4-leaf clovers are 1 in 10,000. I’m always looking for one.

“I see that, too. Everyone here is broken. All these women I meet and they want love but they just can’t. You just look at them and you see, they can’t. I don’t know what it is about this city, if we all come here because we’re broken, or if the city makes us that way.”

“I always say, ‘Vienna is a city built on Roman ruins and heartbreak.”

But, I want to stay. At least for a little while.

I’m going to set roots, and grow like a weed from the cement.

I’m here to officially revoke my membership to the Broken Hearts Society.

Give me the form to fill out, the hotline to call. Go ahead, charge me an extortionate cancellation fee.

I’m ready.

The moment it becomes a story.

“So you like your men like you like your furniture: Scandinavian.”

Making new friends and swimming in new waters. Getting my feet wet and talking too loud for my own good, perhaps. It’s nice to not be the most-American American girl in the room. I’ve been in Europe for six years and I still feel like Minnie Mouse, but I’ve grown to accept it.

Someone told me that when he is with me he “feel[s] like less of a stranger here.” So, maybe I am doing something right. Or maybe I am just making him feel normal by comparison. Who knows.

We’re Some Undefined Massacre of Embraces

I’m supposed to go away with you tomorrow.
I was supposed to be done with you, well before yesterday.
All I do when I’m with you is orgasm relentlessly and ask myself,
“What am I doing?”
“What am I fucking doing?!”

You make me feel worthless.
You make me feel so good.

You trace your thumbs along my bones,
You draw me so precisely.
Let me bask in the illusion of being known.
You don’t want to get to know me, really.

I just want to dislike you enough to remind myself not to want you.

I’m just here for the ride out of town.
I’m just here to get you out of my system.
I’m just here for the starlight.

I’m just here for a few more weeks,
Might as well enjoy it.


And were we to take an inventory of the friendship,
What would we find?

A few dozen skipped rocks.
A generous handful of sunsets.
Hotel receipts.
Gasoline.
A reckless dearth of caffeine.
Some spilled ink.
A couple wishes each, made during the meteor shower (What did you wish for?).
Enough peach pits for a cyanide poisoning.
A multitude of small deaths, some of them faked.
And perhaps, and most importantly,
Two people who are slightly happier than they were a few weeks ago.

The spoils of war whatever-the-fuck-this-is.

I feel comfortable with you.
Cozy, numb.
An affection relatively devoid of emotion, and certified gluten-free.  
You taught me to love dirt again. To get my hands filthy.
It’s under my fingernails, you’re under my skin.

I should learn to garden,
to cultivate something I can actually grow
and have a say in.
Something to nourish my body beyond pleasure.
I could grow herbs.
Vegetables.
Roses.

Who am I kidding, I can’t grow roses.
I can’t keep a cactus alive.

Perhaps, this week, I will buy myself some flowers.

That’s a start.

13 was her lucky number, I like to think she watches over me every Friday the 13th. It seems I survived another one.

You make me feel beautiful. Not just beautiful, gorgeous.

You make me feel gorgeous.

I’m not exactly great at taking it slow. I’ve been known to be impatient, My imagination is overactive. My hands are fidgety, and your skin is awfully soft. But, I will make an exception.

You are, or so it may seem, exceptional.

And what a thing it is, to not only be a thing worth wanting,

But to be a woman worth loving.

Biblioquiescent Panic: A Case Study

I decided to escape the confines of my apartment’s white walls for the confines of the Austrian National Library’s white walls. I tried to visit years ago as a tourist, and left embarrassed, having never really seen the inside. Which I was told is gorgeous.

Today, I decided to be brave. I bought an annual pass, and went in ready to be dazzled by some gorgeous Austrian architecture. There isn’t really a good map of the reading rooms, at least not one I could find. It just looks like…a library? Not sure what all the hubbub was about. From what I understand there is a fancy reading room somewhere, but it doesn’t seem to be available for actual reading. Just for instagramming and private events.

Anyways, libraries, I forgot, are an absolute ADHD nightmare. It’s so…silent. I know, genius that I am, I forgot. But, this is excessive, more than library quiet. There’s nary the shuffle of a page turning, nor the occasional cough. There are dozens of people here and I’d venture to guess not a single one is breathing. My shoes were painfully loud while I walked in. I took a sip of water and the sound echoed violently.

I somehow picked the squeakiest chair not only in this room, nor in this library, but in the entire world. Honestly, scientists should be studying this chair to learn its secrets. After cacophonously scraping it in place to get myself seated, I am now stuck here, a bit too far from the desk, until the end of my days, for fear of ever making that noise again.
It was nice knowing you all.
“She died doing what she hated, being quiet.”

Since arriving, I have gone through the formality of opening my copy of Gray’s Anatomy for Students to the first page of the chapter on the lower limb. Chapter is a polite way of putting it, it’s more of a formidable, insurmountable heft of paper with a vendetta against my attention span. Honestly, I can’t bring myself to start, knowing I won’t finish. Thus, I have spent my time looking at what everyone else is studying. I took a seat at the furthest table back, lest anyone else give me the same treatment,
“Hmm, what’s she up to? Not studying, by the looks of it. She should really get started reading that section, it looks awfully long and she has to finish this class before September, tsk tsk
Honestly, it’s astonishing how many details this imaginary stranger knows about my procrastination.

Oh god, oh dear God. My stomach is going to grumble. I should have eaten something. And I have to cough. I have never had such a strong desire to cough in my life. I guarantee you, there is a German word for “the sudden desire to cough knowing that one is in a quiet room”.

I should look it up. Better yet, I should make one up. Biblioquiescent Tussis.

In the dream, I was here, but also in Boston. Where were you?

Last night I didn’t dream of you, but I was thinking of you in the dream. Talking about you, trying to call you but the phone wouldn’t ring. Telling mutual acquaintances a bit of everything, all the falling apart and the pain.

And wouldn’t it be easy, wouldn’t it be convenient, if we could just retreat to a cave and grumble about the world. And love nothing but each other.

And perhaps my opinion on the matter will evolve. It’s a cliche ripe for disproving.

But, for now, it feels terrifyingly certain, that there is nothing I will ever love, the way I loved you.

You saw the journal, you were warned.

I was up one stair,
the height difference compensated for
I figured I might as well,
kiss you and all.

Let’s get out of here.
If you take me home I’ll go down on you.
Nice try, and not the first time
a guy has used that line on me.

Maybe I give off a certain energy,
Maybe you all think I taste sweet?
I’m awfully vanilla, but
l hope it’s crafted with the expertise
only a pastry chef could manage.

You’re bringing back memories of Brooklyn,
and the bar hounds I used to know.
7 years away, I’m out of practice.
Same lines, different accent.
Dogs, all of you, really.
Puppies, lately.
Here boy, come play.

You can walk me home
but you can’t come in.

You can show me the sunset
and bring me a box of chocolates.

We can sit by the water
while you drink gin & tonic.

You’re allowed a certain amount of me,
the pleasure of my company.
A handful of skin, or two.
But, I’m not here to heal you,
not your manic pixie dream girl.
I have my own story.
I’ve been known to kiss and tell.