God doesn't exploit, and he doesn't lie.

I'm not impressed by you
up in my mind
I like you better
You don't

get that tone
snip in those words
or stare at the floor when I am in front of you
pin my arms behind

I walked up Queen Anne
scratches not yet scabbed

nails scraped over
like the way

you said those words
that ran over my exterior
I flinched
and pretended I didn't hear the sound
or feel the way
it dug in deep

Tell me,
are those sweet words
You say
accompanied by
bitter aftertaste
the salt circling around in your mouth

My puppy ducks down
when I reach to pet
And I'm jerking away
earlier than Jasmine

Let me say
I almost know now
that He doesn't lie
when He says
Please be mine

It's raining and I'm hiding again.

I'm at Irwin's for the last time.

Irwin's is where I always go to write in Seattle. It's a coffee shop stuck in the midst of residential houses at the UW. It's earthy and looks like a cottage inside-yellow plaster, victorian style sage green woodwork.
And the baristas are all eerily drop dead gorgeous. One looks like Norah Jones.
(I try not to creep when I sit in my wicker chair with my latte-but no matter how hard I try I end up wondering what she likes to do when she is not baking blueberry muffins, what kind of things run across her mind when she bikes home in the rain.)
She has long dark hair with red streaks on the back of her ponytail, olive skin and thick, clean cut arched brows with two piercings on the end.
I don't know what it is about her-maybe it's the delicate silver leaves she wears dangling from her ears, or the fact that she looks so unnecessarily angry while brewing coffee, contrary to her soft features, that intrigues me.

I aspire to be a girl like that. That sounds shallow, but I think there is something to be said about mystery. For me, that is the beauty of women. Of course, most women always end up not being as interesting or as beautiful as the curve of their waist makes them out to be-it seems as if all they really care about is having a good time on Friday night or that their BFF told Sam about such and such. But I like to hope there are depths to them.

Bur really, I like Irwin's because no one I know knows about it. I have lots of havens, like that. It's my own secret.
It's weird to think I will not be back here soon.
Maybe I'll scrawl something out hidden in Wallingford in a few years-but for now-I have to go.

I need to learn to let go.

Princess Mononoke

Call me Princess Mononoke

I'm dripping with blood

not of a demon forest wolf 

but of a man

sacrificed

my fingertips are stained red

so I wear a ring

and in it 

is a white stone

Pure through a murder

blood over my head

blood on my hands 

Should be guilty

but this death, 

and this darkness

has turned into light

and deemed me worthy

and valuable

accusations 

will drip off my forehead

fended off

by the blood

that is trickling down

just the same. 

Call me princess mononoke

I've shed one life

for another

traded my humanness

through bloodshed

for peace. 

One name

for another. 

Drink Coffee Black

Who is this one?

Turning bitter into sweet,
It doesn't matter what.
Sorrow more sharp than denatonium,
glass full to the brim.
Gives me one glance 
and I'm eating honey from the comb. 

this one
stole all of me,
don't know where I went. 
Sitting in airports
not quite alone. 
Got me letting go
got me letting go happy. 

Who is this one-
and what is this love, 
that every lip would look like 
ordure, 
and every offer in the elevator,
every handsome face
morphs before me 
into nothing but a pile of ashes,
a speck of lint. 

Who is this one
who has me begging to 
cease to be me

and who is this man
that he would only ever invite
only ever propose

I don't know where I went. 
Tried to look down at my feet
but my eyes no longer shift side to side. 

Roses rarely
turn into doves. 
But it's a new day

and this One
makes rivers in low places
and ashes to flesh
and the bitter

into sweet. 

I'm back.

It has been months since I have even visited this blog. 

I have not stopped writing for even a minute-it's just all been scribbled into my moleskins and sketchbooks, into my mac at Starbucks, onto bulletins crammed into my messenger bag. 

But I thought maybe I should I begin writing on here, again. 

Blue, blue, blue.

It's getting cold, in Seattle. 

One of my friends, every time she comes in her apartment, yells, "It's so f***ing cold!" before slamming the door in a fury behind her. She'll then run to get her rice-filled sock, throw it in the microwave, and after a minute, takes it with her to the couch, hunches next to the radiator, and burrows beneath the quilts that are askew on top of the cushions. 

"It's so f***ing cold, Rosalie." 

I can see my breath when I go outside, without an American Spirit held between my fingers, a a first time occurrence since I've been in the Pacific Northwest. 

There is ice on the streets. My friends don't know how to drive, with a one foot patch on the side of the road. 

"I don't know how to drive on ice, Rosie! Okay, I'm going around the block. I'll go around the block."

"You can just go a little slow, it will be fine, it's not even black ice." 

"Oh no. Oh no. Here it is!" 

The  Christmas tree on the Space needle (which looks stupid by the way) and my hands, slowly turning pink from the cold, make me homesick for the North Country. 

There, even the alleys in Phillips are peaceful after a fresh snowfall. Edith is making truffles and prefernuse and potica at 2504. 

I want to have to dry my smart wool socks on the radiator, to have to run to the shower in the morning because the floor is so cold. I want to watch Charlie Brown with my little sister, buried under a pile of blankets, and I want the cuffs of my jeans to be soggy after trudging through snow banks. I want to sit next to Julian and Chantz and Gabby at the Cedar, my coat slipping off the back of the chair like it always does, pierced by the coldness of Channy Moon's voice and the warmth of all the bodies in the room. 

 I want to go home. 

 (I hate you, Amtrak). 

Natural degrees of niceness.

When I first started high school, and the majority of my friends were unbelievers, I started to notice that a lot of non-believers are much more interesting and creative and kinder than most Christians.

I was disappointed. And I really didn't understand it-why my friend Jesse had much more spiritual depth than a lot of kids in youth group, or why Anna was more compassionate, or why I didn't know any boring unbelievers, and I knew a million Christians who seemed like they were made with the same cookie cutter.

It is, of course, because unbelievers are in the image of God.

And he makes some people with more of His kindness than others. I shouldn't be surprised that non-believers surpass Christians in many areas of virtue, often.

I've been thinking about this as I ponder Nik.

He made me see God, in a whole different way. He was kind, accepting, quirky. A faithful friend.

Nik's ghost bike-at Nicollet and Hennepin, where his body was dragged by a semi for a block, crushed, and then ultimately ran over. The only reason I wish I was in Minneapolis.