Jaz Persing is a writer, singer, and human living in Los Angeles. She works in television when she can. The rest of the time she’s just looking for a dare-to-be-great situation, hoping she can put a good dent in the world with the mess of broken love, vulnerability, and words she has. In the meantime, she’s immensely grateful for God and the many good people around her that make it all seem feasible.


I don’t remember a time when the pockets we’re torn inside
when I reached down to find the end of a seam
Not frayed, cheap polyester
That broke open to fill my circumference with knick-knacks and neededs. 

This is why
Why my frame shook with ice cold
Back against the friend’s truckbed
Their shapes huddled under blankets, 
Laughing beside me without shame

So I fix my eyes on the clear, brilliant blanket of stars, 
Watching for a meteor, 
Trying to deaden my heart
In a truckbed of canoodling
And my keys are in the lining
all the way to my back, 
metal digging into my ass. 
If I die this way, of frostbite tonight, I’ll kill myself. 

What doesn’t live in this coat of mine? 
“You’re always rattling,” my mother says with a smile,
as I reflexively grab the mints in my pocket,
remembering I put them there for you
Or at least your possibility

But I never opened them, 
you kissed me even with my morning bile breath, 
even with this I wrap myself back up in my black coat and scarf and I’m ready to go, 
but you throw me back like I weigh nothing, and you keep kissing me in this coat, 
promising we’re going right….now. 

And now my rattling coat belongs to you.


Most Times I See Richard