Rupi Kaur’s Milk & Honey, Empowerment, & a Giveaway

In some ways, 2017 has come at me hard. I’ve had less motivation and time to write than I’ve had in years. Online dating is like a battlefield. I’m still figuring out my sleep patterns.

But then again, I’ve been made stronger: I am figuring out how I work best, experimenting with different schedules, reading a book every week, learning so much about writing and otherwise. I am taking control of online dating, and I am treating myself well. I am learning how to honor myself, if that makes any sense. It probably doesn’t.

Let’s just say that this week was intense. So many tears, so much persuasion from men. I have cried with shame because of how weak men have made me feel, but I have also cried with celebration because– in spite of their best efforts– I have made my own decisions. I have respected myself even when I’ve not been respected by men– and then I have actually turned around and demanded respect.

I’m becoming empowered.

rupi kaurLast week, I read Rupi Kaur’s incredible collection of poetry, Milk and Honey. I read it in one sitting– just breezed through so many pages letting them administer to my heart– and when the book was over, I felt so much stronger because of it that I bought a second copy.

For you.

Ladies, if you need some strength, please comment below. You don’t have to tell me details, but please tell me how I can encourage you, pray for you, support you, etc. One of you will win my second copy of Milk and Honey.

Please remember:

dragon rupi kaur



I. The cornfield in early June, while we pressed seeds into earth with our heels to inspect the foundation of a home where the family was murdered. We fall silent in the fading light.

II. Under city lights, you teach me to drive a manual in the mall parking lot. We are young, best friends in love, and we can only laugh when I kill the engine again. And again.

III. On the Mississippi River bluffs, the smell of weed drifting from the giggling teens nearby to where we watch the sunset burn copper in the windows of Minneapolis. I should have said it. No, it’s best I didn’t.

IV. Outside this transatlantic village, marching in like voyagers, like mavericks, like people coming home for the very first time.


Image credit: Erica Murriel Davis

Opus on 1st: Ballad


prompt8She walks the cobbled streets,
thinking of Poe, of Nevermore,
and though he is beside her,
they are not together now.

He takes her hand,
helps her to sit, frees
the guitar and begins to sing.

It brings her back from silence,
from the dark places in which
the mind loves and hates to rest.

The song is the best rescue
this armorless knight can attempt.



When nerves cancelled my plans,
I imagined that another, separate me
made the drive to St. Paul.

My other me entered the room with the
the more-important-than-things-really-are candles.
My other me was confident; her cheeks were flushed.
She made conversation; she made you laugh.

Maybe she even found out the truth,
knows things now that this me doesn’t.

And this me resents her surety, is angry
that she didn’t take the chance, take the drive,
take the hand of the boy in St. Paul
instead of the pen to write this jealous poem.

writer girl