It’s not love, is the thing. Simmers down to a summer fling.

All scaling begonia tangled trellises and twining fingers in silky sheets. Swimming in the lake and bruises mottling the insides of thighs. Summer sticky nights comprised of kiss bitten lips; hearts like soda cans stuttering on the pavement.

It’s a summer fling and he’s falling in love.

Continue reading “SUMMER: PART II”


So let’s call it love, a summer fling; she always has been good at those.

Nerves concentrated in fingertips that she scales along the skyline of his jaw. A cataclysm in the backseat. A wreckage of veins and neon lights bleeding through the window, a boy with rough hands and locked up knees. A collection of lipstick prints, blossoming bruises, mottling necks, collar bones.

Continue reading “WRONG”


It’s the first day of winter when he finally tells her that he loves her.

Rusted, golden leaves are just begging to fall; the sky a spider-web spun grey.

He meets her in front of a window that’s spit with snow, with a necklace in his pocket and his heart like a loaded gun. There are so many things he wants to say.

But he keeps it at this, runs his thumb along the knife-edge of her jaw and comes away with blood, “You -” the words catch their feet on his teeth.

“You’re the only one.”


He’s fear and arrogance and a cautionary tale of hubris. He’s mint green tea leaves and the smell after it rains. He’s yours, inexplicably and undeniably. And you’re his. But you can’t trust him, not after what he’s done and what he’s doing and what he’s going to do.


The world comes to an end on a Tuesday.

Because it’s a thawing, blossoming Tuesday in spring when he pulls a ring from his pocket, bends down on one knee, proposes to the youngest daughter of an heiress; and the spectators watch with avid eyes and prosecco slick lips. They watch the boy in the family garden with the family heirloom. They watch with delight and act as though just last year he hadn’t been a causality of war.

Continue reading “TUESDAY: CHAPTER I”


It smells like rose gardens after rain, smells like spilled ink and ludicrously expensive perfume. It smells like a girl with next to nothing to lose, who shouldn’t fit, doesn’t fit, who is fundamentally wrong, in all the ways that matter, at least.

It smells like someone who he shouldn’t love half as much as he does.

It smells like a heartache, like a girl, like a mistake.

It smells like redemption.


Because he’s arrogant and sullen, bratty and petty and widely despised. Because he’s sharp edges and sharper words, the pomegranate that had tricked Persephone and the curse that turned King Midas’s touch to gold. Because he can’t imagine anyone who didn’t benefit from it like him, no, not when his morals have firmly affixed themselves to his last name until he can’t quite tell the difference.