feels pregnant with emptiness.

is a battle between hope and fear.

desperately wants to make something new.

requires trust but is filled with paranoia.

is a chance for destruction.

seeds present community.

is history, again.


will it ever come?



Like the brittle bones and paper skin

of a kite, our hearts are torn at the seams.

Cynical sludge seeps out of crevices

deepened by years and years

of bottomless chaos.


What pulls the fearful heart toward

bleak, bloodthirsty selfishness?

Who cries out to the lonesome soul,

assuring them of insular utopia?

Why does like seek like

when difference is the

mineral mystery that fruits

our beautiful soil?


I reach out an


lamenting arm

toward the Lord.

I wait for the grasp

that does not answer

but instead,




there is a hollowness

that resides only

in those who stare

into black,

sleepless nights

and nothing ever stares back.


there is an emptiness

reserved only

for the ones who long for

a hand that holds

a smile that knows

and all that shit.


there is a resilience

that only




truly possess.


we didn’t ask for




we only hope

it doesn’t crush us

in the end.



After enough time has passed,

a companion forms from the

bleak depths of my loneliness.


I reach for a warm hand,

but my desperate grasp is met with

a hollow mass of flooded nothingness.


Edges blackened with cynicism,

my new companion wraps wisps of

firm, relentless tentacles around me.


And now I can’t remember

what warmth feels like.



I don’t know how

to exist in a world

with so much aloofness

toward death.


Those who mourn

are trampled beneath

those who can no longer

withstand inconvenience.


Vibrant, delicate flowers

are deemed expendable in

this empty, unimaginative reality.

Once divine, these snuffed miracles

fertilize ashen fields in the name of

moving on.



maybe some of us are meant to walk alone,

silently gliding through freckled flakes

that gently cocoon springtime greenery

into frostier feelings.


maybe some of us are meant to walk alone,

soft footpaths billowing beneath

a gloved figure that leaves behind

a single set of prints.


maybe some of us are meant to walk alone.

at least, for a time.



Heidi Ippolito

Heidi Ippolito


I write the most between 1am and 4am (or between 4 and 5 glasses of wine) // small true stories {sts} inspired by Lori //