by anne wilmott, Life, Relationships, Words

Dear Mom, This Is Our Mixtape



This is our mixtape. We are listening to it as we drive fast on back roads. Little thrills in our stomachs over the roller coaster of gentle country hills.

You are singing along, voice on the verge of breaking, as unable to carry a tune as you have always been more than able to carry all of us. I’ve picked all of the old familiar melodies and new songs I know you’ll be content to wade into, weightless.

And like it was years ago, before I knew there was a world outside of you, it’s the two of us. We’re listening more intently because we’ve made it back to the first song. It’s playing now.

Oh, the beat beat beat of our hearts.

by anne wilmott, Stills


Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

I remember a game we used to play.

You would get on top of me and I would scream words that had no meaning at the top of my lungs. You screamed your own just as loud, the two of us like intimately positioned savages from warring tribes. Except if those syllables of Babel could be translated I would have known you were shouting you were on my side the whole time weren’t you, dear. Weren’t you?


i get along without you very well (except sometimes)


It’s funny how later you will betray It.

How you can act like it really wasn’t all that it was and that the feeling that flowed between the two of you wasn’t It. Couldn’t have been, because if it was, how the fuck are you getting out of bed in the morning and driving to work with all the rest of them…treacherous and obediently arranged within the gouged out dotted lines that pock the ashy expanses of lonely winter asphalt.

Not mourning with private devotion or attempting–you swore you would–to cut your heart out of your chest x-acto knife-style with the ghoulishly steady hands of  a surgeon.