Funeral for your Selfishness (3/14/18)

*Freewrite, not yet edited. Mostly just processing.*


How long would it take you

to notice I was gone?

How badly would you

Want to speak at my funeral?

An opportunity for the thing

You always craved from me:


One last chance,

Still never earned.

I was too easy for you all along

Or so you thought,

Until I decided that I

Wanted to receive as much

as I gave.

It would be ironic then,

If you spoke at my funeral,

Because just like now,

I’d have nothing more to offer you.


Putting a bunch of shorter Poems from various days into this post. A lot deal with anxiety.  



Brushing my teeth

won’t remove the green

stains of jealousy

rotting my ability to

communicate. No, the

harshness of fear translates

ugly on the surface,

leaves others

with a prickly sensation.

Poor mental hygiene

is to blame.



Filtering thoughts

Overflow from work

Thrown headfirst

into a burst

of negativity

from all sides

no compromise

Christmas Time

and fielding lies

Finding truth

in only that

which matters to me.

Love divine

Irrational Signs

of cosmic symmetry



The barricades are rolling


over my toes and


around my ankles-

The prick of the wire

barbed and foreboding

makes me feel stuck

and I can’t

will myself to move

from this place

of fear.



Like the fox,

I won’t let you hurt me,

Not with your presence,

nor with your threats.

Instead I will watch

patiently, until you retreat.

Then I will tremble onward,





An overdone sequence

of beginnings.

Declarations of intent

with no strength

to follow through.

Chewing on pens.

Later, later, later.

Why bother?

Reminders tacked to nuerons

firing yourself for trying.

Over before you started.

Begin again,

a bigger process

of learning to overcome



(or lack thereof)



I am the constant

swing of light

from day to night

I am the echoing

reverence of a silent church

My palms are flattened

from the support they offer.

I am enough to make

you wonder about.

Death becomes me

but I will not become death.

A removal of soul

beyond this physical realm.

My shoulders can dip

and shimmy into

outspread arms,

through valleys of truth,

the kind you spit out,

but doesn’t accept returns.



I can walk you through battlefields from the confines of my memories,

A palm on your back to gently lead you around the landmines.

It is only later I will venture back alone

to talk to the ghosts there,

the figments of trust, love, nurturing, and safety,

and I will stroke their shimmering corporeal beings

in greeting.

We know one another too well,

and yet they still wonder why I continue to haunt the physical realm.

I remind them that they would not be visited if I ceased to lead

these new souls through their graveyards,

if I didn’t create plaques of poetry inspired by them.

They laugh,

because I don’t even believe me.



Living in a world of constant stimulation,

validation plugged into our fingers:

Tap, swipe, like, repeat:

We don’t make room for sunshine

and other necessary things.

The only way to conquer this constant pull is to

live with deprivation sometimes.

No outside inhalations.

Only those within.

Taking the time to sleep, organize, rifle through thoughts that have gathered.

If I let them all collect dust, the bunnies will outnumber my sanity.



Anxiety is swirling around

the back of my throat

like a Bubble



the lining of my

vocal chambers

burn hollow

from the water in my lungs


which have forced their

way into my

energy channels

Swimming upstream

Nightmare dreams

The desire to expel

but the lack of ability to tell


how to accomplish this.




Fucked Like No Other 12/29/17

“You fuck me better than anyone else ever has. ”

She says,

And as instantly as my ego’s mouth

opens up to swallow the delicious words,

my heart pounds my chest

into a vulnerable cavity.

It recalls why it hurts

to hear these words,

even though my mouth has gone dry

with the thirst for them.


She has taken them away before.


Timing, age, hormone fluctuations:

there were always alternate explanations offered.

And while the subjective truth

is that it was likely

done for protection..

The sting remains.

Constantly doing the work to accept

my own feelings,

then being made to wonder

if I was just being




It is a curse at times

to read

others, and wonder whether their words will

find their body’s message.

Or if fear will prevent the delivery,

and suffocate the possibility.

Finally offered a drink in this heat,


tongue couldn’t figure out how to


But I had already absorbed her into

my hollows.


Now, I sit and contemplate

fears we both harbor:

Her fear


whether my hunger

will outgrow her

ability to satiate.

My fear,

A sexual awakening of self

that could lead her backwards,

or perhaps forwards,

into this decade of desire.

Our fear,

that we become too significant to the other.

Our fear,

that the others passion,

is purely circumstantial.



There has been no denying

the strength of this connection.

It cannot be ignored.

It is too warm

to not take up space,

too obvious in the way my body melts,

too resilient in the way it fears

not taking this risk.



Love’s Purest Reaction.

We are both fucked.




Surrender in Process

Hands still shaking from

the way you fucked me,

I sit solemn,

staring across the room

at a platter

of Christmas cookies.

Inadequacy breathes down my neck,

Reflecting how

I faltered with rules

and temptations

Out of sync in sensation

Gagged by an inability

to express how I feel.

I kept it in, mouth shut,

But my body let it out

Bloody nose,

orgasmic flow,

tears falling


and unrelenting.

My body has learned to surrender,

While my mind has not.

It only accepts that sometimes

my body is weak.

And I benefit from it.

I’m cold,

but the heat is on,

I have words,

but you are gone.

The pillows, the blankets,

my fingers-

they smell like you.

But this poem

is for me.



Thanks to the person with whom I able to figure out these kinks in my own time, and my own way.. No pun intended. Okay, maybe a slight pun.. ❤

Emotions Born of a Feminine Cage 10/17/16

There is a different pain

in understanding

than there is

in blind anger.

Revenge and hatred

rob you of opportunities.

The keep you in limbo, smoldering..

But they also take the edge off

through distraction and action.

Understanding means

you must accept

double the pain.

You must drop to your knees,

you must offer your heart,

Be vulnerable to start



There is no immediate-

no direct effect- of understanding

but perhaps humility.

It keeps you not in fire, but in grief.

Both can exist in the same body,

but often

this burns bridges before you can cross them,

Floats signals of smoke before you speak.

We are often trapped then,

to condemn ourselves,

to one or the other:

As the women who react,

or the woman

you can walk over

and away from.


Written from the point of view of a woman living in a world where our emotions are often trivialized, and our experiences minimized.

Caked in Memories 12/07/17

I can feel myself enshrouding in isolation..
Its a curious temptation.
The desire to be alone

when all I crave

is to connect.
Birthdays are of only


one use to me:
Comparing myself

to previous incarnations

future assumptions

about where
this time and energy will place me.

Its always the hardest for my partners
When they want to get inside

And I let them pretend
By creating an outer layer of myself

That protects the most vulnerable parts of me from
Being seen. I cannot handle being seen,
as much as I desire.
I’m not sure there are many of us that can.

Compassion for the Suffering


They don’t mean to lie.

They tell you they’ll love you at your worst,

(because that is what we all want)

They tell you they won’t leave you,

(because no one ever wants to be left)

They say they prefer communication over distance,

(because its hard not to know) .

They say these things

(meaning well)

And so it goes.


Then they see you at your ugly/

Engorged in your deepest fears,

and those phrases become

simple mantras

to spear

the beast,

relinquish her

and bring you to “peace”.




One of the bigger fears is still here:

that now that they’ve seen the ugly,

they won’t be able to un-see it-

and its talons are only

shackled by a hope

it won’t matter.

(That you can come home)



But hope is not reality, and reality is that

we are human.

And so as soon as the armor drops,

peace bargained monsters subdued,

it can be expected

they will decide to take space,

to shelter their thoughts,

and leave you



This is not unprovoked.

You recognize why they asked you not to do these things.

How much it hurts.

You understand.

And so instead you say “Okay”.

Instead you say “Go on”-

Because you understand their desire to heal.

And how big all of this feels.


Trusting, you tuck away your fears, once more.

And relay on what they’ve said will bring them back-

in the past-

in their own anxiety backlash.



You begin wondering again:

why you are so hard on yourself

for not being able to accomplish the things you are asked

(by others, by yourself).


Answer:                                                     We are only human.

And we are trying.








The Foe be a..

As you glance away,
I take the opportunity
To cup my hands
And scoop up the entity
of pain
You left in front of me.
Bending my elbows
I draw it into me
And slow.
Here it sits
Encased in the
Of my palms: Fluttering

As you return your gaze
Words continuing
to slide off your teeth,
I’m only half listening,
Catching cues that tell me
When to nod or
murmer agreement.

Worry has traveled up my legs
And is now
tickling my spine
The concern tells me
the longer I
hold on,
The more likely
I am
to release this being

You haven’t noticed this
My primary focus
on getting
outside the present,
Where I can
this pain that resists
the confines
Of my skin,
And study it in the light.

You haven’t noticed,
Because I don’t want you too.
And you don’t want to either.

New Maternal Verses


I entered this world

Into the arms of a


To whom

I was equal parts




Addicted and ill,

The thrill of a child’s love

Could only break the wall

At the right time.

I, too little

To care for myself,

Was another let down in her

World of resentment-filled-giving.

Through her reactions,

I learned that love was

Only earned

Through tears spilled

Voice strained

into silence

from crying




While she muttered

Through drunken breath

About how she hated

Her existence;

Alternatively I learned

through the effort

Of lightening this burden,

Her burden of being

Little hands attempting

To wipe windows

Without streaks,

To keep being the best of 3,

Living her dreams,

To make her laugh endlessly.

It didn’t matter though,

Because she still left,

Despite my best efforts.

11 years old

And she never came home.

And when I reunited with her,

She was still gone.


More old fiction

Sharing some more old fiction, as I begin to revisit my writing and wonder about its possibilities. Some friends and myself are doing a weekly writing group now, and I’m using it as an opportunity to commit to myself and my passion for words. (Sometimes I have trouble sticking with new things.) Curious to see where it will lead me! Anywho, here’s the beginning of a story I didn’t get too far into. The discipline of writing in the same style can be a stretch for me, and keeping up with the lyrical quality of this opening daunted me.

Bitter taste of memories

Your words sent shivers down my spine. And no, not the good kind. I don’t get threatened by words alone. But the words your mouth possessed scared me.
I don’t know how it came to this. It is all my fault. You said it’s not. You said: It’s not.
But how can I believe you, especially now? What was going on in your head that I couldn’t fix? Why couldn’t I help?
Maybe there was nothing wrong with you.
There’s something wrong with me.

That’s what it feels like at least.
I brush the dirt off my pants as I stand up, and spit onto the pavement. What do I care if it’s not lady like? I used to care. I did. But you showed me a reality. Who am I anyway? Just another body?

My eyes squint as I look up and over towards the road. The cars are passing by, carelessly breaking the limit for speed on the suburban street.
Guess it doesn’t matter that some kid got hit last year. Reality is what you choose to exist.
My jeans have started to slide off my hips, creating an uncomfortable friction against the sweat on my skin. Tugging on the belt loops with my thumbs, I start walking over to my damaged car.

Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I had called the cops. See that big dent in the car? That’s where I smashed into a tree, rushing to get to your house. I distracted the paramedics who should have been with you.
Before the tears can brim, I slide in, grabbing my I-pod, hitting shuffle and turning the keys in my ignition. My car is still resounding with an irritating beep because I’ve left the door open.

I turn and look outside at the yard, peaceful. So much unlike the cluttered chaos of my vehicle.
Once, I used to lay there in silence. The crickets could create music. Now they create a reminder. Cold nights climbing the roof of the local elementary school.
A muscle tugs on a smile at the edge of my lips. I let it linger, remembering those nights, before I switch the song and shut the door, savoring the metallic sound that closes me in.