I feel like this should be pretty self-explanatory. I’m drawing these for a zine at my college (and they have a tumblr!!), but submissions are due today, so they’re a bit more rushed than I would have liked.

I tried to be inclusive and not-shitty. Hopefully I succeeded at that. There are more of these I’d like to draw, but like I said, time limitations :P


7 a.m.,
April and Summer-like,
trying to remember how loneliness feels like


*need help with a metaphor*

This is my current LIPS submission although I hate the Our Bodies metaphor. Tell me what you think!!!
His body
was salted caramel.
Reigned of American Spirit.
Your finest bottle of six-dollar wine
I could have drank for hours.
I lost myself there.

My Body
was ripened fruit-
juicy peaches with the bruises hidden
underneath the pink, plump skin,
enjoying every last bite,nibbling me down to my core. 

Our Bodies
were your favorite song.
You know, the one that you grew sick of
hearing until
it came up months after.


Had coffee with a dear friend I haven’t seen in quite a while. It was very, very nice.

It was very nice, indeed. I hope to see you once again before graduation!!


Had coffee with a dear friend I haven’t seen in quite a while. It was very, very nice.

It was very nice, indeed. I hope to see you once again before graduation!!


april 3rd.

don’t know whether this is me falling apart or finally getting my shit together

two silhouettes in the night, familiarsin body butstrangers in mindyou silently walked me backtrying to give some kind of meaningto that shared cigarette. 

two silhouettes in the night, familiars
in body but
strangers in mind
you silently walked me back
trying to give some kind of meaning
to that shared cigarette. 


On the Day Sylvia Died—

On the day Sylvia died I wanted
to know if I was pretty and he
said yes.
Cheap bottle of wine from a
neighbor’s bag,
Iron & Wine spinning
from the record player, clockwise;
music that would put us
to bed. We pushed down doors, and
kicked the laptop off the mattress.
Lost in the discarded
items illuminated by
the lights in the parking lot,
we couldn’t get much sleep.
On the day Sylvia died
the clock struck midnight
and the pretty died. It sank
onto my under eye
bags puffy in the morning. I spilled
coffee on his duvet & burnt my lips.
Bundled in last night’s late winter
coat we walked against the
wind, tears poured down my
cheeks. Wiped away
the day after Sylvia died.

Tags: casey writes


Date a girl who wears grandpa sweaters because she ate all the grandpas. Date a girl who bores you with tidbits about the weather. Date an imperfect girl. Date the movie 500 Days of Summer. Date a picture of Jennifer Lawrence holding War & Peace and a slice of pizza. Date a pizza in the shape of a girl. Date a girl who likes the tv shows and the music you hate. Date a brown m&m. Date a girl who doesn’t make you her special little snowflake in all your efforts to seem superior and grandiose. Date a girl who spoils all your favorite movies, you little shit. Date a girl who puts her hair in a cute top bun and drinks tea and smears mac-and-cheese all over her body like it’s the mud of all the mountains you dream of. Date a girl who eats the fucking food off your plate and puts ex-lax in your oatmeal. Date a girl who smells like the sea and that one writing class you took where you wrote a bunch of poems about cigarettes by the beach and took up smoking cloves. Date a girl who has been dead for FORTY YEARS.

I’ve been reading The Frenemy since I was in high school and I still fall in love with it every time I read it.


How to play Girlfriend to Someone Else’s Boyfriend 

Text him at work
tell him there’s more to life than just his dead end job
pretend you don’t know about his finances.
            Don’t ask him.

Text him after class,
make promises of tea and coffee
dates that will never happen;
you’ll never see him in public.
            Don’t ask him.

Text him to watch a movie
tell him how much you like his company,
his witty commentary,
how much you’ve missed his weight on top of you,
tell him how much you’ve wanted him. Like his girlfriend
never will. Call him Sir,
because his girlfriend calls him babe.
Kiss the taste of patchouli out of his beard,
remind him not to forget his phone.
          Don’t ask him who is waiting at home.

On Friday nights when he is going out,
imagine he is with his friends,
pretend you’re there with them
and he’s happy.
            Don’t ask the mutual friends.

Text him while he’s drunk
and honest and truthful
and laugh
at everything he says but smile
when he tells you he loves you.
When he tells you he loves you.
Don’t get angry
When he tells you he loves you,

            Don’t ask him about his girlfriend. 


Wake up passive aggressive.
I watched you drink up sadness
and smoke a bowl of manic-depressive for breakfast.

We drowned our lungs,
they filled, we held on; 
our faces turned blue.

Our ears rang with the cacophony of settling
pressing our palms to our ears,
the sound echoed into our heads
threatening and violent or
full of beauty, it clouded our judgment so
we couldn’t decide.

You were a compliment and it became you.
you were just the hyphen in last names,
the periods between your abbreviation.
I was just the reflection of inside,
the comma between ideas,
the space between sentences.

Go to bed sadistic.
I watched you cuddle emptiness
and wake up masochistic.

You told me
nothing else made you quite feel
            ,                      , and
like I did.
And asked me to touch you in the way she never had
to wake up,
again, and again.

Our ears rang with silence
left by the gaps in the sentences
and the ends of the paragraphs that we couldn’t punctuate,
determined to know if you were a question mark…
or an ellipsis? Clouds came over our eyes so
we couldn’t decide.

I was your reflection and it became me.
We were those lost years
of lives that mothers refuse to talk about,
the breath that lingers in the cold air.

I woke up passive,
I spit up the sadness but,
I’ve never been a fan of breakfast anyway.