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Thursday 23 May 2013

Mile 14

You cheated on me with places your had never been to. Dreamed of all the opportunities you would never fuck, cursed the commitment of how it felt to care. The heaviness of feelings you didn’t ask for. Then started to drop dead weight.

Wednesday 22 May 2013

Mile 15

And isn't funny? I felt lighter.

Mile 16

When you care about someone that much, it hurts to listen to stories where the stairs from child to adult are taken in two-by-two. Suddenly after the second whiskey, with a head against a chest, you understand the deep end of indigo eyes and know that there are dark places you feet will never touch. Learn to tread water.

Mile 17

I understand you got scared. That doesn't mean you turn the movie off. Don't underestimate my openness for being weak. Just because words might talk of my destruction doesn’t mean I surrender. I have rebuilt this empire many times. 

Tuesday 21 May 2013

Mile 18

You would catch yourself mid sentence, falling in love faster than you had planned. In the wrong year, at the wrong moment. This wasn’t a monthly goal. The logic games pressed against the Sunday morning sleep-ins.  I never told you the space between the tide of your eyes and the circle of your arms felt like home, but one I was always waiting to decorate. Never sure if I was moving in or out.

Mile 19

You can either be the best  or fall in love. Your choice.

Mile 20

Make a wish. I wish you found the list of things I loved about you, instead of the one I wrote when I was mad. The first one was much longer, but sat unwritten because you used affection as a bargaining chip. I knew never to show my cards. Held close to the queen of hearts.

Mile 21

The color blue will never look the same. 

Sunday 19 May 2013

Mile 22

I always thought if I could write something beautiful enough I could make someone love me. Show them grace and hurt, I put under the pillow at night. Use metaphors as a flashlight, to draw halos, hold hands like two sleeping sea otters and try not to drift away.

Mile 23

I’m still writing.

Mile 24

There is a list of things I never told you:
10. When you say something twice and no one pays attention, don’t repeat it a third. Demand they listen the first go around.
9.  I can feel the heaviness of your eyes on me, but I can’t lift the weight of looking up
8.When you find her. And I know one day you will. Don’t think of all the things she will keep you from. Think of all the things she will lead you to. People are not prisons. 
7. Kindness is more attractive than intelligence. So listen. Honesty rubs at the soul like sea glass. It is hard to smooth the pain alone.
6. Thank you for the shrimp scampi. Letting me control the music. And an attempt to like white wine.  
5. The 405 and I have gotten close. It catches my tears between exits. Even in a new car, you have broken my commute. 
4. It will always hurt to say no to you. It is an exercise, but I have yet to grow strong.
3. You were the third with a set of initials I seem destined to collide with. I believe in energy and ours is not finished.
2. You spoke of minutes we got away, lost in the northern seashore and European rolling hills as life changing beauty. I know I suck at math, but things don’t add up.  I guess you were subtracting.  
1. I wonder if all the post-its I wrote for you still sleep in your kitchen drawers. Early in the morning, while you were still in bed, I would track their life span, as I brewed coffee. Made sure they were still breathing. Read them like EKGs, every new day their survival the only way to track where you heart was going. I doubt their still alive. 

Mile 25

I never said goodbye but left blue ink blots on your white couch, to show my tear ducts are inkwells. I was trying to write my future, trying to write my story, trying to save myself. The stains, like the rain that knocked so hard, will remind you of the messiness of feelings. That our story will always be there, cursive in a cushion that has now been flipped over. 

Mile 26

Not on the same page. With strangers as an audience. I am crossing the finish line. Speaking without apology, a causality of honesty, and reminded myself, no matter how long the silence holds, it is okay to vulnerable. I rather be trampled wet grass, then cement waiting to dry. I will not apologize for wanting more answers because I cared. My ego is left overnight on the coffee table, alone, but starting to heal. Because at the end of the day those who are the hardest to love, are the ones that need it the most. 

Wednesday 17 April 2013

Motion Sickness

Motion Sickness

By Kelly Grace Thomas


I have become seasick from the sway between certainty and doubt.

There are days when life is gift wrapped, in the size I ordered, free overnight shipping,

waiting on my door step.

Then there are nights when I wait longer than I should for anything,

where action speaks before insecurity

and in the nightlight of moon, I hold thick blankets close

 to feel the weight of something, even if it will be gone tomorrow.  

This tightrope, this roller coaster, this cliché, whose fare I pay with bankrupt faith

has not secured my safety locks.

But still I climb in, pen in hand, knowing how messy it is to be scared.

Knowing that I can always hold on to me. 

Sunday 14 April 2013

Los Liones

Los Liones

By Kelly Grace Thomas


Today I will hike with los liones,

let my shoes welcome the dust,

because wisdom lives in a world so tiny,

when divided-

it disappears.

I will remember a childhood where maple tree and overgrown trails

 were my refugee.

How I crossed rivers wishing I could sleeping them.

Drinking the aloneness, like a child after freeze tag.

The noise of televisions and phone calls had been silenced and there was just me and the

rustle of dancing leaves in the wind.

Entering with questions, mother nature never let me leave confused.

Because sometimes you need to sleep

with the arms of something bigger wrapped around you tight

to remember what it is to feel safe. 

Saturday 13 April 2013

The Year of the Rooster

The Year of the Rooster

By Kelly Grace Thomas


Every year, around my birthday, I try to fuck with time.

I smoke a cigarette or drink too much,

put lobster on a credit card,

with buttery chardonnay buzz.


I leave the things the past year has taught me on the doorstep,

and knock on the door of the person I used to be.

Just to see if the lessons stuck.


I wrestle with who’s in charge.

There is a part of me, that is too difficult to control,

cravings of chocolate milk and no-sleep sunrises.

This borderless land

where shame and pleasure tap dance on a page.

Age has taught me the difference between wanting and knowing better,

so I put her in the cupboard. Let her live with the chicken soup.

The flip of the calendar is coming. Waiting.


There are too many questions I still haven’t answered,

But I collect bravado like postcards

 and collage the courage to start asking.

In like a lion, I feel the challenge to flirt

with 365 tightropes, tied to my hands.

The lamb’s exit, a testament measured in goodnight kisses,

the rejection of submission, hopeful applications and coffee at all hours.

Life is a game, you just have to keep winning.


I go to the ocean and know our breaking runs deep.

My floor collects one more scratch and I look for fancy sofas to buy.

But I feel no embarrassment for growing old,

I will not apologize for when my story started.


Friday 12 April 2013

Standing up Straight

Standing up Straight

 By Kelly Grace Thomas


There is something about the spine,

how it knows the marriage of touch to thought.

Sends messages in Moore’s code, on a Thursday night,  

one year older,

to try and reason with the two.

Reminding you whose touch to trust.


Sometimes I break myself into vertebrates.  

Think of all the blackboard affirmations I have let down this month.

When it struggles to stand straight, I want it to know, we are both trying.

Know the honesty thick-tongue of pain, as it licks the length of your body.

Sandpaper kiss to remind you of your limits but

sees lesson as their beauty birthmarks your back.


I can feel the race for tomorrow ache with each disc.

I have spent too many nights trying to write a better future,

craving achievement before morning coffee.

But my spine, like an alarm clock dancing with hot water, only begged for warm hands.

The pound of each computer key has struck this spinal chord.

Because each and every backbone is only looking for a home.


It is no coincidence that the spine is the only anatomy we share with books.

The thing that needs to break before you can show its been loved.

On long April weeks,

 when the pain is new and raw I ask,

“How will you hold me up?”

 and it answers

with the story you built.  

Thursday 21 March 2013

Marathon: Part one

The Marathon: Part one

By Kelly Grace Thomas


Mile one

I have always searched for a vehicle to prove my strength.

Born equal parts small to smart, found dependency a drug that I won’t even try once,

because even in blue alleys, or houses built by muted colors, everyone becomes addicted to something,

even if it’s love.


Mile two

I write my name in sandpaper tears of ancestor emu and antelope.

 Together we run to remember the worth of each saltwater kiss. Stop telling myself that I am the problem.

 I shouldn’t scratch for kindness like a hermit crab for sand. Especially when the asking sores my lips.


Mile three

The sound of a million footsteps, poetry on pavement, turn beauty into blister and we all race to recognize our pain.

 No matter what they tell you, someone should always be there to say sweet dreams. 

As soon as someone calls himself a ‘nice guy’ know that he’s probably anything but.


Mile four

I will go into hiding with red-wine stained books, ink-spilled couches and messages written in bottles.

Send each question I never asked you out to sea. Sometimes rains knocks on a soul so hard, that a different person opens the door.

 Look in the mirror know what it is to sweat. To want something so bad, your body cries

Sunday 17 March 2013

Something Else

Something Else

By Kelly Grace Thomas


I leave my wanting mores thrown on the bedroom floor as I climb naked into bed.

On days where nights seem to last all morning, with red eyes, sore from searching

for things I'm not getting, 

I wonder

if returning is the best option to check-

 then things turn silent.

It starts with the clocks, but transfers to couches stared at by palm tress,

whispers in rocking chairs that die on sunny afternoons.

Even the ocean counts its breath

hiding collected questions under a smile of sea foam.

This story has been eaten by doubt.

Gave up on giving because of what it took.

Make it an art out of holding your tongue,

while hands remain empty

in uncommitted corners to fully furnished fears.

Watch the world, with its noises and touch.

Know that it’s worth it when things are messy.

At least then you know you care. 

Friday 15 March 2013



By Kelly Grace Thomas


Speak slowly in soft dusk,

hold tight to every inhale, breath out

knowing that sometimes we second guess

perfection only because

 others claimed it didn’t


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