Bodega Roses

Lower East Side at midnight
his place
filled with lingering
wafts of 3 pm spliffs
and empty bottles
of cheap scotch,
I can never remember
the brand.
It made him feel like
James Bond
or Hemingway
when he drank it.
I didn’t want to
make him feel bad.
Bodega roses
of red and yellow
just for me,
in an old vase
on the kitchen table,
a patched crack
runs down the middle
of the glass.
I run my finger along it,
waiting for it
to pierce my skin,
but it never does.
He never takes his time
before his hands are
running up my legs
and under my skirt,
feeling his way inside,
before he lifts me
and sets me
on the table,
along side the flowers.
My eyes make contact
with their vibrant petals
as my pants
are pushed
to the side.
We have sex because
it’s what people
like us do.
My eyes close
and my mind wanders
to the painting of Ophelia
I saw at the
Tate Britain
a lifetime ago,
and the man who
for her absence.
The bodega roses
come back into focus,
instead of his face.
We don’t make
eye contact
when he fucks me
They are facing him,
even though I’m facing
Because the truth is,
only one of us blooms for him.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 3.26.17

The End

It was all about
to end
as the sun
to black
and the crack
inside the
into eternity
and the moon
to leave
and she swiftly took
the seas
to spite
our disappearing light
into the desert
we were led
and all our hope
was surely dead
but as the winds
were screaming
as the blue sky
turned to
the last lonesome
to ever
enter my
weary head
was the memory
of you-

dipped in sunlight

stretched across

my king



And long after
we all are dead
and into the end
we are led
I hope the Earth
remembers this:

that once

two people




Original Work: Kelsey H. 1.27.17


All laws in this country have to be written WITHOUT the influence of religious beliefs. Religious beliefs have no bearing on the laws in this country, because we have a clear separation of church and state, or at least we are supposed to. We are NOT a theocracy. Your religious beliefs don’t support same sex marriage or abortion? Who cares, because your own religious beliefs don’t matter when it comes to written law. Your personal beliefs, have no bearing on the laws in this nation. Laws are to be written without the influence of any religious doctrine in the United States of America. So your own personal beliefs, and the personal, religious beliefs of your congresspeople and senators and PRESIDENT, have NO BEARING on the laws of this country. Laws are to be written without such influences.


The Bathtub

She sat in the lukewarm water for going on the second hour, and kept her eyes closed, not wanting to accidentally catch her reflection in the mirror opposite. She used to fit in this tiny bathtub much more easily, but she had stopped paying attention to what she ate at least six months ago; maybe longer, she couldn’t be sure anymore. The bath salts had settled under her legs and bum, the bubbles long since popped, leaving a milky, white film on the surface of the water. That deep sense of aching, that had been permeating her stomach and chest for hours was still there, sinking her further down onto the white ceramic, until she felt absorbed by the cool material. She never knew where this sadness came from, but when it hit, it felt like being stuck in a room as you watch the walls slowly be consumed with fire, and you’re waiting for the inevitable explosion. The heat of the flames sounded good right now, she mused. Reaching the tap to add hot water to the tub would be simple, but she couldn’t muster the energy to rise up and reach out for it, so instead, she sank further, until her head dipped below the surface of the water, and she could taste the manufactured lavender scent against her tongue. She didn’t know how long she was going to stay under there.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 1.23.17

Excerpt from my short story, “Wild Horses”

The following content belongs to me, the author. Opening scene from my short story, titled, Wild Horses

“She traced the freckles on his back with her fingertips. His eyelashes fluttered. She pressed her lips to his left shoulder blade. His lips puckered involuntarily. She felt the warmth of his skin, as the burning light poured into the quiet bedroom. Layla stood up from the comfort of their bed, wrapping the white sheet around her body. She loved his house. Mid-century modern in the Hollywood Hills, full of tall windows and endless natural light. It was Southern California. She loved the high quality white bedding, and framed replicas of work by Pollock, Kandinsky, and Rothko, which adorned the walls. Everything was modern, contemporary, and him. It was Alfie.

The bedside table was stacked with the stuff that made up his busy life. His notebook for his lyrics, a book of poetry by Cocteau he bought in Paris once upon a tour. His worn copy of South of the Border West of the Sun by Murakami; It was a gift from her. She picked it up in Manhattan at a book store in Soho, shortly after they met.”

Original Work: Kelsey H. Written in Autumn 2015, in Manchester, England.


There are those of us
who roam alone,
who search for fleeting
or escapable intimacies,
who need to touch you
just one more time
or for the first time
because their fear
ate them alive
the last time,
who imagine love
like yellow flowers
and sunshine
in flowing summer fields,
but know that isn’t real
but a fantasy from a movie
or a song
or a poem
they came across
many lives ago,
probably in winter
when their heart was frozen
by the snow,
and they needed to believe
the warmth would come again,
who see themselves
amongst the stars,
floating in the blackness of
the deepest part of space,
until they shock themselves awake,
and realise their mind is actually
the darkest spot
in the universe,
and no matter what they wear to sleep,
the bed stays cold,
even in the summer heat.

Original Work: Kelsey H. 5/1/17