Written by Khaela Correa


I listened to

the echo of graphite

pencils scratching

on coarse paper.

Paper designed to be sold

for mass consumption

for students with

“sketch pad” required

on their unnecessarily long syllabus.

Then I stared at you for way too long

for an exercise that would benefit

me just as much as the sizzling bacon

I once used to tempt a dog to eat his food.



I am, by the fact

that the nail polish on my feet

have chipped and look like

islands that were formed by accident.


by the snow outside my house

that perfectly replicates

the tiny shards of wine glasses

that you smashed on the ground.

I contemplated the look on his face

In his most intimate moments

and not for any second

will I even dare to think

about the mess dripping

from my hands.


That’s it-

you’ve done it.

It’s in your mind,

you’ve thought about it.

That book you told me

to read that I never read past

the very first chapter.

And the photographs

your father took,

hanging on the brick walls

over me while I sip my tea.

And the late night texts

to cope with our loneliness,

only to end up debatably

even more so once the

conversation ends

and I’m still not

in your bed.

Too good to be true,

but someday

it won’t be

and I’ll mean someday

as someday means to you

because it’s the equivalent

of never.


Stop it.

Never mind.


Absent minded

by the feeling of

your replacement

wrapping his hands around

every crease of mine

he tried so desperately hard

to memorize,



Contact Khaela at khaelac182@gmail.comor view her personal website at