Sunday, January 27, 2013


i went to new york city last week,
and i went to the chinese ward in brooklyn.
i helped in primary and a little kung-fu jack lookalike
pressed his forehead to mine,
just like jack did before i ran onstage for the goodbye talent show.
we sang songs about faith and God
but i could barely squeak them out
because i was choking up.
because i was a teacher but i couldn't teach the one thing that i'm 100% certain about:
that i'm a child of God. and they are too.
that was lovely and that was hard
and i'm keeping it in my prayers that one day,
in heaven or on earth,
i will be the one to tell them.

Friday, January 25, 2013

Don't go chasing waterfalls.

Pardon me, but I have been diagnosed with hopeless-romanticism.
And as little as I like to say it, I just can't deny it anymore.

So I'm packing my things again.

And I'm just going to leave.

My destinations are always unknown, but I just get places. And that's okay with me.

You don't have to know who you are or where you're going.

You just have to know that your feet will get you there. They will get you anywhere.

And I will try not to be honest with you anymore.

Saturday, January 19, 2013

Third time's the charm.

I feel obligated to preface this by saying that I am due to speak of "love" here shortly, and apparently there are individuals who have a problem with that. I would like to remind people who read my words that reading is a personal choice, and no one is forcing you to do so. If you have a problem with me, don't associate with me. It's as simple as that. So you may either close the tab or disagree and criticize silently. Or, if you truly feel a need to vocalize or express such negative opinions, then you clearly have some deep-rooted issues you need to sort out, and you should consider a journal or a shrink. I'm happy to help with the funds for either. Thank you.

You're the goosebumps on my arms when I read Shakespeare.

And I hate the way my feet fall asleep when I cry.

It's like when Radiohead runs all the way through my hair and all I can hear is your voice saying, "It's just you and me for always, Mea."

There's nothing quite like gulping in oxygen in -8 degree weather to wake you up from the coma that your last heartbreak put you in.

I remember the calluses on your hands because they were real.
And the freckles on your left ear because they were perfect.

My memory is a haunted place.

But I just tell myself, "One more song. You can run for one more song." And then eight songs later, I'm five miles in and "there's no point stopping now."

I wish I would have taken more pictures of your face. And spent my money on others instead of myself, because that's what you always said was the most important thing: giving.
I wish I would have put my hands up and trusted the roller coaster to hold onto me through the loops.

I should have kissed you more and hit you less.

Everyone says "stop pretending" but I can only be real when I'm watching The Truman Show or yelling at you because you got a stain on my Biggie Smalls shirt.

Oh, how I will miss that love.
And I will even miss that hate a little, too.

And if there's ever another, God please let it be Ryan Gosling.