex he had.

    Books in The Nook.

    Blankets and hockey sweats.

    The end of the day when I lay my head down and remind myself this life is real, and I will wake up still safely in it.

    Smells of honeysuckle, sugar plums, and favorite flannels.

    Lovers that forever stain the walls of this heart.

    So much feminine rage and way too many damn shoes.

  • over cum ;)

    Family guilt

    Mrs. Lee, sophomore year.

    Every chipotle bowl I’ve ever had.

    I don’t know if I’ve overcome anything.

    All the things are scars in my brain right?

    Shit doesn’t go away.

    To just flair up in the moment.

    Maybe I’m stuck on the word “Overcome”.

  • dear girl,

    Stop apologizing for living. No one knows what they’re doing and no one’s doing it right. Which means everyone is. Stop saying sorry for making mistakes you’re not making. It’s just a plot twist.

    Dear girl,

    Leave him. Please leave him. He’ll never change, and you’ll just end up with a fucked up skeleton that makes you fall on the kitchen floor needing someone else to help you. Or he’ll kill you. You’re too important to lose. Somewhere out there there’s another little girl that needs you to tell your story to save her.

    Dear girl,

    Stop being afraid to tell someone you want to join them. Take the chance. People like you. Geronimo baby. Make your own fucking rules.

    Dear girl,

    Stop letting those demons in your head work overtime. I’m sure they’re tired.

    Dear girl,

    Explore the world. And do it alone. Do it with people, but only people that don’t suck.

    Dear girl,

    Your family are not the people that surrounded you when you were born. Family are the people that show up on a rainy Saturday morning just to support your dreams.

    Dear girl,

    He’s wrong, you’re right. Stop shutting up. You are smarter than that. You could run circles around those tiny tittybabies. Also dawk them in the face.

    Dear girl,

    Be gay, be so fucking gay. Be open and be proud.

    Dear girl,

    Brag about yourself, you’re so fucking cool.

    Dear girl,

    Say NO. A lot. All the time. Never stop.

    11.9.23

  • i spoke

    Early Tuesday morning I sat in a crowded court room.

    I remember practically nothing.

    Only two people knew I was there.

    Neither being my spouse or mother.

    I’ve never disassociated so well as I did when the attorney pointed the remote to the tv.

    Probably 40 people.

    Dressed nicely.

    Watching my rape like it was the morning announcements in high school.

    Just another Tuesday.

    For the judge, the attorneys, the accused.

    “Is this you in the video, Lindsey?” The attorney asked.

    Snapping me out of my safe disassociated state.

    She repeated herself.

    “Is this you in the video, Lindsey?”

    I couldn’t speak; an issue I rarely have.

    I looked at my shaking hands placed in my lap.

    The writing that covered the left palm read “Today, you become his nightmare.”

    I lifted my head, stared right into the cold eyes I once felt not good enough to look at.

    And spoke the biggest thing I’ve ever said.

    “Yes.”

    11.9.23

  • remembering

    Today is Thursday.
    I was born on a Thursday, not today though.

    I woke up chose violence.

    Started a scuffle with Him because he didn’t wake up in an overly chipper mood.

    I left the house.

    Went to my meetings then came back and flipped the script.

    I apologize and made things so much better.

    I went to the doctors and received care I needed in a clean environment.

    Went to work in my favorite place.

    Had a relieving convo with my mom.

    Now writing with amazing people I’m grateful for.

  • all i ask

    All I ask

    Is that you ride this ride next to me.

    Don’t ask where we are going or If we are there yet.

    I saved this seat for you.

    All I ask

    Is you let me cry and cuss, scream and fight while still seeing me as strong and fearless.

    Don’t remember this moment tomorrow.

    Don’t remember this weakness later.

    All I ask

    Is you knowing there is always room on this overfilled plate for you.

    Don’t ever think it’s too heavy for more.

    All I ask

    Is to be seen as the character I want to play.

  • emo kids

    I wish I had an option in choosing my emotions.

    Press on my nose to switch the emotion on any given situations.

    At funerals I have to pretend to be sad when someone I barely know dies.

    I wish I could channel that sadness and broken heart-ness I felt over a break up of some trashy guy that wasn’t good for me anyway.

    I wish I could choose to be happier when I’m given a thoughtful gift I actually think is dumb.

    I wish I could have the option to turn off all emotions when it’s just been too much to handle. Turning my brain completely off. I’d get so much done if I could skip the sad days and turn on passion when convenient.

    Yeah, that’d be cool.

    Not take on others emotions as well just getting what needs to be done.

  • Organized and chaos.

    The boxes we have labeled our brains.

    I am chaos.

    I’m always the chaos.

    But why is chaos bad?

    When did it become the undesired trait?

    The stress is what keeps us hungry.

    We thrive on the stress.

    The messy is where the deep beauty hides.

    There’s a place for the organized, clean, and ducks in a row.

    But there’s a place for broken, crooked, chipped and bent.

    Without the resilience and the road less traveled,

    Where would authenticity exists?

    Messy and wrong and stressful.

    Are the try, and fight and overcome.

    Two things can be true.

    Chaos creates impact whether good or bad.

    Leaving paths for growth.

    Chaos by definition Is complete disorder and confusion.

    Being always confused means you never have the chance to get bored.

    Out of disorder comes creativity.

    New life.

    All the deep emotions that get to be experienced.

  • calgon take me away

    Everything is changing.

    I like it.

    But it’s still change.

    Beautiful home with good smells and throw pillows that remain in the same place they were 12 hours earlier.

    But it’s still change.

    Quiet sleep with the middle of the bed being an option.

    Long showers with no one interrupting to ask if I know where the TV remote is.

    5 fucking seconds of peace and quiet.

    But it’s still change.

    New routine catered to my own self care.

    Being able to make decisions based on joy and happiness instead of traumatic based fear.

    But it’s still change.

    Scary

    And exciting.

    But it’s still change.

  • you can’t have the winter

    I won’t let you take this one from me.

    I love snow.

    I love the winter.

    Hockey games & sled riding races.

    Every year since the first year I stepped into snowboard boots, I have counted down the days for the moments on the mountain.

    Snow boots and big coats.

    I won’t let you take this one from me.

    My skeleton screams.

    Like old rusty gears.

    My nose burns sharp spikes of pain.

    My fingers throb from unhealed bones.

    The cold doesn’t work for us anymore.

    My ribs stiff and sore.

    I won’t let you take this one from me.

    Snowflakes on your face.

    Chilly nose while breathing in the smell of hot coco.

    I love cozy blankets.

    Seeing my breath as I run with spikes on the bottoms of my shoes.

    Shoveling driveways for a quick 20 bucks.

    I love the crisp cold.

    I won’t let you take this one from me.

    I will suffer.

    I will freeze and I will ignore, because I love the cold and I won’t let you take this one from me.

  • hazel shade of winter

    So is life.

    Not white.

    Not black.

    Somewhere in the middle.

    Relationships with most people.

    My sexuality.

    Memories of my childhood.

    If you’re colorblind.

    Most of the clothes I wear.

    The third bar.

    Meditation.

  • I want a safe house.

    I want the couch that my broken friends crash on.

    I want the home where my girlfriends can come and drink too much and laugh until we cry.

    I want to not be in survival mode in my home.

    I want my home to be green. Not yellow, consistently trying to prevent red.

    I want matching decor and no pet hair.

    I want seasonal good smelling blankets and Christmas décor.

    I want my home to be an escape from everything else.

    I want to end a 12 year transition.

    I want trivia nights, bonfires, white santas, and friendsgivings.

    I want Lindsey’s home.

  • expectations

    • Be straight or have a label for it.
    • Being with your spouse is “strong” even when it’s not making you happy.
    • Monogamy.
    • I expect myself not to hold on to emotions and not feel.
    • I expect myself to age terribly.
    • I expect myself to heal faster.

  • hsk&t

    Head.

    These memories would cut you and leave you bleeding on the floor.

    Throat.

    These scars would traumatize you and make you incapable of grasping reality.

    Ribs.

    These broken bones would tell you the story you never asked to hear.

    Scars. Memories. Broken bones. Voice. Passion. Intuition.

  • use it as a weapon

    You’re welcome for making you strong. I created the trauma you are profiting off of now. Without the cries, pain, and fear where would you be? You should be thanking me. You should be grateful I still show up in your dreams to keep you from forgetting. I’ll never let you lose your edge or passion because I’ll never leave.

    Use it all. Use all those loud emotions in the quiet lonely times. It’s the only weapon I’ll ever allow you to have. It’s the weapon you’ll never get rid of. Just remember who taught you how to use it.

  • jits

    Jits is suppose to be my safe place. It’s suppose to be the bus in which I transfer the next broken lindseys. It’s suppose to be the team, the community, the family. It was the thing I used to remind myself the answer to the question I have been riddled with every night at 3am for the past eight years.

    “I can handle anything.” Written on the gym walls.

    “I am strong as fuck.” Written on my gi.

    “I am powerful.” Written on my rash guard.

    “I am still alive.” Written in sweat.

    I lost my proof. I became human, and a weak one at that. I am still broken. My body cracked and everyone saw. The mat isn’t safe. Jits is where I find out I am just another broken body. My bones aren’t made of solid belief. They are broken bones. Unusable. Hindering even. Damaged from all the damage. My body isn’t my warrior fighting for me. She isn’t the hero. She isn’t the fighter. She is the score board. She is the unusable target that’s holes are too big to be significant. Jits was suppose to be the showcase where you prove what you are. But jits became the mirror of harsh reality.

  • cherry

    You took her.

    I said I was ready, but I didn’t know what that meant. Not really.

    You took her forcefully and fast.

    I didn’t even know you. I didn’t even love you or trust you.

    You didn’t deserve her.

    I was so young. Too young. You were young too.

    I don’t remember much about that place where you took her. But I could remember every other detail about that day. Your smell, that dumb laugh. I remember the blood, the confusion, and the tear-filled bus ride home.

    You weren’t nice, but neither was I. I don’t even know if you are to blame for taking her.

    I’m sure at some point you figured in out in life.

  • Just for me I do bjj.

    Just for me I sit in the shower.

    Just for me I do word searches.

    Just for me I sleep in the nude.

    Just for me I run blaring screamo music.

    Just for me I try new things.

    Just for me I say no.

    Just for me I forgive.

  • in the zone

    My comfort zone is very little clothes.

    No shoes.

    Good smells and not being touched.

    Cold enough for a blanket, never hot borderline arctic.

    My comfort zone is in the drivers seat and never smokey air.

    Hockey games but don’t cuss around kids.

    Deeper talk than small talk.

    Pain but not too much.

    Cinnamon tea and word searches.

    Security systems and locked doors.

    My comfort zone is everyone in view and sober.

    Loud noise of my choosing or no noise.

    Escape routes and visible exits.

  • i am just so fucking angry

    Anger is the powerful mask my fear wears. It’s easier to be angry than scared. The memories and torturing moments still live in the attic of my mind, but I pretend they don’t. When I see something or have an experience that resembles the secrets, I get scared.

    No, oops. I mean angry.

    Hello triggers, it’s always nice to see you out of your cages, care to rage?

    I go zero to one hundred because I can’t relive it. I can’t be so out of control of my body and mind again. My eyebrows get low, my blood gets pumping. Ready to fight the ant hill I can only see as a fight. Kill the threat, end it. Fight and rage until we no longer fear.

    No, oops I mean anger.

    Sitting alone, broken, putting the pieces back into place, cleaning up the mess. I can’t feel that again. I can’t tiptoe around this life. So we rage. We rage before we need to, because I am just so fucking angry.

  • When my husband and I started boning, we weren’t super serious, but definitely way more than sexers. There was a moment. A simple text. Saint Patrick’s Day is my favorite holiday, it was once my birthday. At that time in my life, no one had first names or correct information.

    The text came in at the exact moment I landed in Chicago.

    “Happy Birthday, I’m in Chicago as well, can we celebrate your day?”

    That was the movie moment where the plot twist could have happened. I didn’t know Stephen that well yet and marriage was a not-on-my-radar, not-in-a-million-years kinda thing.

    I stood there celebration and friends around me. Phone in hand staring at the green river in my favorite city, wearing my sexiest green heels. Having a very wealthy man, who is fantastic in bed reaching out ready to make my birthday memorable.

    I blindly chose Stephen in that moment and for all the moments to come. I chose to break the cycle that my paternal curse had put on me. Not only did I choose Stephen, I chose Lindsey. I gave myself a chance to deserve something I didn’t think I was worthy of. I chose happiness, loyalty, hardship, grace, impulse decisions, hockey games, movie nights, Chinese food, and laughter. I made a choice not knowing the outcome. I chose the right door and I fucking won. I can forever say I never tainted this pure childish real love.

  • friendsgiving

    Moosh’s perfect meal would be a cappuccino and a protein bar inside a gym full of sweaty athletes.

    Disneygal’s perfect meal would be a tall flippa flappa mocha joka next to a fire with obnoxiously fuzzy pj’s.

    The husband’s perfect meal would be anything edible served on top of my naked body.

    Barbara’s perfect meal…Lindsey it’s weird to talk about your grandmother after sexual comments.

  • i vow to forgive and build

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will forgive you.

    I will never stop building you.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will choose you over doubt, fear, and expectations of others.

    I will love the you, you have created yourself to be.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will honor the you, you had to kill to become this.

    I will remember what you went through without haunting you with it.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will continue to advocate for you.

    I will continue to unapologetically protect you.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

    I will show up for you everyday, even if I’m not the person I want to be that day.

    I will continue to break walls.

    You are smart, strong, and important.

  • My mom is the most complex human. Christmas time last year I was pregnant with our gummy bear angel baby Daniel. We ended up having to terminate the pregnancy. It was still heavy pandemic time so I had to go in alone.

    My mom and I had been fighting since June. That didn’t matter in that moment. Nothing mattered except pure mother need. My mom showed up, held my hand, laid in my bed and cried with me. In that moment everything was forgiven and I felt loved. She knew exactly what I needed and showed up when it mattered. She dealt with my in laws, cooked me dinner and cleaned my house. She walked into my home being the person I needed her to be.

  • my words..

    This is what I want my words to do…

    I want my words to fight my battles, because my fists are tired.

    I want my words to fix all the broken people I meet.

    I want my words to make them believe they are strong, they matter and they don’t have to accept less than pure kindness.

    I want my words to change ideas, meanings and certain ways of thinking.

    I want my words to hurt and heal and break and mold.

    I want my words to be comfort.

    I want my words to be uncompromising and extremely unapologetic.

    I want my words to be remembered and repeated.

    Exampled and taught.

    I want my words to be spoken and heard.

    That’s what I want my words to do.

  • dirty chucks

    My shoes are never tied.

    It takes too much time.

    I slide them on and out the door I go.

    Sometimes the strings fray at the ends.

    Just a casualty of my life, I guess

    Some people take time to loosen and tighten and tie even bows.

    Not my dirty chucks.

    They’re covered in stamps from all the steps I’ve ever taken.

    They’ve been branded and sharpied.

    Ripped and degraded.

    But they’re still Chucks.

    I could have taken better care of them.

    Watched where I was walking and made a better choices.

    But my dirty chucks will still work and they still look cool.

    Dirty and worn.

    Broken and messy.

    But I still like them.

    You can damage them as much as you can.

    But they will always be chucks.

    They are strong and resilient.

    They are tough and messy.

    But they’re MY dirty chucks .

  • voices

    My own. Just because in class I always say it’s my favorite weapon, but it’s not. I think I portray this powerful outspoken warrior that never has a problem using her voice. It’s all bullshit. I hate my voice. I can’t sing and it’s always been an annoying sound. It’s also the thing that has caused me the most trouble. Lies when I was younger. Verbally attacking my dad. Demanding answers from him when my brother stayed quiet. I’m the loud girl. Always in trouble for talking in class. Words come out sometimes I don’t mean. I stood up to Him one too many times. He would attempt to shut me up, when that didn’t work, shit got scary. Your voice can be powerful, but also dangerous. I also never say the right thing and people don’t like the loud girl.

  • silver lining

    Moments.

    Moments of pure bliss.

    Moments like snapshots burned into my brain.

    All day long, watching TV, eating pizza rolls, jumping on the couch.

    50 million walks.

    So much laughter, drowning out the fear of the unknown.

    Our home was our safe space a deep hole we could fall into.

    To think.

    To breathe.

    To cope.

    To heal.

    Without explanations or excuses.

    We could lick our wounds in peace, and take the time we needed to rest.

    This was forced La La Land.

  • little lindsey lulu

    At age 4 he forgot to pick you up again. I make time for self care.

    At the age of 7 you stared at the parking lot the entire game while playing 3rd base. He never showed. I post my writing on my blog because I’m proud of it.

    At age 13 he yelled at you, humiliating you, telling you, you were stupid, too hyper and annoying. I don’t surround myself with verbally harmful people

    At age 16 he made you wait outside the car for an hour while he made-out with his girlfriend. I rarely depend on people.

    At age 17 he cheated on you. I no longer put my worth in someone else.

    When you were 19, he beat you so bad you spent the night on the kitchen floor because it was too painful to move. I learned how to fight back.

    You pissed yourself at age 22 because you were locked in the trunk of a car for 3 days. I am strong in so many ways.

    You believed you were worthless at age 25. I fixed that hurt little shell of a child inside my soul waiting to be saved.

    I see you. I hear you. I feel you. I chose you. I met you at all those moments, picked you up and held you in my arms. I made you a safe place to grow and heal. I went back to pick up your pieces and put you back together. I got you now.

    You will never be alone again.