poeticperfectionist

I wear my heritage in the arms of second hand sweaters and the amethysts of my mothers earrings. Poverty helped my grandmother survive as a seamstress sewing clothing for her family to keep them warm despite the cold breath of the Depression pressing on their necks. I am not afraid of poverty, she has supported my family since we planted strawberries in Scotland. We've always been too poor to be called middle class, but rich enough never to be homeless. Too poor to afford a hotel but never too far from a night sky full of wishes and shooting stars. I remember when our income came from flea markets and an absent father, when movies were too ex

I have a picture of you chasing me on a scooter and a handheld pinball machine you gave me when I was 7. I haven't seen your face since I was 9 years old and you gave me your cranberry juice in the hospital. I know you started a wheelchair racing club while you were there and the doctors had to create a new rule forbidding it. You met my mother in a ice cream shop and proposed to her on a ferry without the ring box. You were born July 7th in 1947 and you're living somewhere on the downtown east side in a wheelchair because you thought being homeless would be an adventure. I know that you were adopted and never met your birth parents. You ha

Some say, I am a connoisseur of toilets and by some I mean one person and by one I mean myself. I have explored many basements suites with my cheeks, more flea markets toilets than I would like to admit. Countless times, I have bought a single Timbit from Tim Horton’s only to use their zombie washrooms. Once, I even entered the Keg’s washroom, which had doors weighing more than I me. Recently, I witnessed a two story washroom at a bar downtown. Yes, that’s correct two floors of toilets, sinks, couches, and a wall sized mirror. I have risked my bottom on all kinds of revolting seats and treated it with not just two, but th

Things Lost: A purple skateboard that transformed into a scooter. Seven dollars, a library card and my first wallet. A pink towel that my mother embroidered my name onto. Twelve thousand words of writing. A roll of film with photos from a road trip to Manitoba. My father's face. The way my mother kissed him. His lips on my forehead before I went to bed. My brother's lopsided smile. How it used to feel when his lanky body hugged me. The sound of my pet cockatiel on Sunday mornings at 9:00am. When my mother looked at me with pride. The taste of I love you without doubt. Things Found: An empty blue wallet. Two free bus rides. A rainbow guitar

Truthfully, I didn't want to fall in love with him. In fact, I did everything to avoid him at first. I wore faded paint splattered jeans, I threw him at other women and I even forgot to wear deodorant. I did this because society trained me if I date older I'm a barracuda, if I date younger I'm a cougar, but last time I checked I was human and I can date whoever I want. When we met, I was single and happy to mingle. I took swing dancing lessons purely because I needed more exercise. A relationship was the last thing on my mind, but even his name reflected how completely unique he is. There were three Scotts in our class, but only one Scottfor

Insomnia chose my cat who then chose my bed to sleep in to wander all over in search of the comfiest spot while trampling me in the process. Then he wakes up half an hour later (if he was even sleeping in the first place) and claws at what little paint remains on my door because he's hungry and he can't read clocks, so he doesn't care if it's 2am or 6am or negative ten degrees in my house because my mom won't pay for heating. Hardwood flooring is my arch nemesis. Especially because my slippers are on the other side of my room. I have cold feet, literally.

When we first met, you were drunk. Two weeks later we kissed the sky with our eyes and caught meteors with our tongues. Your roof was as close to heaven as I've ever been. In retrospect, I wonder how attractive I was when you were sober, but dwelling on questions I'll never ask is a habit I'm trying to forget I have, just like the memories we made together. I would undergo a lobotomy just so I'd never have to remember how wonderful you made me feel. You actually convinced me I had a cute nose despite the perfectly centred freckle on its tip. I still think of you as often as I check my watch. I still miss the warmth of your palms on my waist

You're the poem I refuse to write.

Ask me how many houses I have lived in: I don't have enough fingers to show you the answer. (one) Surrey, British Columbia. It is five in the morning, my mother's contractions are so sudden she nearly passes out in the shower; two hours later she holds me in her arms. My father is asleep somewhere, his absence tastes like cranberry juice, bitter, but I've gotten used to it. (two, three) The first house I lived in had walls that changed colour and texture every few months. Perhaps this is why I love to travel, I've been doing so since before I knew the word. (four, five) When I have a full hand of houses I am familiar with lemonade and s