baby teeth

my son is about to lose his first tooth
by miracle
the tiniest root
like a tether
holds it to his gum
he can actually twist it
make it move all around
his smile is about to morph
into the mouth of a big boy
a spread of teeth
and tongue
and pink gums
that announce to the world
his new place
in the order of things

My son is worried about blood and pain but interested in money and fairies and mythology. Where are all the teeth? Is she real? Is there a tooth mountain?

I’ve held so many small teeth in the palm of my hand.

When I was moving out of my childhood house I found glassine envelopes with all of my baby teeth in them and I looked at them for a long time. I held them to the light. I took them with me when I left.

I expect him to come home from school soon with a tiny tooth in his backpack.
I expect I will have to accept this, but right now there is still a tiny cord holding it all together. There is a place in his mouth where his babyhood is alive for a few more days. I live there. We both do.

what does the edge of depression look like



6 drinks on a Monday


the sofa

one corner littered with blankets

dirty socks


the fake nod to a very good friend

that everything

is good

so busy

so good


walking slowly

down High street

affected suddenly

by the sunlight

the buzz all around you


you are a magnet

you are a valley

people pass


is it the lists you make

in good faith

but find at the bottom of your bag


or the voice in your head

the one you have known since you were young

maybe it is your voice

but it sounds so mean and underwater

you are not enough

you have really messed these past years up


or maybe it’s standing in line for coffee

and you just want to be somewhere else

always somewhere else


I pull my toe back

flex it

I don’t know about you

but I see the line

I’m walking it like a curb

like a little kid

who certainly don’t wanna step on a crack

break his mama’s back

Heartbreak Happy Hour

I want to start an interview series. We sit in a bar together and drink cheap beer and you tell me every single time your heart has been broken. I write a poem.

Sign up in comments. Leave an email. We'll get you an appointment. I am going to do this all summer. Maybe it's art. Maybe it's just what we need. 

suddenly like a slap

I'm starting a packing list for the Alt Summit. I'm speaking there this week and I need to make sure I pack all the things that will allow me to pass for a stylish woman. Thing is nothing fits. I do this thing lately where I loose 40 pounds and throw away all my clothes and buy new ones and then I gain weight and buy new ones and throw those away when I lose weight. I think this is called a cycle. I'm frankly so tired of it. 

I was a pretty chunky kid. Pretty plus. My hair was shiny with sparkly eyes and everyone loved my red mouth but I was big. My grandmother would tell me that I was tall. I just nodded. It never bothered me till I was about 13. I started dieting because it seemed like I was supposed to. My mom was always on a diet. There was a plastic scale that weighed her food by our toaster. She would prep food and talk about it all the time. I thought she was crazy because she was beautiful. She had the best tits in America. All torpedo like and firm. She was bigger but had a waist. I grew up in a curve. Round. Things were always circling.

I hated dieting. It felt like I was bad and had to change things. I would sit in math class and feel super hungry and wonder about genetics. I was an athlete in school but I was never thin. I could do everything the skinny people did but I never was small. So I felt bad and ate shitty small plates of salad and tried be a whole new person. I did like the way people talked in higher pitch around me when I lost weight though. Like the way we talk to babies. You can't help but smile. You can’t stop that train. Pavlov. Salivate. It just happens.

I can do really well for a short amount of time with dieting. I can win for a bit. Contests. Bets. Dares. I am the most hard ass bitch on a diet you have ever known. People at the gym are in awe of me. I glisten. I glow. I can go on like this for 6 months at least and then I relent. I let myself linger with bread. I finger cheeses. I swallow pasta and drink three glasses of wine with dinner. I go on holiday and sun myself beside pools with bars. I basically enjoy the shit out of life again. I smile and laugh. I am so happy and then I'm back to standing in my kitchen and realizing that I hate jeans. They feel tight. My bras are restrictive. I feel full. 

But I'm not depressed about it. I'm just pissed. Here's the thing. I can be overweight and sexy. I got this. I'm unconventionally pretty and I can work a room. I'm good and kind and pulsating and in this world. People like me. I know all the things about myself. It really ain't about self-esteem at this point. It's about the fact that I don't know if it's worth me trying to be this other person. We're all a little fucked about our bodies sometimes, but I feel stupid about all the times I announce I’m going to get my shit together when Oprah can't even do it and she says things like: "Inside every overweight woman is a woman she knows she can be." 


I read this awesome post the other day about all of this and it made me blog again.  I’m thankful to Cassie for making it all come to light for me. Like I was in the dark for a long time about my body and the things that have been sticking around since I was a kid.  It made me wanna just dance with myself in the kitchen. The same room I stand and hate jeans in. It made me think that maybe for a little bit this year I could just stop throwing clothes away and move through the world in this body without hating it so much. I could just glide through it for a chance. Maybe the weight will fall off when I don’t think about it. Like how they say love shows up when you stop looking.

I don’t know. I just know that we don’t have a lot of time to worry about all the things that hold us down. We should be fine with now. We should be light on our feet no matter our weight.

I’m just throwing dresses in the suitcase. I’m just winging it this year. 

Sometimes you just don't get there

Last New Year's Eve I met a poet at a party in Clintonville and took his photo and wrote him a little poem.  I decided to start a #365 project. #365Poet

I had done a project like this before. A poem a day for a year in 2012 and it was hard and fun and therapy all wrapped in one. But this seemed so interactive. It was lofty to start such a thing. Each and every single day I would meet someone, write them a poem and photograph them. I thought it sounded romantic and interesting. I'd tell people I was doing a project. I'd have a mission. A goal. It was a good idea. I took photos of loads of folks. Friends. Family. Strangers. Characters. Sweeties. Cuties. Artists. People who were important to me. People I just met and had to talk to.
I was proud of what was happening. 

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I abandoned the project somewhere around the 109th day of 2015. I just stopped. To be honest I was coming out of some hard stuff from the previous year and I think I tried to overfill my head with creativity. I was pushing myself hard to create with positivity. I was trying to heal my art heart. Self-medicate with goals. I think I was taking too high of a dosage or something. And I beat myself up internally all year. I really felt like a failure. 

Then one day I just woke up and realized I can start again. We can always start again. We make the rules to creativity. We are the field guides. So if you are suffering from things that fell apart you should know it happens. Sometimes you just don't get there. Till you do. 

Here are just a few screenshots of the #365poet project that probably should come back to life.

No pressure. I'm on Instagram here @amyturnsharp