expose my roots in warm sunlight
soften all stems
let pearls fall
lean in closer
geosmin scented breath
see how twisted old thoughts grow
don’t go yet
shine through the particles
show me yours
9/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
my shadow threw flowers
into the sea for you. floated
words on petals, threads
for you to pull. calling
through bright sun, casting
into murky waters. see
how closed curtains float
when blown. fresh lemon
wind leaning against bark
until the wood vibrates
you—again and again.
8/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
When Spider-Man comes to your house,
you unlock the deadbolt and brace yourself.
He has to clear the entryway at a full sprint,
and you don’t want to be collateral damage.
When Spider-Man comes to your house,
you better have sourdough toast, pickles,
and sparkling water on the counter.
Apparently, saving the neighborhood
requires a very specific diet.
When Spider-Man comes to your house,
he will absolutely chase your rabbit around the backyard.
He’ll get burrs stuck to his polyester muscles,
sit in the hammock to pick them off,
and roast your gardening skills.
When Spider-Man comes to your house,
he might peel back his mask just far enough to breathe,
expose his secret identity,
and clobber you at dominoes
until he literally rolls off his chair laughing.
When Spider-Man comes to your house,
you will notice the exact moment
his shins match the length of yours.
You’ll look at his massive feet,
look at the trail of stuffed animals leading into the hallway,
and accept reality:
A superhero is in your living room right now.
So you forget the gardening. You ignore the toys.
And you get on the floor.
7/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
it bled in again,
choking the lights to a dull gray—
predictably lame,
with broken teeth
to gnaw frayed scabs
like grinding old gum.
the silence roaring like white noise,
crawling through me,
carving old words into my stomach,
predictably lame syllables
hissing like searing wounds.
until—predictably lame—
stupid tears burst forth
stealing my breath
reminding me:
doing nothing gets nothing.
so do nothing again
and get nothing again—
but I am so damn tired
of choking on it.
6/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
one time i stood
under a flowering pear tree
in my wild backyard
and thought, this is good.
it was warm
and i’d just finished nursing my baby girl.
she heavy-slept in a sling
on my freckled chest.
her hair was red
and my feet were bare.
one time i stood
on a street in london
in my doc martens
and thought, this is good.
it was warm
and i’d just toured buckingham palace
pretending i belonged.
steaming tea, a double-decker bus.
my dress was red
and my socks were yellow.
one time i stood
all alone
in my choked bedroom—
the air was hot,
the bed unmade—
a shadow stretched
over drifts of laundry
left to fold.
my face was red,
the pen denting my thumb,
and i thought,
is this good?
5/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
freedom used to be yellow.
simple like holding my grandmother’s hand
in the church pews on sunday.
simple like the ribbons we tied
around the thick bark of the trees,
waiting for the soldiers to come home.
maybe that is why i still like parades.
the heavy hooves of the horses,
the bright brass of marching bands,
the gleam of old cars,
bubbles floating in the summer air.
i want it to be yellow again.
but knowledge changes all the colors.
i cannot pretend anymore.
it does not mean what it used to.
some people choose the blindness of yellow.
some people see the truth.
4/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
sweet girl,
when those fast feet dance
outside the library
to music living inside your bones,
and my screen glows awake
to swallow the moment,
do you know
it’s the years i’m holding?
you, right now—
a bright flash of wild curly hair
saved for later.
you call out “gigi dance”
and I do,
because my tired body
wants to always remember
what it feels to move with you.
your small hand
guiding my heavier bones.
we play, talk, and say hi
to our oak tree,
but it’s when we sing together
and you press your head into my chest
before climbing into your big girl bed,
i feel the new weight
of your lengthening limbs.
3/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
cars zoom past to anywhere but
here, each carrying someone’s entire
world. bees swarm inside my chest,
heavy and frantic, a hum vibrating
beneath my ribs. only my finger
moves, pressing each letter
into my phone, like sitting
years ago in the sand, pushing
rocks down as far as they would go.
maybe if i press hard enough now
it will reach you. a little gift
from my hand to yours. a single bee
let loose across the distance. do you see
the sun cutting through the leaves
too? does the air taste like honey
there? i need everything to be okay,
for you, for us.
clouds streak white, smudges in pale blue.
buzzing slows to a quiet ache.
i just need to hear you say—
it’s all going to be okay.
one more thread for us.
2/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
within chest, flowers climb
worry weavers, petals purple
down drooping, up growing
Valkyrie songs, deep humming
no, deeper
reach another
another
one more
press fingers together
pollen falls, tight places
explodes out, spreads
green shrugs
we know nothing
I’ve taken another leap forward in my creative journey and self-published my first book. I’ve spent the last few months rewriting every story, working with a book cover artist, figuring out how to format a book, and taking on each challenge as it presented itself—and there were many! I had no idea what this journey would look like, and although I’m still in the weeds of doing new things, I’m ready to share it with you.
I’m thrilled and grateful to present my debut book, Watering Words: 52 Short Stories.
Isn’t it beautiful! The official release date is April 27, but you can pre-order it now! What you get if you pre-order:
A portion of my book sales will go to support my favorite nonprofit, G.I.R.L.S. Rock Sacramento. My daughter attended their camps for eight years, and it changed her life. Please, check them out and consider a donation. Right now, more than ever, we need organizations helping girls find their voice.
If you ARE local, you can also attend my book release party at 1 p.m. on Sunday, April 27 at A Seat of the Table Books in Elk Grove, California. Not only is this my favorite independent bookstore, but they strive to create a “place that is safe and affirming for all identities.” Seriously, I’ve never felt so comfortable in any store. They’re tremendous supporters of local authors and will carry my book on their shelves.
Did you catch that? My book will be IN A BOOKSTORE. {Pinch me}
Now, what’s this book all about? Readers of my blog will recognize most of these stories from the writing challenge I did two years ago, but they’ve all undergone extensive rewriting and editing. Here’s the blurb from the back cover of the book:
The Blinking Day arrives for a mother after she drops her kids off at school. A starving child follows a rabbit to a house of candy. Orange trees kill a father. An alien must learn one true thing. A girl wants to be a fish tank. An old couple paints with blood. Apple stars unlock memories. Goldilocks gets what’s coming to her.
Written over one year, Bridgette Kay’s debut collection crosses genres and time as it explores the complexities of being human. With a unique ability to capture deep emotion, she tells fictional stories through the lens of lived truth. Read one story a week or devour them all at once. Your next favorite adventure starts now.
Real talk. This post feels big and scary. While I’m excited to have this book in the world, it also comes with all the insecurities and fear of being a creative. Will people buy it? If they do, will they read it? If they do, will they like it? I’ve had many moments over the last few months where I’ve said, “I’m not ready for this.” I’m not. I’ll never be.
There’s a creative on Instagram I love named Amie McNee. She just published a book titled We Need Your Art: Stop Messing Around and Make Something. I’ve got a copy beside me as I type this, and I keep flipping through and reading her words. “Imposter Syndrome is a clear sign from the universe that you’ve leveled up, baby.” “Other people will have made art similar to your art. It’s not a cause for panic. It isn’t a threat. It’s proof of market. There’s room for you.” “Nothing truly wonderful is made without first being a little bit cringe.” Her words are exactly what I need to read right now. Thank you, Amie.
It feels cringe to ask you to buy my book. It feels scary to say I’m proud of myself. But, I’m saying both. I finally finished a creative project and I’m going to let myself celebrate.
If you are considering self-publishing, starting a blog, or any act of creativity—go for it! I’ve got people coming up to me excited about my book. A friend posted on FB, “You are bringing light into the world, light that will help me on my way. Congratulations!” and another said “Just the best thing ever!!! And it’s about time!” How cool is that?
We need art right now. Make your art. Use your voice. We need you.
And buy my book. It will look pretty on your bookshelf 🙂
Cover design: Vivian González Zúñiga
Bridgette Tales 