My own story of teenage angst and love is its own sort of fractured fairy tale. The short version fascinates people, and they usually beg for more details…. The short version? my husband and I got engaged after less than a month of dating, got married when I was 18 and he was 16, and we are still together now, nearly 30 years later.

Can you die of wanting? Try putting that question into a Google search and the internet is terrified you’re contemplating suicide. Want to die? Here’s help. Please don’t do it.

Every morning, I wake up wondering which me I will wear today. I grumble from my comfy bed, stumble toward the porcelain throne, and crumble at the blurry image in the mirror. What day is it today?

I want to drive with you down long, dark roads, through islands of illumination created by too-far-apart streetlights, windows down, warm summer wind pulling at our clothes and our conversation.

Boy.  My dad called me “Boy” when I was little. 

This is not your typical “Once Upon a Time” story.  Even as a little girl, I never really believed in fairy tales.  My mom died when I was about six, and ever since then, it’s just been me and my dad—and his string of girlfriends.

The soft November light slowly seeped into the edges of her consciousness as she opened her eyes. The world took on a hazy brightness, the romanticism of old Hollywood. She inhaled deeply, slowly, feeling the chill air enter her lungs, smiling contentedly as she exhaled and turned to her side.

Bits and pieces of poetry I’ve penned through the years.