in medias res

I’m sorry that

Yesterday I baked you brownies with boxed

cake mix. I’m fairly certain that I forgot to

rinse the eggs before cracking. But some really,

really fucking impressive people

say you don’t need to 

wash the shells. Also you should know

I was so excited to mail your care package—

I’ve been planning it for weeks. But I was running late so 

I prematurely extracted them from this oven and

doctored them with my hair dryer set on COOL—

all before swaddling them in saran wrap,

condensation gathering in the wrinkles, inside

the easter basket grass and construction paper

hearts and other artificial plastics

that are supposed to tell you—

that from all the way over here—

I love you 

and that, that’s sincerity.

Even Chicagoans cry over dead two year olds.


We live universally—
fighting our own verison
of the same battles
(where war wages on
uncertainty and excuses).
We are bound by
humanity (stitched
with flaws and expectations)
and soaked in good intentions
(like keroscene, ready to set
fire to the fields we dance in)
and we ache…

DH, I can’t thank you enough for changing my life. 

it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. 








Thermochromic table by Jay Watson

imagine banging someone on that table

imagine being home alone and seeing imprints on that table

noooooo stop

Imagine having a friend sit at that table for a long while, but when they get up there’s no imprints at all.

What if you got up after trying to console a crying friend, and found that you had no imprints… and they were crying because they missed you?

aaaah it was a cool table now it’s a horror/drama story

(Source: rialxoan, via discoveringmywonderland)

late she settled down deep into her body, flexed her toes. tendons reached her soul, calmed the waters, shook the walls. 

She was extending a hand that I didn’t know how to take, so I broke its fingers with my silence.

—Jonathan Safran Foer (via creatingaquietmind)

(via teachingliteracy)