heroine

He called it an isolated incident, promised you
that it would never happen again. It was one
time, he said, one time. But one plus one equals
two, and two plus one equals three, and you use
your fingers to keep track of eight, nine, ten,
until you can no longer remember; until you
can no longer count the blues and purples
on your arms, strong hands marking you like
indelible ink; until you can no longer count
the number of times you heard provoked or
asked for it; until you can no longer count
on him.

Count on yourself
from now on. Promise
yourself that it would
never happen again.

Guard your heart, the blues and purples of it,
close it and lock it and slide the key under
the threadbare carpet for now. Don’t worry,
you will find it when you need to. It can
wait. Close your heart, love, but open
your mouth to speak just before you leave—
not to say goodbye, but to tell him you’re done
breaking. There are only pinks and golds
in your horizon, and even indelible ink
washes off in time, fades out the way voices
in the night do. And when he laughs
and tells you to save it for yourself, don’t
allow yourself to shut down. Even when
he says it again and again: save it for yourself.

Save it for yourself. Run a hand over your face,
everything is in place, remember,
tear your eyes away from his mouth, still
moving, trace a path to the front door, and
save yourself.

in case you come back


It’s been two months since we released this book out into the world, but every new mention or tag alerting our eager eyes and ears that someone has bought it, brought it home, and let its words and art seep into their soul still feels nothing short of amazing. It’s been two months since we released this book out into the world and I am still so, so grateful: to Reese and Jamie, foremost and forever, but also to everyone who has touched this book and allowed us to touch their hearts in the process.

It’s been two months since we released this book out into the world and since then so much has changed, as a good friend had predicted earlier this year over coffee, cheese, and tarot cards; and yet when I think about it, so much has stayed the same. Constant. Steady. Kind. There are parts of me that are still gentle after all these years of trying not to be, and will remain that way for as long as I allow them to. There are parts of me that have to go sometimes, when there are places to be explored and answers to be questioned and people I have yet to learn to love better, but there are parts of me that will keep coming back. Home. Here. Always.

halfway

It took me so long to realize that not everything
that was built to bend has also been built
to break, that the best things withstand
the tests we flesh out in our minds, that
there is patience and kindness and gentleness,
light, wafting down from the ceiling
if I can only remember to look up, so
from now on when my voice hits that icy note 
you know all too well, remind me to step 
outside of my sullen and sour, zip my jacket up 
to hide the threat of a frown and keep walking
until I turn the corner and see a lamp post,
a vending machine, a diner buzzing at 3 AM,
 a bus stop, a waiting car, your face etched
with worry, relief. I am probably still going 
to forget sometimes. Sorry about that—you know 
how hard I try. But at least my limbs will always
have it in them to reach out to where you are,
and you will never have to go too far
to find the warmth I’ve been saving for you.

nowhere but home

Under tender white sheets crouching
from our hiding position, let me tell you
there is no need to be afraid.
You’re only one dress away from this town
of all the questions I’ve built
answers to, a place where the waiting
happens not in stoplights or queues
but every night when I set the table
for two, listening for the turning
of your key in the lock, the click, the door
swinging open like a page.
Eyes fill up when girls with flowers
in their hair walk in, and little boys in vests
and shoes shined to perfection, and I
will always meet you at the end of 
that aisle, knowing grace
follows the curve of your back, the soft
sighs you make in your sleep.
Under tender white sheets crouching
from our hiding position, let me
take your hand and lead you out to safety;
this is where we find our space.
You’re only one dress away from this town
and I have finally figured out 
that all signs point to yes, and all roads 
lead nowhere but home.

paper cuts

When you first met me, you said you liked my
feathery words and pillowy thoughts, the way
I maneuvered through days lightly, gently, careful
not to take too much, and I saw how this softness
fit into your world of loud music late at night and
laughter that lasts until morning and the heaviest
of footsteps, the heaviest of strokes, shading
outlines black until you bore holes through
the page, the way a sharp ray of sunlight pierces
through paper when you hold a magnifying glass
over it long enough. But now you have pointed
that magnifying glass at our story, and the plot
is full of holes. Character inconsistencies. Cuts
that shouldn’t have been allowed but were, or
should have but weren’t. Some days you roll up
your sleeve, show me your bruises, say they came
from me, hinting at the pebbles I keep in my
pocket and the taste of metal brewing under
my skin. And some days you want me to harden
my cotton-spun heart, toughen it up against
knives, claws, teeth, nails, sharp rays of sunlight,
anything that can tear it apart, and you want me
to stop acting like everything is such a big
fucking deal when it isn’t—not to you. But it is
to me. So I build a shell around my softest parts,
seal it with a clear coat of resolve. Drop one more
pebble into my pocket every night before I go
to bed, leave my corners untucked. Hide all the
pages. Make sure you can no longer close in on
my softness and use it as a weapon against me.

All text original work by Marla Miniano. Powered by Blogger.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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I write, edit, and produce books for a living. I also: take photos, attempt poetry, make travel plans, snore, do the dishes, daydream on the treadmill, and dress like a loose grandma. For feedback, questions, and invitations, email me at marlaminiano@gmail.com.

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