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You send me
emails daily.
Your ineloquent musings
litter the screen,
consume my inbox,
and clutter my mind.
You profess promises
of large erections,
weight loss, and funds
from a prince of Nigerian descent.
Your misspellings
glare at me
from the corners
of HTML-less windows,
and grammar
hangs its head
in shame
at your butchery
of our language.
Is this where education
goes to die?
In the dirty underbelly
of a message originating
from @maweza.co.za?
I wonder what decisions
are to blame for this
choice of direction.
Was it a misunderstanding
of elementary language,
symbols and rules too obscure,
too confining?
Was it a rebellious outburst,
a defiant shout into the void
declaring “I am more than
what you expect of me?”
Or maybe it was an acceptance.
A sad, acceptance of your fate,
of conning the less aware
by less proficient tactics.
Whatever the reason,
your hard work gets
the recognition it deserves
with the press of a button
marked D-E-L-E-T-E.

My internal monologue whenever an ex contacts me: Lo! A wild douchebag appears!

I've got 99 problems and they're all unfinished stories sitting in purgatory. #CopywriterProblems

"Hey, you're a writer, can you fix my cover letter?" #copywriterproblems

#GrossOutAGuyIn10Seconds Give him a menstrual cup. Tell him what it's for.

For someone so small, I sure do have a lot of opinions.

Maybe I've fallen in love with the thought of you.

Ideas are easier to love than people.

“Trick or Treat!” A deep, disembodied voice came from over Emily’s shoulder. She screamed and jumped away, while Jack, who was currently holding the flashlight to his chin cackled evilly. 

“You jerk!” She screeched and smacked him as his cackles morphed into pure mirth. “I HATE you. So. Much.”

The eighteen year-old winked at her impishly before tousling his brown hair. “Don’t get your panties in a wad, Em, we’re only planning on spending All Hallows eve in the most overrated haunted house in the state.” He laughed. “Like there’s any such thing as ghosts, poltergeists, demons, vampires, werewolves, monsters, or whatever of the other hundred idiotic things they put into horror movies. Or television series.” He gave her a pointed look. “Honestly, the scariest things are probably cheerleaders. Because nobody is that happy all the time. No one.”

She glared at him, tossing her long hair over her shoulder. “Just because you don’t believe in that sort of thing, doesn’t mean you should disparage others that do.” Emily retorted primly. “Besides,” she gestured around. “Mannsfield Manor is a house full of historic significance…”

“Blah blah blah, you just want to see if the ghost of Robert who died from a broken heart still roams these walls.” Jack fluttered his eyelashes.

“No…” Emily muttered sullenly, focusing on the house in front of them. The Manor was a large, dilapidated building that had housed, at one point, twenty rooms and been used as everything from a hotel to event venue and everything in between. The building had also hosted rumors of paranormal activity for the past fifty years.

Emily shivered as she and Jack made their way up the path towards the front door, feeling in her pocket for the candle she had there to light for Robert Withe, the heartbroken ghost. She closed her eyes briefly as they reached the front door. Jack looked over at her, his mirth momentarily forgotten.

“We don’t have to do this Emily, not if you don’t want to.”

She looked over at him and grinned, before opening up the door. “Robert,” she shouted. “Robert Withe! I have a candle for you.”

She stepped further into the dark, mildewy building. 

“Robert?” 

The door closed behind her.

“Robert’s not here.” Whispered an old, cold voice into her left ear. Jack was on her right side.

I'm too much and not enough. Always straddling that line between when to speak and when to keep quiet.

And I'm never sure if I should tell you the things I want to say or if they'll just scare you away.

If I thought it would make a difference, I would try to explain to you. How my thoughts and emotions are hopelessly entangled. These feelings I fight and embrace daily. How laughter can feel like fire and sun and tears can feel like ice and rain.

I would love for you to understand. If you would care to.

I am not a princess locked in a tower.
There is no gallant knight on a steed to save me.

In this story, I am the hero.
In this story, I save myself.

You may find it crazy that I find comfort in storms, but maelstroms are freeing.

In their own way.

There is a joy that lifts the edges of my spirit when I've accepted my needs. Moreso when they embrace my wants.

There are times I see your pain and wish to take it and hide it from you. Cocoon you away from sorrow and hurt and sadness. Absorb it into myself to free you from it.

But I am only human.

Hopelessness is maddening.

It tears and pulls at your insides,
taking all the warmth and turning it black and cold.
Frozen.

But hope will return.

I am afraid.

Afraid that the other shoe is about to drop. Afraid that this will end in fire and rage with one or both of us screaming in pain. Afraid that you expect too much. Afraid that I can only give too little. Afraid that I will cause you new torment and you will tear me asunder. Afraid that we are playing the world's most dangerous game.

I am afraid. But I am willing.

I sometimes wonder what it would be like if we had met in a different time or place. But the what-if game is a dangerous one to play. 

I'm terrified of the silence.
It's taken you from me before.

Please don't let it take you again.

He can drown you, without being near any water.
Pressing in, and making sure you have nowhere to run
He’ll cause your heart to speed, race.
Laughing as your lungs search frantically for some shred of salvation, some small string of hope.
He knows none exists.

He’ll tell you horrible things.
How you’re a terrible person, that you will never amount to anything, that things would be better if you were dead.
He’ll say you are a sad, pathetic, useless shell of a person.
That everyone would be better off without you.
He’ll smile as you cry.

He hurts you and relishes every moment.
If he went after anyone you love, you wouldn’t stand for his abuses, but you do nothing but take his horrible words.
He pulls you away, from your friends, your family, your happiness.
He does his best to leave you completely helpless.

And then he’ll leave
And you’ll have no choice but to try and pick up the pieces, try to rebuild yourself and your life.
You might be successful, but he’s left scars
And you wonder when he’ll reappear,
With a wicked smile on his lips.