reopened:

i always think that with every relationship, i’ve learned all there is to know about love.  but it is hard to be wise in love when love so often makes us fools.  

but thinking about it today, all i can say is that there is nothing toxic in true love.  i am glad to have finally learned this lesson.  i am not empty and looking to be filled.  i do not have another half.  instead, i am whole, spending my time with a wonderful partner with bright eyes and a beautiful smile who makes my days happier.

i stopped writing when law school got busy.  i stopped having beneficial introspection because i was busy filling my brain with legal knowledge and then was busy emptying my brain of everything learned in the days after finals.  finally, i spent the past two weekends with family and with very little down time. now, alone in my apartment, waiting for evan to finish work and come over, i have been sitting and enjoying the silence.  thinking.  and my thoughts eventually led me here.  there is nothing toxic.  life is wonderful. 

laurenzuni:

I’m grateful that Andrea clued me in on this genderqueer poet that I guess I had heard of but hadn’t really checked out their work. Stunning Discovery Of the Day. So much scrag.

and here’s the kind of journalism i enjoy: one i can completely control. here is a self-interview i did (well, i suppose Walt Whitman asked the questions, i merely answered) for The Nervous Breakdown. you can read the poem i’m primarily referencing here.

Here is an article up on me/my book done by Newsday, a Long Island newspaper. I have to say I have extremely mixed (read: uneasy) feelings about the sensationalist journalism of this article, even though the interviewer was darling, but I am happy to get my name out there beside people’s morning coffees. Enjoy. 

spokenwordacademy:

By Megan Falley

from my mother’s perspective

1.
The Bay Ridge of my childhood was a simple playground.
On the 69th Street Pier lucky fisherman
would fillet their catch, bones flying
out of the red snapper’s body in chaos like children
sent home early from school.

To hand-me-down Irish kids, an empty refrigerator
in a kitchen meant no dinner for the third night.
But an empty fridge in a neighbor’s gutter
meant something else: a two-seater space rocket,
a submarine, the ultimate
hiding spot.

At first Brooklyn played along, seeking
for the missing twins in Owl’s Head Park,
in coat donation boxes of local churches,
beneath the skirts of barren women.

I don’t remember the year it became law
to remove all refrigerator doors before disposal,
but I do remember the wake; the entire borough in black,
their mother trying to drown the remainder of the living world
with her sobs. Cold white coffins, like open toy chests, tempted every child
in the room fighting the want to unwrap them, to awaken the perfectly still
dolls. When we lowered them into the ground, my mind made
treasure maps, marking where the city hid
our Christmas presents.

2.
My babies are perfect: iced vanilla,
sprinkles of freckles, topped with tart cherry mouths.
Every mother dreams for children who sleep
like mine, immaculate as frozen pastries.
Sometimes in the night I’ll scream
just to make certain
they’ll stir.

This one is in MY BOOK, but here’s your sneak-peak. Check it out. It’s weeiiiiiiirdddd.