Say it.

Say it over and over and over again.

Say it like a mantra.
Say it like a magic spell.

Say it until you believe it.

Say it until it sounds wrong.
Say it until the words twist in on themselves.

Say it until it makes sense.

Say it until your voice runs out.
Say it until your throat is raw.
Say it until you’re swallowing blood.

Say it until you can’t breathe.

Say it until it’s true.

Say it.

Say it.

Say it.

Say it until it stops being true.

Say it.

Say it.

Say it over and over and over again.


This poem was published in the June 2013 edition of Open Heart Forgery.

How To Be a Young Adult

Miss your parents. Be struck with deep, heart-hollowing longing for them at the oddest of moments. Wish your mother was there when you are trying to decide whether a striped shirt should be washed with lights or darks. Feel the absence of your father when you watch a good documentary. Call them for no reason other than to tell them you bought some new storage containers and the grocery store didn’t have any good avocados. Be annoyed when your mother does the same. Love when your father emails to tell you about a typo in the newspaper.

Long for home. Be confused about what that means. Fly back to your parents’ house. Discover it feels small and cramped, like trying to squeeze back into the shell of your eighteen-year-old self. Return to your apartment. Discover that though you love it, sometimes it feels empty and lonely. Visit friends, family. Look at real estate. Freak out about the possibility of permanently settling somewhere. Freak out about not having roots. Try to find non-traditional manifestations of home. Claim your friends are your home. Have them move away. Move away yourself. Begin to think home is a ludicrous societal construction. Refuse to buy into it. Buy into it anyway.

Have questions. Wonder about things you have never considered before: how to file your taxes, how long before leftovers go bad, how to clean your couch, how to choose the best laundry detergent. Be too embarrassed to actually ask anyone. Research answers on the internet. Stand bewildered in grocery store aisles reading ingredient lists and nutritional information and price tags. Call your mother in tears when you get fruit flies and can’t figure out how to get rid of them.

Feel lost. Wonder where your life is going. Panic about the future. Be at a loss for words when people ask what you are going to do with your life. Take up collecting maps and globes. Plot routes to places you have never been. Trace paths to lands that no longer exist. Wander into the self-help sections of bookstores. Look at books about budgeting and career planning. Buy poetry instead.

Dream. Stare out windows in classrooms, in the office, in coffee shops. Plan trips you can’t afford. Apply for jobs you aren’t qualified for. Write wishlists. Window shop at fancy stores. Create elaborate fantasies for yourself. Be heartbroken when reality slaps you across the face with a rejection letter or credit card bill. Decide there is no point to dreams. Write them off as childish. Swear you will be serious, grown-up, realistic. Find yourself daydreaming again.

Cry. Often. Well up at good news. Sob at bad news. Dissolve into tears when it turns out that life is hard and unfair and overwhelming. Wail when your dreams begin to feel impossible. Barely make it into your apartment, sliding down the door like a character in a movie. Sit down in the shower. Collapse in the midst of cleaning products scattered throughout the kitchen. Burrow under the bed covers. Force yourself to get up off the floor, crawl out of bed, wash your hair. Keep living your life.


This poem was published in the 2012 edition of Ballyhoo, an annual arts publication of The King’s University College. It was awarded the editor’s choice award for poetry.

Deer Leap

The summer we were sixteen
our bodies became liquid.
We spread ourselves
over the earth
seeping into dirt,
shimmering in sunlight.
We were weightless then,
things of beauty.
Our skin could not contain
our radiance.
Light leaked through our pores.
This piece was published in the 2012 edition of Ballyhoo, an annual arts publication of The King’s University College.

Breakfast with Regret

Regret slips in quietly
sometime around 3 a.m.
He curls up in your favourite chair,
pulls a blanket over himself
and waits.
When you wake up
there he is
dozing in your living room.
And no matter how silently
you go about your morning ritual,
he will wake up,
he will invite himself to breakfast
and stay much longer.

This piece was published in the 2011 edition of Ballyhoo, an annual arts publication of The King’s University College.

Ballet Corps Member Fixing Her Hair

Edgar Degas, pastel on paper, 1900-1902
It would not do to come undone
for a stray hair
landing on a cheek
to suggest
freckled skin
uneven seam
It would not do to draw attention
for an unsteady smile
or shaking hand
to hint at
teary eyes
bitten lips
Take a moment to compose yourself.
It would not do to come undone.
This piece was published in the 2012 edition of Ballyhoo, an annual arts publication by The King’s University College.