Your eyes today,
in the sun,
from the window in your office…
they brought me in
and I was too shy
to keep looking
so I turned away
like I always do.
The floor,
the wall,
anything not beautiful
to keep me grounded.
You are cracking my ribs
with all of the space you occupy
but I don’t mind the noise or the pain.
This feeling
won’t be caged by bones.
I am lying in bed
wondering how to put it all back together
and how it all broke in the first place.



The international symbol for being fragile
is a broken martini glass on the side of a cardboard box.
It’s never been anatomical hearts,
fractured bones,
crooked spines,
bruised self-esteems,
or anything else you shouldn’t bend
for fear of breaking.
How else would sense of self
even be illustrated?
Too many times
we have quantified fragility in things
forgetting that we, too, are just as easily broken.


If only
you could unfold with me
like soft sheets,
like a love note
kept secret.
Our hearts could break open
from something other than damage.
Our lips,
our thoughts…
woven with no loose threads.
Something beautiful
made from anticipation.
If only we could dance.
Our two bodies
close enough,
instead of just my words
dancing around you
when I speak them.
You will always be
“if only”
and “never”.
You could easily claim
my fast and hopscotch heartbeats.
You overwhelm me.
You are my loss for words
when all that matters
is the quiet between us.

Tuesday Night

I opened my front door
and led you into my room.
Candles were lit and flickering
but not to convey romance.
I just wanted to darken
our collective shyness.
And there was nothing romantic
about you saying “you can suck my dick if you want to”.
After all,
that’s why I invited you over.
That’s why you messaged me.
You unzipped,
I got on my knees,
and I took you in my mouth.
I took in your smell,
your taste,
and it was all perfect.
I’d been eager to do this with you for months.
To hear your moans fill the space around me.
You said harder,
I sucked harder.
I used my tongue in ways
I’d been missing
because for the past few years,
I’ve had only cisgendered dick in my mouth.
So I devoured you,
put some of my longing into you
as much as you’d let me.
I pulled your pants down further
and grabbed your clenched ass with both hands.
I pulled you into me,
you pushed into me,
you grabbed my hair.
You took off your shirt
revealing a body
my hands wanted to explore.
I wanted to kiss the scars on your chest
but there wasn’t time.
I wanted to kiss your lips
but that’s not what you were here for.
You came hard,
said this was the weirdest thing you’d ever done,
and we both laughed.
I walked you back to the front door
where we agreed we’d have to do this again sometime.
I went back to my room
and opened my window
to let some of the night air in.
The candles are almost finished flickering,
like stars about to burn out.

Adventure Dog

Adventure Dog
loved being in the sun.
She loved being under the covers
until she’d pant her way to cooler air.
Adventure dog loved people,
car rides,
and long walks.
She was a champion adjuster
of blankets for napping.
Adventure Dog
got me out of bed
when I was too scared to do it myself.
She recognized my panic
as well as I did.
She knew the definition of divorce
as being just me now
and him only sometimes,
then him never again.
Adventure Dog
cared that I got home safe
from a night of drinking.
Never knew there were so many times
when I almost didn’t.
She never judged me
for all the vomiting,
the hangovers,
the regret.
Adventure dog
has been gone since April 7, 2016.
Looked like she knew why the vet came over.
She fell asleep on my bed for the last time.
Turned into ashes
that sit on a shelf in my room.
She’s not here to witness
my sobriety
or my newfound joy for life.
Her snores are no longer the lullaby
I listen to as I fall asleep.
Adventure Dog
often visits me in my dreams.
Sometimes, I can still feel her heaviness nearby
in the between being awake and still sleeping.


Car ride to Portland
That face
Casual Friday dog
In the sun
Awkward dog selfie
Bed buddy
Breakfast time
Our last day






My Life Was a Lie

In 4th grade, we had small books made about our lives. This is mine. And it’s fucking hilarious. (We would dictate and parents volunteers would type them up.)


This is the cover art. Truly amazing. Especially the backwards “y”. And those balloons…so real.

fullsizeoutput_762To be grammatically correct, it should read: “This book is dedicated to my family: Robin, Dennis, etc.” The way it’s written makes it seem like the people listed aren’t a part of my family but random people I made up. And aunts, uncles, and cousins I didn’t bother to name. Also, Theodore was our dog. I was really into the Chipmunks when we got him (I was 4). We already had two fish named Alvin and Simon so Theodore was the obvious choice.


The only thing that’s true about any part of this paragraph is that my birth name was very common back in the 80’s. I definitely wasn’t named after my cousin and I definitely didn’t choose “Andrea” as my new name back in 2008. This book is already starting off as the story of someone else’s life.

I was born at 7:15 a.m. Everything else is true. And that hospital looks exactly how I drew it. It hasn’t been remodeled since.


None of this is true. My heritage is Irish, Scottish, and Russian. Also, the colors of the Colombian flag I drew are in the wrong order. And I’ve never been to Germany so I have no personal stories about it.


I think I captured my family’s features perfectly in this artistic depiction. I especially love that we all wore the same outfit that day. Like a family of Uncle Sam impersonators.


Drawing houses was always my specialty. Look at that landscape. Goddamn amazing.


I never did spend more time learning about endangered species. Just another dream, lost in a sea of other lost dreams.


You can practically smell the fresh-cut grass.


Ever since this book of my life was revisited at my wedding rehearsal dinner back in 2009, friends and family still, to this day, post articles about her on my Facebook. Or they e-mail them to me. One year for halloween, I went as Amelia Earhart and Will (the ex) went as her plane (he’s wearing  a propeller hat). In retrospect, we should have added some fake bruises and cuts to him to make it more authentic.



And thus ends the story of my life at 9 years-old. This German Colombian thanks you for reading.