I would have liked to show you
the things that I love
and cherish—
things that warm my
indifferent exterior.
Right now my eyes gloss
looking at the pale blue
sunset fading
to a persimmon orange.
Oh how exquisite the water
is rippling against the otherwise
still ocean.
If you were still here, I’m sure
I would have shared
my favorite spot with you.
And we would sit side by side—
you drinking chai, me peppermint.
And we would be content
in the silence,
because the comfort we mutually
felt when together
allowed for no words
to be spoken.
And after our tea, I would
have taken you—
to the grainy damp sand and
insisted stubbornly
for you to take your shoes off.
One must always feel the luminous earth
between one’s toes at the beach.
Each grain a sparkling gift
from the gods of the sea--
and if lucky, we would find the
quintessential shell.
A shell so white,
it resembled virgin snow.
Shell hunting is quite possibly
my most prized pastime.
I had forgotten it lately,
And had hence forgotten—
to mention it to you.
You see, the ocean is where
my happiness lies,
where my stress-ridden shoulders
can slump in relaxation.
I can feel calm near the water,
listening to it lapping in the distance
playing a never-ending game of tag
with toddlers and golden retrievers.
But I forgot to tell you all of this.
I didn’t allow for you
to see the bits of me that come
together to create this quirky puzzle
that at times, I cannot even
find the pieces to.
I’m sorry.
Oh, now it is dusk.
The forthcoming night is aglow
with barely visible, crisp white
boats, in the distance gently
rocking back and forth to the rhythm
of the earth.
A fading sight
which can easily be appreciated
or unfortunately ignored.
I will take a picture for you
so you can pretend you were
here— sitting beside me,
drinking tea,
and watching the world fall to sleep.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Overstimulation
Too many times during the week,
too many people,
want too much of her.
This is a girl,
who now can’t
even keep the days
of the week straight—
can’t go a day without
running because she need to
release the tension
mounting within her tendons.
She savors the time alone in the shower,
just washing the day’s grime from her
dirt-ridden scalp.
She can’t drink without blacking out
because she is so over-exhausted
the world becomes overwhelming as
she tries to self-medicate.
Too many times during the day
too many annoyances
leave her leaning toward solitude.
This is a woman
whose mouth can no longer
fake a cinnamon-roll-sweet smile—
she can’t handle the dim-witted questions from
oblivious customers and responds with hidden sarcasm.
She worries she’ll be stuck in a job that doesn’t
stimulate her mind enough—
already boredom frightens her
into the fetal position underneath
the warmth of a cotton sheet.
She is too young, to feel so scattered
and unhinged—moving all the time,
always searching
for a place to call home,
and a space to call her own.
Too many times
too much
of her life is skimmed over.
This is a woman
who has become
withdrawn from any sort of romantic relationship
because it’s too much work to begin again
with a stranger—
The thought of a simple lunch date suffocates her.
She wakes in cold sweats from nightmares
of becoming an alcoholic like her father
but conversely only feels alive when thoroughly buzzed.
She worries she isn’t living up to her full creative potential,
and that life won’t get any sweeter than in her twenties.
The lines on her once ocean-calm like face have deepened,
at the thought of missing out—
because responsibility and obligation
have shackled her down to the bottom of a river,
her air supply diminishing second by second.
Her once pristine diamond-clear eyes have clouded and dimmed,
the light has begun to flicker out.
too many people,
want too much of her.
This is a girl,
who now can’t
even keep the days
of the week straight—
can’t go a day without
running because she need to
release the tension
mounting within her tendons.
She savors the time alone in the shower,
just washing the day’s grime from her
dirt-ridden scalp.
She can’t drink without blacking out
because she is so over-exhausted
the world becomes overwhelming as
she tries to self-medicate.
Too many times during the day
too many annoyances
leave her leaning toward solitude.
This is a woman
whose mouth can no longer
fake a cinnamon-roll-sweet smile—
she can’t handle the dim-witted questions from
oblivious customers and responds with hidden sarcasm.
She worries she’ll be stuck in a job that doesn’t
stimulate her mind enough—
already boredom frightens her
into the fetal position underneath
the warmth of a cotton sheet.
She is too young, to feel so scattered
and unhinged—moving all the time,
always searching
for a place to call home,
and a space to call her own.
Too many times
too much
of her life is skimmed over.
This is a woman
who has become
withdrawn from any sort of romantic relationship
because it’s too much work to begin again
with a stranger—
The thought of a simple lunch date suffocates her.
She wakes in cold sweats from nightmares
of becoming an alcoholic like her father
but conversely only feels alive when thoroughly buzzed.
She worries she isn’t living up to her full creative potential,
and that life won’t get any sweeter than in her twenties.
The lines on her once ocean-calm like face have deepened,
at the thought of missing out—
because responsibility and obligation
have shackled her down to the bottom of a river,
her air supply diminishing second by second.
Her once pristine diamond-clear eyes have clouded and dimmed,
the light has begun to flicker out.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Burning Hell
Oh my God
Oh my God
It burns.
It itches.
It is so painful
I think I’m going
to jump
out of my
skin.
Literally—
I’m shaking
and can’t think
straight enough
to even answer
a customer’s simple
question.
I’m at work
for another
five hours.
If I cross
myLegs
maybe
It’ll itch less.
Fuck this—
I can’t make
sandwiches right
now.
Running to the
bathroom
unbuttoning as I
go
my hands
go straight to
my vagina.
Please don’t tell
Me I have
some STD
I think.
No, I’ve seen that
Milky discharge before-
GODDAMNED
YEAST INFECTION.
How the hell is there
yeast up in there anyhow?
I work at a bakery
I don’t employ one in
my vagina.
This is ridiculous.
Here’s the kicker—
The over the counter
medicine
makes the next
twenty minutes
after application
almost worse than
the actual infection.
Seriously—
What person
created a medicine
that made women want
to kill themselves
periodically
for a three-day period
and only after
inducing
excruciating suffering,
provides relief?
A man that got
fucked over
by a woman
that’s who.
The medicine even
recommends waiting
until bedtime
so no “leakage” appears.
I could not care less
about “leakage”
I want the infinite, never satisfied,
itching-burning-stinging
feeling
to be gone.
Now!
I would gladly slather
myself in any home
remedy just to get
rid of it fast.
But who knows
if tea tree oil
works that
well,
or if I should
down a gallon of
probiotic yogurt
to ease the
insatiable urge to itch—
to claw—
I want to
tear
my
vagina
to
pieces.
I feel like
an addict who’s
dealer is out
of town and
my backup
isn’t picking
up my calls.
Twitching
pacing
grimacing
in pain.
Tomorrow
is day
three
of the
treatments.
I can’t wait
to not continuously
yearn
to put my
hands on my
own clit
and scratch
diligently away.
Oh my God
It burns.
It itches.
It is so painful
I think I’m going
to jump
out of my
skin.
Literally—
I’m shaking
and can’t think
straight enough
to even answer
a customer’s simple
question.
I’m at work
for another
five hours.
If I cross
myLegs
maybe
It’ll itch less.
Fuck this—
I can’t make
sandwiches right
now.
Running to the
bathroom
unbuttoning as I
go
my hands
go straight to
my vagina.
Please don’t tell
Me I have
some STD
I think.
No, I’ve seen that
Milky discharge before-
GODDAMNED
YEAST INFECTION.
How the hell is there
yeast up in there anyhow?
I work at a bakery
I don’t employ one in
my vagina.
This is ridiculous.
Here’s the kicker—
The over the counter
medicine
makes the next
twenty minutes
after application
almost worse than
the actual infection.
Seriously—
What person
created a medicine
that made women want
to kill themselves
periodically
for a three-day period
and only after
inducing
excruciating suffering,
provides relief?
A man that got
fucked over
by a woman
that’s who.
The medicine even
recommends waiting
until bedtime
so no “leakage” appears.
I could not care less
about “leakage”
I want the infinite, never satisfied,
itching-burning-stinging
feeling
to be gone.
Now!
I would gladly slather
myself in any home
remedy just to get
rid of it fast.
But who knows
if tea tree oil
works that
well,
or if I should
down a gallon of
probiotic yogurt
to ease the
insatiable urge to itch—
to claw—
I want to
tear
my
vagina
to
pieces.
I feel like
an addict who’s
dealer is out
of town and
my backup
isn’t picking
up my calls.
Twitching
pacing
grimacing
in pain.
Tomorrow
is day
three
of the
treatments.
I can’t wait
to not continuously
yearn
to put my
hands on my
own clit
and scratch
diligently away.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Black Fuzzy Bunny
By watching
a young child
become enveloped
with honest-to-God
glee
just by
eating a piece of
frosted cinnamon roll,
I see that I too
should look
forward to the simple things
more often.
In all honesty it makes
me kind of sick to read what
I just typed.
How cliché and
regurgitated it sounds.
But I am no different
than any other soul
out there
in the world,
plugging along—
getting buy
but not really enjoying
the present
and always looking forward
to what will be.
I am quite certain
I have forgotten to live
with awareness
to my surroundings.
Half the time
I’m zoning out,
always itching to get off work
or putting my ipod in to
flush out
the rest of the world.
Yes,
time is irrevelant
in some instances,
but morbidly I see
that I am about
one-fourth
of the way through my life
(unless technology becomes
untouchable and allows for
people to live ridiculously
past their natural threshold
of age.)
I need to remember
to skip
instead of walking
the way I do.
(Always big strides,
always in a hurry)
I remember an old
boyfriend of mine
would always try to
get me to
slow
down.
It annoyed me.
Half the time I don’t even
eat a meal sitting down—
I’m either driving
with my knees
and trying not to crash
or I’m scarfing food while
there are no customers
at the bakery where I work.
I would imagine it would feel
strange to me now,
foreign,
to sit down,
with a family of sorts,
and eat at a home.
Years ago
my immediate family
lost track of the whole
“family dinner” trend.
We all retired to sitting
in front of the television
or eating
somewhere else altoghether.
To myself I think—
“Maybe
I should try
yoga
or
meditation”
to relax and
regroup
from the day.
But I don’t,
I’ve been saying that for years.
I do like to run though,
it makes me release all the tension—
all the smart-ass comments I’ve bottled up
so I can act pleasant
to the imbecile customers
that walk through the bakery’s door.
At least today—
today I felt like smiling
all day long,
and laughing to myself
about the previous night’s silly
drunken debauchery and
shameless flirting with
the rugged bartender at
my favorite pub.
Last night I laughed so hard
I was doubled over –
tears pouring from
my eyes:
A boy had written me a note saying,
“Have you ever kissed
A black fuzzy bunny
between his ears?”
While I’m reading the note,
he pulls out his pockets
so that each would resemble
an ear.
Clever,
slightly disgusting,
I
loved
It.
It was interesting,
and unexpected.
A week and a half later
I am still smiling because of it.
a young child
become enveloped
with honest-to-God
glee
just by
eating a piece of
frosted cinnamon roll,
I see that I too
should look
forward to the simple things
more often.
In all honesty it makes
me kind of sick to read what
I just typed.
How cliché and
regurgitated it sounds.
But I am no different
than any other soul
out there
in the world,
plugging along—
getting buy
but not really enjoying
the present
and always looking forward
to what will be.
I am quite certain
I have forgotten to live
with awareness
to my surroundings.
Half the time
I’m zoning out,
always itching to get off work
or putting my ipod in to
flush out
the rest of the world.
Yes,
time is irrevelant
in some instances,
but morbidly I see
that I am about
one-fourth
of the way through my life
(unless technology becomes
untouchable and allows for
people to live ridiculously
past their natural threshold
of age.)
I need to remember
to skip
instead of walking
the way I do.
(Always big strides,
always in a hurry)
I remember an old
boyfriend of mine
would always try to
get me to
slow
down.
It annoyed me.
Half the time I don’t even
eat a meal sitting down—
I’m either driving
with my knees
and trying not to crash
or I’m scarfing food while
there are no customers
at the bakery where I work.
I would imagine it would feel
strange to me now,
foreign,
to sit down,
with a family of sorts,
and eat at a home.
Years ago
my immediate family
lost track of the whole
“family dinner” trend.
We all retired to sitting
in front of the television
or eating
somewhere else altoghether.
To myself I think—
“Maybe
I should try
yoga
or
meditation”
to relax and
regroup
from the day.
But I don’t,
I’ve been saying that for years.
I do like to run though,
it makes me release all the tension—
all the smart-ass comments I’ve bottled up
so I can act pleasant
to the imbecile customers
that walk through the bakery’s door.
At least today—
today I felt like smiling
all day long,
and laughing to myself
about the previous night’s silly
drunken debauchery and
shameless flirting with
the rugged bartender at
my favorite pub.
Last night I laughed so hard
I was doubled over –
tears pouring from
my eyes:
A boy had written me a note saying,
“Have you ever kissed
A black fuzzy bunny
between his ears?”
While I’m reading the note,
he pulls out his pockets
so that each would resemble
an ear.
Clever,
slightly disgusting,
I
loved
It.
It was interesting,
and unexpected.
A week and a half later
I am still smiling because of it.
Monday, October 5, 2009
I Watched You Begin to Die, and it Killed Me
For Kermit Christian Miller
I was destroyed
after looking back
into the photo album
of the
last
family vacation
we shared.
By then the cancer
had spread
like a burning
fire into
every
crevice
of your once
invincible
body.
I was told
Pancreatic cancer
is incredibly hard
to find in early stages.
We wheeled him around
in a chair—
so different from the lumberjack
of a man he once was.
Papa please eat.
He couldn’t.
But to satisfy
my grandma,
he always ordered a
chicken caesar
as a fallback
because he no longer
could mentally retain
what was on the menu.
Papa please drink.
He couldn’t do
that either.
I yearned
for him to order
his old usual—
a bourbon-diet.
For ten days
we all tried to stay
positive—
tried to have
fun.
After all,
it was
a Mexican cruise
during Christmas
and New Year’s.
It was a combination
Of family and dear
Cherished friends
On that boa—
relationships
that have lasted
over a half century.
Every time
the three generations
of people who treasured
my grandpa,
came together,
tiny tears
made trails down his
thin,
thin,
skin.
I remember one day
on that trip
my mom and I
had to lift him
to the bathroom
because my grandma
was speaking to the doctor.
Papa was too weak
to move himself.
I held composure
just long enough
to get him to the door
and run outside
of the room
myself.
He was bones.
He smelled of decaying flesh.
It was then
I realized
I was watching him
slowly die.
I couldn’t catch my breath
and my hands were clenching
the bathroom sink
to the room
just next door.
Tears and snot
relentlessly
plummeted down
my purple face.
My favorite person,
the only man
I considered
good in life
compared to all
other men,
was dying.
On the last
day of the trip
before boarding my flight,
I hugged him
like I would see him
soon—
Two weeks later,
Just days
before my 19th birthday,
I got a call from my mom
saying he didn’t make it.
I lay curled
in a corner of my
dorm room
crying
for hours.
I couldn’t go
to class,
couldn’t eat,
and wished for sleep
so I didn’t have to think
about him
being gone.
My mom and grandma
tried to tell me
(through their own tears)
that it was okay now,
he wasn’t suffering—
even the both of them
didn’t believe it.
There was no real excuse
That could comfort me—
I would never
get to see him again.
I didn’t get to say a real goodbye.
So I wrote down what I loved
about him most,
for his funeral.
But I couldn’t read it
so the pastor did.
I was still having trouble
catching my breath.
Damn tears.
The entire town was there,
even bums that he had given money to.
My grandpa was the epitome
of a kind soul.
This coming January
will be four years
since he passed.
I still can’t mention him
without getting
glassy-eyed.
Papa I miss you,
Your house isn’t the same
without you.
Mucca (my grandma) isn’t the same
without you.
Your best friend can barely visit
because he is reminded that you
are no longer around.
A part of my life ended,
when yours also did.
I was destroyed
after looking back
into the photo album
of the
last
family vacation
we shared.
By then the cancer
had spread
like a burning
fire into
every
crevice
of your once
invincible
body.
I was told
Pancreatic cancer
is incredibly hard
to find in early stages.
We wheeled him around
in a chair—
so different from the lumberjack
of a man he once was.
Papa please eat.
He couldn’t.
But to satisfy
my grandma,
he always ordered a
chicken caesar
as a fallback
because he no longer
could mentally retain
what was on the menu.
Papa please drink.
He couldn’t do
that either.
I yearned
for him to order
his old usual—
a bourbon-diet.
For ten days
we all tried to stay
positive—
tried to have
fun.
After all,
it was
a Mexican cruise
during Christmas
and New Year’s.
It was a combination
Of family and dear
Cherished friends
On that boa—
relationships
that have lasted
over a half century.
Every time
the three generations
of people who treasured
my grandpa,
came together,
tiny tears
made trails down his
thin,
thin,
skin.
I remember one day
on that trip
my mom and I
had to lift him
to the bathroom
because my grandma
was speaking to the doctor.
Papa was too weak
to move himself.
I held composure
just long enough
to get him to the door
and run outside
of the room
myself.
He was bones.
He smelled of decaying flesh.
It was then
I realized
I was watching him
slowly die.
I couldn’t catch my breath
and my hands were clenching
the bathroom sink
to the room
just next door.
Tears and snot
relentlessly
plummeted down
my purple face.
My favorite person,
the only man
I considered
good in life
compared to all
other men,
was dying.
On the last
day of the trip
before boarding my flight,
I hugged him
like I would see him
soon—
Two weeks later,
Just days
before my 19th birthday,
I got a call from my mom
saying he didn’t make it.
I lay curled
in a corner of my
dorm room
crying
for hours.
I couldn’t go
to class,
couldn’t eat,
and wished for sleep
so I didn’t have to think
about him
being gone.
My mom and grandma
tried to tell me
(through their own tears)
that it was okay now,
he wasn’t suffering—
even the both of them
didn’t believe it.
There was no real excuse
That could comfort me—
I would never
get to see him again.
I didn’t get to say a real goodbye.
So I wrote down what I loved
about him most,
for his funeral.
But I couldn’t read it
so the pastor did.
I was still having trouble
catching my breath.
Damn tears.
The entire town was there,
even bums that he had given money to.
My grandpa was the epitome
of a kind soul.
This coming January
will be four years
since he passed.
I still can’t mention him
without getting
glassy-eyed.
Papa I miss you,
Your house isn’t the same
without you.
Mucca (my grandma) isn’t the same
without you.
Your best friend can barely visit
because he is reminded that you
are no longer around.
A part of my life ended,
when yours also did.
Cigarettes and Crown
Kissing him--
feels like I shouldn't
which makes me want him
all the more.
The blood rushes
to my lips
plumping them,
priming them,
for his mouth
to bite mine.
God I love
it when he does that.
Please keep nibbling
my neck,
lick the plumeria scent
from my chest,
savor the curves of my hips
that resemble that of a Les Paul's.
Skin to skin warms my core.
He tastes of
cigarettes and crown
with a ginger ale back.
Normally I'm not a
whiskey fan,
but I drink him in,
shot by shot.
Inhibitions no more--
second-hand libations
are oh
so good.
feels like I shouldn't
which makes me want him
all the more.
The blood rushes
to my lips
plumping them,
priming them,
for his mouth
to bite mine.
God I love
it when he does that.
Please keep nibbling
my neck,
lick the plumeria scent
from my chest,
savor the curves of my hips
that resemble that of a Les Paul's.
Skin to skin warms my core.
He tastes of
cigarettes and crown
with a ginger ale back.
Normally I'm not a
whiskey fan,
but I drink him in,
shot by shot.
Inhibitions no more--
second-hand libations
are oh
so good.
Houdini Series
Houdini
1. Now think of him—
do you want to be just
like him?
I cringe
when my mom asks
me this.
I know it’s not normal
to shake right before
a person takes a drink—
but I’ve seen my brother
do that too—
and I don’t drink
nearly as much as him.
I’m just excited for that
first swig,
I tell myself.
It’s not withdrawals,
I just haven’t eaten
because I don’t want
to waste calories on food
when I can shoot tequila
with a lime-wedge and salt.
A lime is fruit—that’s healthy.
It’s not just a love for nightlife
we had in common—
fanciful daydreams of
future adventures, a sarcastic wit,
and a who gives a shit I’ll do what I want, attitude.
that—
bonded us together like the
powdered cheese and macaroni shells
I have to eat
because it’s cheap—
the stealing
bastard.
2. Didn’t love me
as much as the blow,
the black-jack,
the booze,
his handsome-fucking-self.
But—
loved me enough to
lie to me the most.
Acid-rain promises
fall down
upon my shoulders.
I hate the rain now
and yearn only for
rays of the sun
to keep me warm.
I would have been happier
had he not said
anything
at all.
3. Gee! My dad is the coolest—
I constantly bragged this to my
high school friends:
He’s a
big San Francisco stockbroker—
lived next-door to the drummer
from Metallica.
He’s a writer,
a photographer,
a party-animal—
he used to bartend,
knows something about everything.
He can talk to anybody—
even the drag queen in five-
inch heels strutting down Lombard street
or the mobsters hiding their businesses
within the darkest corners of
restaurants and garbage dump truck companies.
I would never tell my friends
I was afraid to go home sometimes,
that I hated it when he wore sunglasses in the house—
a sure sign he was using.
I would never tell them
I hated it if his eyes were glassy—
a sure sign he’s drinking.
I just hid in my brother’s room
while he was off to college—
a drunk and cracked-out man
would never think to look
for me in there.
4. No one ever expects
the FBI to appear
on one’s doorstep—
the neatly pressed duo
I saw three other times
before
you were sent to prison.
I wonder if you had to be
someone’s bitch in there—
If you got hit on,
(you always did prize your looks)
were forced to butt-fuck
to get buy.
You always were a
bit homophobic.
I have no sympathy for you
because you got exactly
what you deserved,
whatever happened to you
in there.
Four years since I have seen you—
sometimes I forget what you,
dad,
look like—
that is until I look in the mirror.
I see your streaks of blonde hair,
my skin with olive and yellow undertones
that mimic your own,
the oval face,
the dimple on only the right side
of the cheek when smiling,
the ridiculously small hands that have
made it always a chore
to reach an octave
on a piano,
or hold a football—
but have never inhibited
my ability to take shots.
But in the mirror—
I know you never cried
the way I have.
You always did think
you were put on this earth
to be admired by those of us
that were less than perfect.
5. Happy Birthday.
It was as good a
time as ever to open
the line of communication.
I still lie to myself
thinking pity is what made
me call.
How disgustingly-good
it felt to have a dad
to talk to
for three months—
until slurred words and
nostalgia about my childhood
came through from the other line.
Suddenly I’m thrust into the past,
fifteen—
and holding back the tears to not show
how every time I get just as hurt,
feel just as helpless.
It’s ok that you lost your job dad.
Don’t worry you’ll find work,
someone will give you a chance.
I…
love you
…too dad.
I was told it was alright
to lie if it was to protect someone else—
but I’m sick to my stomach
how I
and everyone else present
in his life
protects him
from the truth.
To be honest,
I don’t think
truth registers on his radar—
it has been
twisted and molded
to fit his illusions of
being the superior being.
A fucking sperm donor
cares more
about his offspring.
His list of offenses—
impressive:
four DUIs
multiple arrests and
jail time.
Now rehab—
it’s his last chance.
Yet I’m quite sure
there have been no lessons learned
on both our parts—
I still want to pick up the phone
and tell him
it will all
work out
just
fine.
6. I looked up “Sociopath”
And you fit the descriptions—
except number eleven,
inability to love.
I’m positive you loved
Copper, our golden retriever
because you cried for days
when she died.
1. Now think of him—
do you want to be just
like him?
I cringe
when my mom asks
me this.
I know it’s not normal
to shake right before
a person takes a drink—
but I’ve seen my brother
do that too—
and I don’t drink
nearly as much as him.
I’m just excited for that
first swig,
I tell myself.
It’s not withdrawals,
I just haven’t eaten
because I don’t want
to waste calories on food
when I can shoot tequila
with a lime-wedge and salt.
A lime is fruit—that’s healthy.
It’s not just a love for nightlife
we had in common—
fanciful daydreams of
future adventures, a sarcastic wit,
and a who gives a shit I’ll do what I want, attitude.
that—
bonded us together like the
powdered cheese and macaroni shells
I have to eat
because it’s cheap—
the stealing
bastard.
2. Didn’t love me
as much as the blow,
the black-jack,
the booze,
his handsome-fucking-self.
But—
loved me enough to
lie to me the most.
Acid-rain promises
fall down
upon my shoulders.
I hate the rain now
and yearn only for
rays of the sun
to keep me warm.
I would have been happier
had he not said
anything
at all.
3. Gee! My dad is the coolest—
I constantly bragged this to my
high school friends:
He’s a
big San Francisco stockbroker—
lived next-door to the drummer
from Metallica.
He’s a writer,
a photographer,
a party-animal—
he used to bartend,
knows something about everything.
He can talk to anybody—
even the drag queen in five-
inch heels strutting down Lombard street
or the mobsters hiding their businesses
within the darkest corners of
restaurants and garbage dump truck companies.
I would never tell my friends
I was afraid to go home sometimes,
that I hated it when he wore sunglasses in the house—
a sure sign he was using.
I would never tell them
I hated it if his eyes were glassy—
a sure sign he’s drinking.
I just hid in my brother’s room
while he was off to college—
a drunk and cracked-out man
would never think to look
for me in there.
4. No one ever expects
the FBI to appear
on one’s doorstep—
the neatly pressed duo
I saw three other times
before
you were sent to prison.
I wonder if you had to be
someone’s bitch in there—
If you got hit on,
(you always did prize your looks)
were forced to butt-fuck
to get buy.
You always were a
bit homophobic.
I have no sympathy for you
because you got exactly
what you deserved,
whatever happened to you
in there.
Four years since I have seen you—
sometimes I forget what you,
dad,
look like—
that is until I look in the mirror.
I see your streaks of blonde hair,
my skin with olive and yellow undertones
that mimic your own,
the oval face,
the dimple on only the right side
of the cheek when smiling,
the ridiculously small hands that have
made it always a chore
to reach an octave
on a piano,
or hold a football—
but have never inhibited
my ability to take shots.
But in the mirror—
I know you never cried
the way I have.
You always did think
you were put on this earth
to be admired by those of us
that were less than perfect.
5. Happy Birthday.
It was as good a
time as ever to open
the line of communication.
I still lie to myself
thinking pity is what made
me call.
How disgustingly-good
it felt to have a dad
to talk to
for three months—
until slurred words and
nostalgia about my childhood
came through from the other line.
Suddenly I’m thrust into the past,
fifteen—
and holding back the tears to not show
how every time I get just as hurt,
feel just as helpless.
It’s ok that you lost your job dad.
Don’t worry you’ll find work,
someone will give you a chance.
I…
love you
…too dad.
I was told it was alright
to lie if it was to protect someone else—
but I’m sick to my stomach
how I
and everyone else present
in his life
protects him
from the truth.
To be honest,
I don’t think
truth registers on his radar—
it has been
twisted and molded
to fit his illusions of
being the superior being.
A fucking sperm donor
cares more
about his offspring.
His list of offenses—
impressive:
four DUIs
multiple arrests and
jail time.
Now rehab—
it’s his last chance.
Yet I’m quite sure
there have been no lessons learned
on both our parts—
I still want to pick up the phone
and tell him
it will all
work out
just
fine.
6. I looked up “Sociopath”
And you fit the descriptions—
except number eleven,
inability to love.
I’m positive you loved
Copper, our golden retriever
because you cried for days
when she died.
Highlight of a Slow Day
I had never seen her
come into the bar before.
she waltzed into the dive
wearing dark flowing
gypsy garb
and bangles galore.
A tinkling heard with each
step of her gladiator sandals.
Her obviously dyed
fire-red hair
was the backdrop to her
beautifully lined face.
Any person could see
she was woman who
actually lives her life.
She wasn’t put into a box by
her age.
This was apparent as she began
to speak of her yearning to
take more dancing classes.
This time pole. Belly dancing
wasn’t enough—it was time to
expand her repertoire.
This topic of conversation was
spurred by the pole that lived
in the middle of the dance floor
of the bar. She was elated because
she had now found a place to
practice her new dance steps.
She then began to talk to me
about her baby—I assumed it
was her grown daughter that
she was referring to.
Oh no— after a little
questioning, she had meant
Empress Princess Lacey—
her cat.
She had just gone shopping
for the Empress’s new summer wardrobe.
a commando collar, just because
a pink leopard one, when she’s feeling girly
and a red, white and blue one, because it’s almost the fourth.
After downing a Bud—though she hinted
at wanting a lemon drop
she danced out of the bar
like a mystical flower
gyrating to
the tune playing
inside her head.
Thank God for her coming in
that day—
its kooks like her that
make me appreciate working in a bar
even if it was only a $40 tip day.
come into the bar before.
she waltzed into the dive
wearing dark flowing
gypsy garb
and bangles galore.
A tinkling heard with each
step of her gladiator sandals.
Her obviously dyed
fire-red hair
was the backdrop to her
beautifully lined face.
Any person could see
she was woman who
actually lives her life.
She wasn’t put into a box by
her age.
This was apparent as she began
to speak of her yearning to
take more dancing classes.
This time pole. Belly dancing
wasn’t enough—it was time to
expand her repertoire.
This topic of conversation was
spurred by the pole that lived
in the middle of the dance floor
of the bar. She was elated because
she had now found a place to
practice her new dance steps.
She then began to talk to me
about her baby—I assumed it
was her grown daughter that
she was referring to.
Oh no— after a little
questioning, she had meant
Empress Princess Lacey—
her cat.
She had just gone shopping
for the Empress’s new summer wardrobe.
a commando collar, just because
a pink leopard one, when she’s feeling girly
and a red, white and blue one, because it’s almost the fourth.
After downing a Bud—though she hinted
at wanting a lemon drop
she danced out of the bar
like a mystical flower
gyrating to
the tune playing
inside her head.
Thank God for her coming in
that day—
its kooks like her that
make me appreciate working in a bar
even if it was only a $40 tip day.
Tequila Bottle Full of Roses
I tried to tell you how sorry I am
countless times.
I reached my arms out to you
but human touch was no longer
a band-aid for this sore.
In some ways I did my best to love you,
sparkling glints of it I’m sure I felt—
I think.
No—I know I loved you.
Choosing between doll-like obedience
and a fast-pouring, flirty, quick-witted,
not-afraid-to-disagree-with-an-idea
kind of woman
was wearing on me.
Internal arguments
consisting of which persona
I should choose
for the day
grew tiring.
No longer part of a couple
I’m back where I started,
before I even knew
you existed—
trying not to care
and getting my kicks
with the neighbor next-door.
But because I once felt what
it was like to be kissed by someone
that loved me so much he
got an ulcer—
my old ways are empty and boring.
Your presence still resonates within me.
We’ve kept one another around
like smudged ticket stubs
easily forgotten in an old wool jacket.
That rose you bought me
months ago,
the one I placed in my make-shift vase—
a glittering tequila bottle whose contents
once left us entangled underneath a mere
ocean of sheets,
finally dropped its last dried petal.
The pairing which inhabited my room for months,
was one I could no longer stand.
I kept the black-dusted posy around until its juices
dangerously mingled
with the diluted tequila droplets.
Its rotting odor made me dizzy.
I threw it all away today—
the bottle, the flower.
But don’t worry, I kept the note
that you signed with X’s and O’s.
My sentimental side placing it in the box labeled with
a hand-drawn heart.
countless times.
I reached my arms out to you
but human touch was no longer
a band-aid for this sore.
In some ways I did my best to love you,
sparkling glints of it I’m sure I felt—
I think.
No—I know I loved you.
Choosing between doll-like obedience
and a fast-pouring, flirty, quick-witted,
not-afraid-to-disagree-with-an-idea
kind of woman
was wearing on me.
Internal arguments
consisting of which persona
I should choose
for the day
grew tiring.
No longer part of a couple
I’m back where I started,
before I even knew
you existed—
trying not to care
and getting my kicks
with the neighbor next-door.
But because I once felt what
it was like to be kissed by someone
that loved me so much he
got an ulcer—
my old ways are empty and boring.
Your presence still resonates within me.
We’ve kept one another around
like smudged ticket stubs
easily forgotten in an old wool jacket.
That rose you bought me
months ago,
the one I placed in my make-shift vase—
a glittering tequila bottle whose contents
once left us entangled underneath a mere
ocean of sheets,
finally dropped its last dried petal.
The pairing which inhabited my room for months,
was one I could no longer stand.
I kept the black-dusted posy around until its juices
dangerously mingled
with the diluted tequila droplets.
Its rotting odor made me dizzy.
I threw it all away today—
the bottle, the flower.
But don’t worry, I kept the note
that you signed with X’s and O’s.
My sentimental side placing it in the box labeled with
a hand-drawn heart.
His Side of the Bed
A troublesome routine had begun recently.
She hesitated to get ready for bed, pausing momentarily, as she began to slip into her delicate crimson nightgown.
Climbing into her plush bed should evoke a sense of relaxation.
But instead she was bombarded with memories of songs he had written for her, kisses pressed up against the front door, the way his hands grabbed her skin pleading for more, and his endless ramblings about nothing.
Her mind was flooded and she was drowning within it.
The digital clock next to her bed had become an annoying reminder of the hours that painfully dragged on and the slumber that she could not acquire.
Her thoughts had no off-switch despite all attempts to distract herself.
Reading a gossip magazine didn’t help; neither did watching late-night infomercials.
Nothing could make her brain relax, though physically her eyelids drooped like they were connected to dumbbells and yawns poured out of her mouth like water from a fountain.
She rapidly rotated and turned her body until the layers of cotton sheets and cashmere blankets had become tangled around her.
Her body heated in annoyance like embers from a fresh flame.
Even sprawling her limbs out like a starfish, relishing in the fact that she had a big bed to herself, was only momentarily satisfying.
After several minutes had passed the position began to feel oddly wrong and she then inched her way back to her original position facing the nightstand.
As a last resort she half-heartedly lined pillows on the opposite side of her.
But pillows aren’t heavy arms tightly wrapped around her waist like a ribbon around a birthday present.
It didn’t matter how long it had been; the left side was still his side of the bed.
She hesitated to get ready for bed, pausing momentarily, as she began to slip into her delicate crimson nightgown.
Climbing into her plush bed should evoke a sense of relaxation.
But instead she was bombarded with memories of songs he had written for her, kisses pressed up against the front door, the way his hands grabbed her skin pleading for more, and his endless ramblings about nothing.
Her mind was flooded and she was drowning within it.
The digital clock next to her bed had become an annoying reminder of the hours that painfully dragged on and the slumber that she could not acquire.
Her thoughts had no off-switch despite all attempts to distract herself.
Reading a gossip magazine didn’t help; neither did watching late-night infomercials.
Nothing could make her brain relax, though physically her eyelids drooped like they were connected to dumbbells and yawns poured out of her mouth like water from a fountain.
She rapidly rotated and turned her body until the layers of cotton sheets and cashmere blankets had become tangled around her.
Her body heated in annoyance like embers from a fresh flame.
Even sprawling her limbs out like a starfish, relishing in the fact that she had a big bed to herself, was only momentarily satisfying.
After several minutes had passed the position began to feel oddly wrong and she then inched her way back to her original position facing the nightstand.
As a last resort she half-heartedly lined pillows on the opposite side of her.
But pillows aren’t heavy arms tightly wrapped around her waist like a ribbon around a birthday present.
It didn’t matter how long it had been; the left side was still his side of the bed.
Flannel Shirt
She drives four
traffic-filled hours,
sporadically giving the bird
to those who even
so much as inch
toward her side of the road—
just to see a man that doesn’t even belong to her.
Hairs begin to rise on her arms,
and a trickle of sweat rolls between her breasts
hidden underneath
her button-down grey flannel shirt.
A ring of the doorbell, then four quick knocks.
His lean outline appears
behind the translucent glass door.
Absent-mindedly she fluffs her hair
and licks her dry, nude lips.
The corners of his mouth curl upward
as he opens the door and reaches for her vase-like hips.
He holds her close,
as though if he loosened his grip,
she’d fly away
like a gentle honey bee
in constant search of a nectar source.
Finally
alone.
An apple-blossom flush floods her cheeks.
Buttons are easy to undue,
just an index finger and thumb are needed.
The other hand is used to gingerly cradle her face,
touching her as if she was a monarch butterfly,
and any residue from a human hand would harm her flight.
When foreheads angled downward meet,
the connection ignites every nerve in existence.
Heat blazes through her veins like an accidental cigarette fire
though miles of dry brush.
Any concerns were thrown on the floor with the rest of her clothing.
traffic-filled hours,
sporadically giving the bird
to those who even
so much as inch
toward her side of the road—
just to see a man that doesn’t even belong to her.
Hairs begin to rise on her arms,
and a trickle of sweat rolls between her breasts
hidden underneath
her button-down grey flannel shirt.
A ring of the doorbell, then four quick knocks.
His lean outline appears
behind the translucent glass door.
Absent-mindedly she fluffs her hair
and licks her dry, nude lips.
The corners of his mouth curl upward
as he opens the door and reaches for her vase-like hips.
He holds her close,
as though if he loosened his grip,
she’d fly away
like a gentle honey bee
in constant search of a nectar source.
Finally
alone.
An apple-blossom flush floods her cheeks.
Buttons are easy to undue,
just an index finger and thumb are needed.
The other hand is used to gingerly cradle her face,
touching her as if she was a monarch butterfly,
and any residue from a human hand would harm her flight.
When foreheads angled downward meet,
the connection ignites every nerve in existence.
Heat blazes through her veins like an accidental cigarette fire
though miles of dry brush.
Any concerns were thrown on the floor with the rest of her clothing.
Two Days a Week
I’m wondering
why
and how
I became
one of those
pathetic
every hour
phone-checking
women.
Excuses:
1. I’m getting over
the most intense
love
I’ve ever had
so
this is a distraction.
2. In my head
he was
sincerely interested
in me.
3. Calling me
sexy girl, toots,
baby, and doll
were signs of
affection
toward me.
4. He wanted to
see me
the other
day,
even though
broken ribs
made it impossible
to fuck me.
All these ideas
I tell myself—
disguising the
real truth.
He probably
just likes me
enough—
stands me
enough—
to see me
two days a week
and nothing more.
When did I get to
be a
two-day-a-week
-whore?
Those girls
aren’t me.
They wear
slutty clothes
even to the
grocery store,
and more makeup
than the transvestite
living above me—
who knows full well
he’s not fooling anyone.
Those girls—
are more concerned
with reality television
than actual reality.
They read trashy
novels
and consider themselves
an intellectual—
and are convinced
that their man
would never
cheat,
lie,
fall out of like
or love
with
them.
I’m not those girls.
I’m not those girls.
I’m not that
goddamned girl.
And yet—
it still hurts my pride—
I think more than him
not calling, that I
took it upon
myself to stay awake
from 2:00 am to 3:30 am
in case he called.
Well no more.
I can play up
indifference.
he won’t see
he had any effect
whatsoever
on me—
I almost hope
he never asks
to come
to my bed
again,
because I don’t know
If I’m strong
enough
to say
no.
why
and how
I became
one of those
pathetic
every hour
phone-checking
women.
Excuses:
1. I’m getting over
the most intense
love
I’ve ever had
so
this is a distraction.
2. In my head
he was
sincerely interested
in me.
3. Calling me
sexy girl, toots,
baby, and doll
were signs of
affection
toward me.
4. He wanted to
see me
the other
day,
even though
broken ribs
made it impossible
to fuck me.
All these ideas
I tell myself—
disguising the
real truth.
He probably
just likes me
enough—
stands me
enough—
to see me
two days a week
and nothing more.
When did I get to
be a
two-day-a-week
-whore?
Those girls
aren’t me.
They wear
slutty clothes
even to the
grocery store,
and more makeup
than the transvestite
living above me—
who knows full well
he’s not fooling anyone.
Those girls—
are more concerned
with reality television
than actual reality.
They read trashy
novels
and consider themselves
an intellectual—
and are convinced
that their man
would never
cheat,
lie,
fall out of like
or love
with
them.
I’m not those girls.
I’m not those girls.
I’m not that
goddamned girl.
And yet—
it still hurts my pride—
I think more than him
not calling, that I
took it upon
myself to stay awake
from 2:00 am to 3:30 am
in case he called.
Well no more.
I can play up
indifference.
he won’t see
he had any effect
whatsoever
on me—
I almost hope
he never asks
to come
to my bed
again,
because I don’t know
If I’m strong
enough
to say
no.
Ode to Tequila
I pour down
my welcoming
throat
a 1.5
ounce
of ecstasy—
tequila.
A word
so seductive
I am instantly
and intently
only focused
on this product
originally
from Mexico.
It’s lineage rich.
First birthed as
fermented sap
from local maguey plants
collected by natives
and made into
a concoction
called Pulque.
It has
moonlighted as
mescal brandy,
agave wine,
mescal tequila
and finally
simply
mmmmmm
tequila.
I’d lick
my fingers,
toes,
the wooden
bar counter
if by chance
a smidgen of
this
liquid pleasure
were to escape
onto any other surface
besides my
yearning
taste buds.
How our
relationship
came to be
I cannot remember,
perhaps the
storage section
of my brain
for memories
has been
clouded from
the slightly woody
and sharp-flavored
warming goodness.
Once only a drink
for bandidos
and rancheros,
now may be
consumed
by any number
of individuals.
and I am
oh
so
grateful
for that
fact.
My favorite way
to enjoy
this gift from
the Aztecs
Is with salt—
licked from
the neck of some
well-built
tanned and
toned
fiery male
(though I
usually settle
on Licking
my own hand
because seriously,
where would I find
a man like that?)
Then comes the
best part,
the shot.
I don’t take it
too fast,
savoring
its intricacies
of flavor.
Sometimes
it’s anjeo (aged)
other times
I prefer
reposado (rested)
and in desperation—
I don’t give a fuck
and will drink down
Mr. Jose Cuervo
Gold.
Each type
has a special
place in my heart.
The lime wedge
at the end
seals the deal
as I slam it down
on the bar
in front of
my favorite bartender
who is always game
to drink with me
and knows when I
come in for
my tantalizing treat
of choice,
his stock of tequila
will most certainly
take a hit.
my welcoming
throat
a 1.5
ounce
of ecstasy—
tequila.
A word
so seductive
I am instantly
and intently
only focused
on this product
originally
from Mexico.
It’s lineage rich.
First birthed as
fermented sap
from local maguey plants
collected by natives
and made into
a concoction
called Pulque.
It has
moonlighted as
mescal brandy,
agave wine,
mescal tequila
and finally
simply
mmmmmm
tequila.
I’d lick
my fingers,
toes,
the wooden
bar counter
if by chance
a smidgen of
this
liquid pleasure
were to escape
onto any other surface
besides my
yearning
taste buds.
How our
relationship
came to be
I cannot remember,
perhaps the
storage section
of my brain
for memories
has been
clouded from
the slightly woody
and sharp-flavored
warming goodness.
Once only a drink
for bandidos
and rancheros,
now may be
consumed
by any number
of individuals.
and I am
oh
so
grateful
for that
fact.
My favorite way
to enjoy
this gift from
the Aztecs
Is with salt—
licked from
the neck of some
well-built
tanned and
toned
fiery male
(though I
usually settle
on Licking
my own hand
because seriously,
where would I find
a man like that?)
Then comes the
best part,
the shot.
I don’t take it
too fast,
savoring
its intricacies
of flavor.
Sometimes
it’s anjeo (aged)
other times
I prefer
reposado (rested)
and in desperation—
I don’t give a fuck
and will drink down
Mr. Jose Cuervo
Gold.
Each type
has a special
place in my heart.
The lime wedge
at the end
seals the deal
as I slam it down
on the bar
in front of
my favorite bartender
who is always game
to drink with me
and knows when I
come in for
my tantalizing treat
of choice,
his stock of tequila
will most certainly
take a hit.
Seen as an Object
Call me Bambi—
it’s what all my regulars
at the dive bar
I work at
have so
lovingly nicknamed me.
Never thought I’d have a job
where in the description
I’m supposed
to entertain,
wear something low-cut
(just to give a peek)
and smile when even the most
slime-ridden males
try to “work their magic”
and hit on me.
(And when I say “magic” literally
I’ve had a man come in and do tricks
with toothpicks.)
They sit in front of the sink
to watch me bend over
while doing the dishes.
They try to make small talk
so their stare can linger just
a bit longer.
They honestly believe I’m flirting
when all I’m doing is selling them
a drink.
To them—
I’m the bubbly
sugarey-sweet smiling
barely old enough to
drink alcohol
much less pour it for others
girl.
I get ogled at.
Men try to “buy” me
with measly tips thrown on the bar.
they might get a wink for twenty—
but that’s as far as it goes.
I’m worth more than whatever any of them
has in their worn leather wallets.
it’s what all my regulars
at the dive bar
I work at
have so
lovingly nicknamed me.
Never thought I’d have a job
where in the description
I’m supposed
to entertain,
wear something low-cut
(just to give a peek)
and smile when even the most
slime-ridden males
try to “work their magic”
and hit on me.
(And when I say “magic” literally
I’ve had a man come in and do tricks
with toothpicks.)
They sit in front of the sink
to watch me bend over
while doing the dishes.
They try to make small talk
so their stare can linger just
a bit longer.
They honestly believe I’m flirting
when all I’m doing is selling them
a drink.
To them—
I’m the bubbly
sugarey-sweet smiling
barely old enough to
drink alcohol
much less pour it for others
girl.
I get ogled at.
Men try to “buy” me
with measly tips thrown on the bar.
they might get a wink for twenty—
but that’s as far as it goes.
I’m worth more than whatever any of them
has in their worn leather wallets.
Ode to Sweet Potatoes
My father introduced me to you
more than six years ago,
first as baked and buttered,
sugar-coated bites of orange ambrosia.
The connection was kismet and
my cravings to taste
your sweet, starchy, succulent
flavor never ceases.
Your family tree is tangled;
not related to the potato,
cousin to the morning glory,
always mistaken for the sister yam.
But I know your true identity.
Your eye-catching jewel tones distract me from other choices of food.
The kaleidoscope of colors creates enough variation,
so I never tire of the burnt orange, buttercup yellow or wisteria purple varieties.
On your perennial vine,
your leaves resemble that of palms
and alternate with heart-shaped lobed ones.
Skin so smooth and thin it’s that of an 80 year-olds.
No two are alike,
short boxy tapered ends,
knobby and wart-like additions add to your otherwise tuberous shape.
Never happy just the way you are,
many try to transform you to fit their personal palates,
baked,
boiled,
candied,
hidden inside a flakey pie crust,
julienned into fries
adorned with perfectly tanned marshmallows.
Sustenance in the form of
bountiful vitamins, carbohydrates and
belly-bloating amounts of fiber.
You keep me flourishing,
a faultless form of nourishment.
I’ll eat you until,
my last days,
most likely,
unashamedly,
dipped heavily
in ketchup.
Though this
humble condiment
doesn’t do
your greatness
justice.
more than six years ago,
first as baked and buttered,
sugar-coated bites of orange ambrosia.
The connection was kismet and
my cravings to taste
your sweet, starchy, succulent
flavor never ceases.
Your family tree is tangled;
not related to the potato,
cousin to the morning glory,
always mistaken for the sister yam.
But I know your true identity.
Your eye-catching jewel tones distract me from other choices of food.
The kaleidoscope of colors creates enough variation,
so I never tire of the burnt orange, buttercup yellow or wisteria purple varieties.
On your perennial vine,
your leaves resemble that of palms
and alternate with heart-shaped lobed ones.
Skin so smooth and thin it’s that of an 80 year-olds.
No two are alike,
short boxy tapered ends,
knobby and wart-like additions add to your otherwise tuberous shape.
Never happy just the way you are,
many try to transform you to fit their personal palates,
baked,
boiled,
candied,
hidden inside a flakey pie crust,
julienned into fries
adorned with perfectly tanned marshmallows.
Sustenance in the form of
bountiful vitamins, carbohydrates and
belly-bloating amounts of fiber.
You keep me flourishing,
a faultless form of nourishment.
I’ll eat you until,
my last days,
most likely,
unashamedly,
dipped heavily
in ketchup.
Though this
humble condiment
doesn’t do
your greatness
justice.
Wind Chime
I still don’t know why
you chose to do it
in my room.
I don’t understand why you
tied the rope
from my ceiling
And
climbed ever so carefully
upon the stepladder.
Or
why you
gracefully put your head
between the well-crafted coarse loop
and
swayed as if a spring breeze
had seeped through my window.
I don’t know why you
allowed the ladder to fall
leaving you dangling like a stoic wind chime.
And
As much as I’d like to pretend I don’t know why I sobbed in guilt
after waking from this dream,
the thought of your disappearance
made me at peace.
you chose to do it
in my room.
I don’t understand why you
tied the rope
from my ceiling
And
climbed ever so carefully
upon the stepladder.
Or
why you
gracefully put your head
between the well-crafted coarse loop
and
swayed as if a spring breeze
had seeped through my window.
I don’t know why you
allowed the ladder to fall
leaving you dangling like a stoic wind chime.
And
As much as I’d like to pretend I don’t know why I sobbed in guilt
after waking from this dream,
the thought of your disappearance
made me at peace.
Girl fight
for Kelly Silva-
Cunt.
Whore.
Slut.
Apparently I
disrespected a
hypocritical
double-standard-making
bitch
last Tuesday,
because the insults
previously stated
in this
were spit out
of her bubblegum-pink mouth.
Let me paint a picture
of this gem of a girl—
obviously damaged
and bleached blonde hair
adorned with a
purple fake flower—
plunging halter,
to highlight her slight beer belly pooch
and more black liquid eye-liner
than what a squid from the ocean
could feasibly hold.
So,
I fucked her ex- boyfriend
several times
under her nose.
So,
it had been going on for
months and no one
found out until
one drunken night
a friend spilled the beans.
Never in my life
have I had a person
much less a female whom
I’ve never
really had problems with
come at me—
and not just walk toward me
in a heated fashion.
No,
she fuckin came at me like
I was a piece of meat and she was
a pitbull who has been tied up
for days in some hick’s backyard
slowly starving to death.
Instantly she went for my neck,
the bitch.
Her grip was
pretty tight.
Then came the hair pulling,
who the fuck pulls hair?
White Trash,
that’s who—
and I told her that.
She then proceeded
to throw her skank-heeled
black stilettos at me.
Luckily her previous drinks
had hindered her aim.
Her ex held her back
literally with all his might.
Angry girls
are stronger
than most
steroid-taking-
can’t-get-it—up
-IQ-of-scotch-tape-
weight lifters.
I didn’t know what to do.
so I walked away.
I’m no fighter and also a realist.
Lets face it, the bitch would have
given me a beat down most likely.
I’m not saying I’m not tough,
but I’m not a scrappy kind of gal.
I’ve always thought people who fight
were just not smart enough
to use words
to solve a problem.
Though let me give credit where
it is due—
repeatedly calling me a Ho was clearly
a very
educated and classy
insult on the girl’s part.
As I’m walking away, literally
about ten miles from
where I was supposed to sleep for the night
a friend who witnessed the “fight”
was running after me.
Thank God it was her—
because I had thought the
crazy had escaped and was
sprinting toward me to finish
what she started.
My friend held up the black heel
thinking it was mine.
Obviously I was going to suggest
the right thing to do—
it wasn’t my shoe
it was the ex girlfriend’s.
So, I flung that shoe
as hard as I could
upon the roof
of some random neighbor’s
house.
She’ll just have to
settle on another one
of her many other pairs
of trashy patton leather heels.
Cunt.
Whore.
Slut.
Apparently I
disrespected a
hypocritical
double-standard-making
bitch
last Tuesday,
because the insults
previously stated
in this
were spit out
of her bubblegum-pink mouth.
Let me paint a picture
of this gem of a girl—
obviously damaged
and bleached blonde hair
adorned with a
purple fake flower—
plunging halter,
to highlight her slight beer belly pooch
and more black liquid eye-liner
than what a squid from the ocean
could feasibly hold.
So,
I fucked her ex- boyfriend
several times
under her nose.
So,
it had been going on for
months and no one
found out until
one drunken night
a friend spilled the beans.
Never in my life
have I had a person
much less a female whom
I’ve never
really had problems with
come at me—
and not just walk toward me
in a heated fashion.
No,
she fuckin came at me like
I was a piece of meat and she was
a pitbull who has been tied up
for days in some hick’s backyard
slowly starving to death.
Instantly she went for my neck,
the bitch.
Her grip was
pretty tight.
Then came the hair pulling,
who the fuck pulls hair?
White Trash,
that’s who—
and I told her that.
She then proceeded
to throw her skank-heeled
black stilettos at me.
Luckily her previous drinks
had hindered her aim.
Her ex held her back
literally with all his might.
Angry girls
are stronger
than most
steroid-taking-
can’t-get-it—up
-IQ-of-scotch-tape-
weight lifters.
I didn’t know what to do.
so I walked away.
I’m no fighter and also a realist.
Lets face it, the bitch would have
given me a beat down most likely.
I’m not saying I’m not tough,
but I’m not a scrappy kind of gal.
I’ve always thought people who fight
were just not smart enough
to use words
to solve a problem.
Though let me give credit where
it is due—
repeatedly calling me a Ho was clearly
a very
educated and classy
insult on the girl’s part.
As I’m walking away, literally
about ten miles from
where I was supposed to sleep for the night
a friend who witnessed the “fight”
was running after me.
Thank God it was her—
because I had thought the
crazy had escaped and was
sprinting toward me to finish
what she started.
My friend held up the black heel
thinking it was mine.
Obviously I was going to suggest
the right thing to do—
it wasn’t my shoe
it was the ex girlfriend’s.
So, I flung that shoe
as hard as I could
upon the roof
of some random neighbor’s
house.
She’ll just have to
settle on another one
of her many other pairs
of trashy patton leather heels.
Mayonnaise
Inside there still lives that little girl,
Bella Belly, her family lovingly referred to her as.
Her protruding tummy jutting out like an Ethiopian child’s.
She was beautiful as she grew up—already in her twenties now
legs like a fawn, strong but lithe
hair of apricot honey glistening with the reflections of the sun’s rays.
A connoisseur of all sweets,
She would eat nails if they were covered in chocolate.
(How I envy a girl like that as I sit nibbling on carrot sticks, thighs red with friction)
Inside there still lives that little girl
with her furrowed brow— always worried of being left out of the fun.
Affirmations of her self-worth indulgently given to her by family and friends.
The depression her mother and father shared, finally consumed her.
The guilt for having been a “mistake” hollowed her once plump cheeks
and changed her skin to that of a chameleons—first yellow, then green, and finally grey.
Proudly she displayed her “new self” at first. Look how much weight I’ve lost, I eat so healthy now.
Those legs became veined translucent twigs.
Her hair broke off in bits and dulled to that of worn down oak.
Inside there still lives that little girl,
Who I try to show it’s alright to eat,
by stuffing myself with mayonnaise-dipped girl scout cookies—
it’s my plea to make her remember my own self-inflicted disfigurement.
I too felt superior for my “health,” I too received what I know now are looks of concern—even from strangers.
But she was blind to my past—No one saw her eat, except for show like an act she did for only the largest of audiences.
She disguised her shell in layers of clothing
Head always hung down now, her once explosive green eyes now just glass marbles.
Bella Belly, her family lovingly referred to her as.
Her protruding tummy jutting out like an Ethiopian child’s.
She was beautiful as she grew up—already in her twenties now
legs like a fawn, strong but lithe
hair of apricot honey glistening with the reflections of the sun’s rays.
A connoisseur of all sweets,
She would eat nails if they were covered in chocolate.
(How I envy a girl like that as I sit nibbling on carrot sticks, thighs red with friction)
Inside there still lives that little girl
with her furrowed brow— always worried of being left out of the fun.
Affirmations of her self-worth indulgently given to her by family and friends.
The depression her mother and father shared, finally consumed her.
The guilt for having been a “mistake” hollowed her once plump cheeks
and changed her skin to that of a chameleons—first yellow, then green, and finally grey.
Proudly she displayed her “new self” at first. Look how much weight I’ve lost, I eat so healthy now.
Those legs became veined translucent twigs.
Her hair broke off in bits and dulled to that of worn down oak.
Inside there still lives that little girl,
Who I try to show it’s alright to eat,
by stuffing myself with mayonnaise-dipped girl scout cookies—
it’s my plea to make her remember my own self-inflicted disfigurement.
I too felt superior for my “health,” I too received what I know now are looks of concern—even from strangers.
But she was blind to my past—No one saw her eat, except for show like an act she did for only the largest of audiences.
She disguised her shell in layers of clothing
Head always hung down now, her once explosive green eyes now just glass marbles.
Waterpark
Waterparks
Are H2O havens
for a young child.
One would never
Assume
that the
Idea of death
Would Pop
into a little girl’s
Head at this
Eutopia of
Summer fun.
But it did.
The first time she
Realized that
one day
She too
Would No longer
Exist
Was in line
For the
Cliffhanger.
(Yes she was aware,
Even at nine,
That the name
Of the ride
coincides
With the theme of
danger—
A possibility
Of injuring oneself,
Etc.)
But the ride itself
Didn’t provoke
The initial thought.
Being so young
One’s death
Usually doesn’t
Tip toe
Its way into
A little girl’s
Psyche.
Yet the rest
of the day
Was a bust.
In no way could
She enjoy
The Ice cream cones,
Wave pool and
Lazy river that
She used to love to
Float down.
The phrase
What’s the point?
Relentlessly
Monopolized
Her thoughts.
She started
To become
Friends
With depression.
It played within
Her mind
Most days after
The water park.
She didn’t
Understand
What would happen
To her after she died.
(Religion wasn’t big
In her family).
God and heaven
Were ideas that
The annoying
Children of
Born again Christians
And Mormons
Liked to stuff
Down her throat
During recess
At school.
She never truly
Bought the
Garbage they
Were spewing from
Their naïve
And unquestioning
Mouths—
And yet she wished
It were
all true:
Heaven,
Peace after death,
Reuniting with
Lost loved ones.
But the yearning
Became dusty and
Was swept under
The carpet.
Still there,
But hidden for the moment.
Back and forth
For years
She would
Intermittently
Feel the
Relationship
She once had
With depression
Become reignited—
And ice cream didn’t
Taste as good,
And she was tired
A lot
And she lost interest
In things that used
To satisfy her creative side.
All because at 9
She started to
Think about
What it would be like
To die.
As the years
Passed
She lost her
Grandfather and
Both great
Grandparents.
When looking at their
Bodies—
Once so
Full of life,
All she saw
Were shells
Of her former
Family.
Nothing happens
After you die.
You are just
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Even at 22—
She has to pretend
The friendship with
Depression
Has been destroyed.
Otherwise he will
Find her new address
And ask to come in
To reminisce
about the past
Over some freshly brewed tea
And shortbread cookies.
Are H2O havens
for a young child.
One would never
Assume
that the
Idea of death
Would Pop
into a little girl’s
Head at this
Eutopia of
Summer fun.
But it did.
The first time she
Realized that
one day
She too
Would No longer
Exist
Was in line
For the
Cliffhanger.
(Yes she was aware,
Even at nine,
That the name
Of the ride
coincides
With the theme of
danger—
A possibility
Of injuring oneself,
Etc.)
But the ride itself
Didn’t provoke
The initial thought.
Being so young
One’s death
Usually doesn’t
Tip toe
Its way into
A little girl’s
Psyche.
Yet the rest
of the day
Was a bust.
In no way could
She enjoy
The Ice cream cones,
Wave pool and
Lazy river that
She used to love to
Float down.
The phrase
What’s the point?
Relentlessly
Monopolized
Her thoughts.
She started
To become
Friends
With depression.
It played within
Her mind
Most days after
The water park.
She didn’t
Understand
What would happen
To her after she died.
(Religion wasn’t big
In her family).
God and heaven
Were ideas that
The annoying
Children of
Born again Christians
And Mormons
Liked to stuff
Down her throat
During recess
At school.
She never truly
Bought the
Garbage they
Were spewing from
Their naïve
And unquestioning
Mouths—
And yet she wished
It were
all true:
Heaven,
Peace after death,
Reuniting with
Lost loved ones.
But the yearning
Became dusty and
Was swept under
The carpet.
Still there,
But hidden for the moment.
Back and forth
For years
She would
Intermittently
Feel the
Relationship
She once had
With depression
Become reignited—
And ice cream didn’t
Taste as good,
And she was tired
A lot
And she lost interest
In things that used
To satisfy her creative side.
All because at 9
She started to
Think about
What it would be like
To die.
As the years
Passed
She lost her
Grandfather and
Both great
Grandparents.
When looking at their
Bodies—
Once so
Full of life,
All she saw
Were shells
Of her former
Family.
Nothing happens
After you die.
You are just
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Even at 22—
She has to pretend
The friendship with
Depression
Has been destroyed.
Otherwise he will
Find her new address
And ask to come in
To reminisce
about the past
Over some freshly brewed tea
And shortbread cookies.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Everyone has Them
Flaw 1
In a constant
state of hysteria
she claws at
the concrete walls,
creating nail marks,
bloody reminders of
the need for
absolute, unhinging freedom.
Flaw 2
self-depreciating thoughts
infect judgment
the enemy is
the glass reflection
too thick, too
fat, too round
too fucking much
consequently left as fragments, broken and raw
Flaw 3
I am the
personification of addiction.
Life is a board game
of extremes, never a balance.
Pushing my mind, my
body, my emotions,
to exhaustive states.
I try to live and feel it all.
In a constant
state of hysteria
she claws at
the concrete walls,
creating nail marks,
bloody reminders of
the need for
absolute, unhinging freedom.
Flaw 2
self-depreciating thoughts
infect judgment
the enemy is
the glass reflection
too thick, too
fat, too round
too fucking much
consequently left as fragments, broken and raw
Flaw 3
I am the
personification of addiction.
Life is a board game
of extremes, never a balance.
Pushing my mind, my
body, my emotions,
to exhaustive states.
I try to live and feel it all.
Mucca
Pin curls perfectly placed, paired with pomegranate red lips.
Barely grazing the five-foot mark.
Hands always on her hips, one eyebrow playfully raised.
A smile that spans miles.
Whoooo, she exclaims as she jitterbugs across the dancehall floor.
A woman who had it all before it was trendy.
Career, children, and a lumberjack of a husband that loved her so deeply, he traveled to the unknown first.
Back yard barbeques, bottles of wine, and more dancing.
Can’t forget church on Sunday.
Her nickname, pure accident.
The grandkids couldn’t pronounce Grammy.
Fast-forward 25 years
and she is still Mucca.
The moniker is proudly displayed
on her license plate.
The five letters glittering in the sunlight as she drives past.
What’s MUCCA? People always ask.
Her cooking, sometimes questionable,
expiration dates are just polite suggestions to her.
But her fresh marion berry pies, oooh, orgasmic.
She has a quirky way of pronouncing some choice words, Th-a-ya? No Thai.
Only sits down long enough to figure out what’s next on her to-do list.
Took care of every walk of life until there was nothing but a shitzu dog left in her home.
She dwells in a cumulative photo album of her life
Every nook and cranny has a memory attached.
She’ll never leave it.
Her sassy, stubborn nature is still seen in the glint of her pale moss-colored eyes
No matter her age, makeup on before 7 a.m.
Women aren’t supposed to run, it jumbles their insides, she tells me
Sentimental salty stained cheeks regardless of hellos or goodbyes.
Hardships and a deep caring for others have forged the beautifully creased folds upon her olive complexion.
Still, nights of giggle-filled tipsy laughter, gossip and the twist.
Whoooo, she exclaims.
I’m old enough now to get to know her as a woman.
God, I hope she lives forever.
Barely grazing the five-foot mark.
Hands always on her hips, one eyebrow playfully raised.
A smile that spans miles.
Whoooo, she exclaims as she jitterbugs across the dancehall floor.
A woman who had it all before it was trendy.
Career, children, and a lumberjack of a husband that loved her so deeply, he traveled to the unknown first.
Back yard barbeques, bottles of wine, and more dancing.
Can’t forget church on Sunday.
Her nickname, pure accident.
The grandkids couldn’t pronounce Grammy.
Fast-forward 25 years
and she is still Mucca.
The moniker is proudly displayed
on her license plate.
The five letters glittering in the sunlight as she drives past.
What’s MUCCA? People always ask.
Her cooking, sometimes questionable,
expiration dates are just polite suggestions to her.
But her fresh marion berry pies, oooh, orgasmic.
She has a quirky way of pronouncing some choice words, Th-a-ya? No Thai.
Only sits down long enough to figure out what’s next on her to-do list.
Took care of every walk of life until there was nothing but a shitzu dog left in her home.
She dwells in a cumulative photo album of her life
Every nook and cranny has a memory attached.
She’ll never leave it.
Her sassy, stubborn nature is still seen in the glint of her pale moss-colored eyes
No matter her age, makeup on before 7 a.m.
Women aren’t supposed to run, it jumbles their insides, she tells me
Sentimental salty stained cheeks regardless of hellos or goodbyes.
Hardships and a deep caring for others have forged the beautifully creased folds upon her olive complexion.
Still, nights of giggle-filled tipsy laughter, gossip and the twist.
Whoooo, she exclaims.
I’m old enough now to get to know her as a woman.
God, I hope she lives forever.
When is time supposed to heal me?
The guilt I feel for hating you
Creeps into the hours
But please do not misconstrue
Sickeningly enough your power
Six years, but you won’t let me go
My recovery from you has been slow
I still wonder why you chose over me,
Drugs, alcohol and gambling.
Creeps into the hours
But please do not misconstrue
Sickeningly enough your power
Six years, but you won’t let me go
My recovery from you has been slow
I still wonder why you chose over me,
Drugs, alcohol and gambling.
Blackberries
My mother’s voice told me to come back
as I ran out the door—
tears whirring off my face.
My knees hurt while I pounded them in step with my breath.
It happened again, he’s gone—so I run
beside the cliffs that fall into the river filled with dying salmon.
Finally I reach the wild blackberry bushes that are my private haven.
As I reach toward the little orbs,
nature’s gift to those who find them,
a rattlesnake slithers across my toes—
I’ve eaten more than my fair share.
as I ran out the door—
tears whirring off my face.
My knees hurt while I pounded them in step with my breath.
It happened again, he’s gone—so I run
beside the cliffs that fall into the river filled with dying salmon.
Finally I reach the wild blackberry bushes that are my private haven.
As I reach toward the little orbs,
nature’s gift to those who find them,
a rattlesnake slithers across my toes—
I’ve eaten more than my fair share.
Hello Mermaid
I was desperate
for solitude
and inspiration
that gleefully happy
parents weekend.
I never invite mine,
one
whom I love,
is
usually busy,
the other,
I’d rather
just
forget.
So I ask my roommate
about this nude beach,
whole-heartedly yearning
for a quiet place to write.
She had babbled about it for months
so I figured it was worth the trip.
After parking,
the walk to the
promised land of relaxation
was merely
a lovely winding
trail.
Only—
climbing
to the sand by rope
had me a tinge nervous.
Literally
I have one
fear—
falling
that paralyzes me
at times.
I tend to be an over packer
and not the most graceful of
women (hence the previously stated fear.)
Scars litter much of my
skin’s surface.
It was a difficult task
to say the least—
with beach towels,
notebooks, keys and
a purse full of pounds
of change.
The idea of a secret beach
is taken too far by
the nudist clan—
making it a chore to even find
the coveted spot
for those of us
clothed-ones
that are curious of the site.
I lost a shoe
and my dignity on
the way down.
At least—
I thought I lost my
dignity,
until I had a look around.
Yes—
I applaud the particular
type of nudist
who feels
confident enough
to parade around like
a curly-haired poodle
in a dog contest,
hoping that everyone gets a
good look.
But forgive me
if my standards
are different than yours.
Chubby
short
raisined
dicks
will
never
be
attractive—
especially bouncing
too and fro
like a child trying
to not step on the cracks so
as not to “break his grandmother’s back.”
Gravity and the aging process
are truly enemies
to those who covet the sun
without any coverage
as if being in its presence
was like meeting royalty.
In no way am I looking forward to
the decline of my youth—
I think to myself
as I slather
tanning lotion on my
partially suited body.
Disgust appears over
my face—
If I keep tanning
will I look like that?
Both my parents
appear young for
their ages
so I
tell myself—
My genes will slow the process.
Sagging skin
resembling the waves
of the ocean 15 feet away,
rippling at the slightest
disturbance
and bellies protruding
that mirror a pregnant woman
in her second trimester,
are the displays of
the day.
Oh God,
don’t bring out the
frisbee,
the balls and paddle.
A girl can only
take so much
I thought to myself—
then I wondered
if my appearance
was screaming for
the 86 year-old man’s company—
Schlong, shapelessly droopy ass, and all.
Do not put your umbrella so near to me—
I willed him this message with my mind,
with no luck.
I just wanted some alone-time.
But I laugh,
all in good fun
I guess,
as I untie my bikini top—
which is quickly
tightened again
as fully-dressed
sweaty,
black-moustache-wearing
pitiful-excuses-for-men
scan the beach like they’re
FBI looking for a wanted criminal.
Pathetic the way some
keep themselves
entertained.
Back and forth
they walk in groups
like caged tigers
hoping for a glance
of fresh meat.
Then suddenly,
Hello Mermaid—
says a man to me
as he prances toward
the water.
I smile, nod
and exchange
a few polite pleasantries.
As a child
I always dreamed
I really was
a mermaid—
hair full of shells,
sparkling iridescent
mossy-green scaled fin,
a seahorse and dolphin
as my companions.
Hours I would spend
in my grandmother’s pool
bobbing around with my
legs imaginatively fused together—
only to get out of the water
for the promise
of my grandmother’s
homemade berry pie.
Most likely
he called me a mermaid
mocking my
still covered
body
wrapped in the
olive-green suit.
But to the six-year-old
in me,
he simply called me
what I knew
I always
was.
for solitude
and inspiration
that gleefully happy
parents weekend.
I never invite mine,
one
whom I love,
is
usually busy,
the other,
I’d rather
just
forget.
So I ask my roommate
about this nude beach,
whole-heartedly yearning
for a quiet place to write.
She had babbled about it for months
so I figured it was worth the trip.
After parking,
the walk to the
promised land of relaxation
was merely
a lovely winding
trail.
Only—
climbing
to the sand by rope
had me a tinge nervous.
Literally
I have one
fear—
falling
that paralyzes me
at times.
I tend to be an over packer
and not the most graceful of
women (hence the previously stated fear.)
Scars litter much of my
skin’s surface.
It was a difficult task
to say the least—
with beach towels,
notebooks, keys and
a purse full of pounds
of change.
The idea of a secret beach
is taken too far by
the nudist clan—
making it a chore to even find
the coveted spot
for those of us
clothed-ones
that are curious of the site.
I lost a shoe
and my dignity on
the way down.
At least—
I thought I lost my
dignity,
until I had a look around.
Yes—
I applaud the particular
type of nudist
who feels
confident enough
to parade around like
a curly-haired poodle
in a dog contest,
hoping that everyone gets a
good look.
But forgive me
if my standards
are different than yours.
Chubby
short
raisined
dicks
will
never
be
attractive—
especially bouncing
too and fro
like a child trying
to not step on the cracks so
as not to “break his grandmother’s back.”
Gravity and the aging process
are truly enemies
to those who covet the sun
without any coverage
as if being in its presence
was like meeting royalty.
In no way am I looking forward to
the decline of my youth—
I think to myself
as I slather
tanning lotion on my
partially suited body.
Disgust appears over
my face—
If I keep tanning
will I look like that?
Both my parents
appear young for
their ages
so I
tell myself—
My genes will slow the process.
Sagging skin
resembling the waves
of the ocean 15 feet away,
rippling at the slightest
disturbance
and bellies protruding
that mirror a pregnant woman
in her second trimester,
are the displays of
the day.
Oh God,
don’t bring out the
frisbee,
the balls and paddle.
A girl can only
take so much
I thought to myself—
then I wondered
if my appearance
was screaming for
the 86 year-old man’s company—
Schlong, shapelessly droopy ass, and all.
Do not put your umbrella so near to me—
I willed him this message with my mind,
with no luck.
I just wanted some alone-time.
But I laugh,
all in good fun
I guess,
as I untie my bikini top—
which is quickly
tightened again
as fully-dressed
sweaty,
black-moustache-wearing
pitiful-excuses-for-men
scan the beach like they’re
FBI looking for a wanted criminal.
Pathetic the way some
keep themselves
entertained.
Back and forth
they walk in groups
like caged tigers
hoping for a glance
of fresh meat.
Then suddenly,
Hello Mermaid—
says a man to me
as he prances toward
the water.
I smile, nod
and exchange
a few polite pleasantries.
As a child
I always dreamed
I really was
a mermaid—
hair full of shells,
sparkling iridescent
mossy-green scaled fin,
a seahorse and dolphin
as my companions.
Hours I would spend
in my grandmother’s pool
bobbing around with my
legs imaginatively fused together—
only to get out of the water
for the promise
of my grandmother’s
homemade berry pie.
Most likely
he called me a mermaid
mocking my
still covered
body
wrapped in the
olive-green suit.
But to the six-year-old
in me,
he simply called me
what I knew
I always
was.
Cement Blocks
I don’t know why I still love you.
Honestly, the amount of hours, of me
trying to figure it all out
is tip-toeing
the line of pathetic.
And even while writing the words,
I still love you,
my heart calls for protection,
suggesting to my mind
that in fact—
I am not in love.
You’re a habit, a friend, a fuck-buddy
when we weren’t technically
titled
In a relationship.
No, you were my first love
so it’s just taking a while to
ease into
not thinking about you
every
single
day.
That wondrously,
horrible seventeen months,
I am grateful for.
But my body is
now exhausted and dehydrated.
When I attempt to cry,
nothing but dust particles and spider webs
appear
because all my tears
were spent on you.
Of course we would never
have worked
because the idea of me
was far more captivating to you—
You’re so smart,
I can’t believe I’m dating a writer.
I love that you play the piano and drums.
You can drink beer and take shots with the guys.
You’re the prettiest girl I’ve been with.
My qualities—
you listed on
your fingers
almost like
you were
checking
if I
made the cut
that day.
Each act of me trying to live life,
whether it was going out until sunrise
or
needing time alone to write
was met by
slanted tones
embodied by hand-crafted
cement blocks.
Blocks so heavy you had to drag them
across the hard-wood floors—
scarring them forever,
with deep, reddened lines that
resembled Staff infection.
These blocks were swathed
in kisses and hugs,
disguises to match the punishment
you deemed fit
for what you felt
I did wrong.
The fractures created by your words
led me to actually begin to
question even everyday decisions.
I started chewing
watermelon gum because you
liked the taste.
(Cinnamon is my favorite.)
God, that makes me angry now.
Naïve, foolish, inexperienced—
all are words that spring to mind
when I think of me then.
Oh how I despise
how I let you guilt me into
acting more like a 1950s
housewife—
dinner on the table when you
got home from work,
(I don’t even like to cook.)
My actual paid job, hobbies and creative aspirations put aside
so you could
fill me in
on your day.
I adore children
as much
as the next person
but there are only so many
topics of discussion (boogers,
diapers, playing pretend firemen)
that come from working at a
preschool.
A master I was at nodding
in compliance and
feigning interest,
in the hopes you would
take a deeper interest in me.
Because these annoying feelings of love
are still lingering in my veins
I wonder,
was the agony of this relationship like childbirth?
Have I just forgotten how excruciatingly
painful it was
and now I’m ready to try again?
To stop missing you
I have others remind me
just why I ended it,
five times.
Obviously, it’s been damn near
impossible
for me to leave you.
But talking to you on the phone
brings back memories like bullets shooting
out of a semi-automatic rifle.
I see my hands tied behind my back.
Thanks to you these blocks
were nestled carefully within
my shoulder blades and
on my lower spine.
As you stood on these self-made shackles,
your own narcissistic voice drowned out my cries.
The mirror across the room
always could woo you
into forgetting
I was still being disciplined
underneath your stance.
While my ribs began to birth hairline cracks
that can’t be seen with the naked eye,
you would walk away—
suddenly preoccupied
with the newest vagina in the corner.
Only x-rays could delve deeper and see
where the injuries began.
Scabbed rashes in block formations
still hide underneath my blouse
because you still know
how to get to me—
And I hate it.
So I tear off my clothes
exposing what you’ve done—
My nakedness comforted
only by the freeness of the
wind against my body.
I don’t know
what else to do
anymore—
so I
shrug my shoulders
and sit,
still naked
on the concrete sidewalk—
the pads of my fingertips
lightly caress the cold ground.
It feels
familiar.
What hurts worse
than every
condescending,
arrogant
judgmental,
asshole-like
phrase—
was that
this time
you left me,
and I just let you
get away with it all.
Honestly, the amount of hours, of me
trying to figure it all out
is tip-toeing
the line of pathetic.
And even while writing the words,
I still love you,
my heart calls for protection,
suggesting to my mind
that in fact—
I am not in love.
You’re a habit, a friend, a fuck-buddy
when we weren’t technically
titled
In a relationship.
No, you were my first love
so it’s just taking a while to
ease into
not thinking about you
every
single
day.
That wondrously,
horrible seventeen months,
I am grateful for.
But my body is
now exhausted and dehydrated.
When I attempt to cry,
nothing but dust particles and spider webs
appear
because all my tears
were spent on you.
Of course we would never
have worked
because the idea of me
was far more captivating to you—
You’re so smart,
I can’t believe I’m dating a writer.
I love that you play the piano and drums.
You can drink beer and take shots with the guys.
You’re the prettiest girl I’ve been with.
My qualities—
you listed on
your fingers
almost like
you were
checking
if I
made the cut
that day.
Each act of me trying to live life,
whether it was going out until sunrise
or
needing time alone to write
was met by
slanted tones
embodied by hand-crafted
cement blocks.
Blocks so heavy you had to drag them
across the hard-wood floors—
scarring them forever,
with deep, reddened lines that
resembled Staff infection.
These blocks were swathed
in kisses and hugs,
disguises to match the punishment
you deemed fit
for what you felt
I did wrong.
The fractures created by your words
led me to actually begin to
question even everyday decisions.
I started chewing
watermelon gum because you
liked the taste.
(Cinnamon is my favorite.)
God, that makes me angry now.
Naïve, foolish, inexperienced—
all are words that spring to mind
when I think of me then.
Oh how I despise
how I let you guilt me into
acting more like a 1950s
housewife—
dinner on the table when you
got home from work,
(I don’t even like to cook.)
My actual paid job, hobbies and creative aspirations put aside
so you could
fill me in
on your day.
I adore children
as much
as the next person
but there are only so many
topics of discussion (boogers,
diapers, playing pretend firemen)
that come from working at a
preschool.
A master I was at nodding
in compliance and
feigning interest,
in the hopes you would
take a deeper interest in me.
Because these annoying feelings of love
are still lingering in my veins
I wonder,
was the agony of this relationship like childbirth?
Have I just forgotten how excruciatingly
painful it was
and now I’m ready to try again?
To stop missing you
I have others remind me
just why I ended it,
five times.
Obviously, it’s been damn near
impossible
for me to leave you.
But talking to you on the phone
brings back memories like bullets shooting
out of a semi-automatic rifle.
I see my hands tied behind my back.
Thanks to you these blocks
were nestled carefully within
my shoulder blades and
on my lower spine.
As you stood on these self-made shackles,
your own narcissistic voice drowned out my cries.
The mirror across the room
always could woo you
into forgetting
I was still being disciplined
underneath your stance.
While my ribs began to birth hairline cracks
that can’t be seen with the naked eye,
you would walk away—
suddenly preoccupied
with the newest vagina in the corner.
Only x-rays could delve deeper and see
where the injuries began.
Scabbed rashes in block formations
still hide underneath my blouse
because you still know
how to get to me—
And I hate it.
So I tear off my clothes
exposing what you’ve done—
My nakedness comforted
only by the freeness of the
wind against my body.
I don’t know
what else to do
anymore—
so I
shrug my shoulders
and sit,
still naked
on the concrete sidewalk—
the pads of my fingertips
lightly caress the cold ground.
It feels
familiar.
What hurts worse
than every
condescending,
arrogant
judgmental,
asshole-like
phrase—
was that
this time
you left me,
and I just let you
get away with it all.
Prisoner
Hidden behind electric fences and locked doors she waits.
Warning signs are placed carefully.
You will injure yourself by pushing the barricades.
Within her self-imposed confinement, she shakes her head.
Warning signs are placed carefully,
but the hypnotic sheen of her shellacked exterior beckons to many.
Within her self-imposed confinement, she shakes her head.
Around her neck is a single key, still glittering from lack of use.
Though her shellacked exterior gives off a hypnotic sheen,
hawkish surveillance challenges those brave enough.
Around her neck is a single key, still glittering from lack of use—
the exceptional circumstance needed to turn the doorknob has yet to come.
Hawkish surveillance challenges those brave enough.
Casualties pile on top of one another creating eroding mounds.
The exceptional circumstance needed to turn the doorknob came and went in an instant.
Her final warning, if you even make it that far, Free me.
Hidden behind electric fences and locked doors awaits a girl.
You will injure yourself by pushing the barricades.
Warning signs are placed carefully.
You will injure yourself by pushing the barricades.
Within her self-imposed confinement, she shakes her head.
Warning signs are placed carefully,
but the hypnotic sheen of her shellacked exterior beckons to many.
Within her self-imposed confinement, she shakes her head.
Around her neck is a single key, still glittering from lack of use.
Though her shellacked exterior gives off a hypnotic sheen,
hawkish surveillance challenges those brave enough.
Around her neck is a single key, still glittering from lack of use—
the exceptional circumstance needed to turn the doorknob has yet to come.
Hawkish surveillance challenges those brave enough.
Casualties pile on top of one another creating eroding mounds.
The exceptional circumstance needed to turn the doorknob came and went in an instant.
Her final warning, if you even make it that far, Free me.
Hidden behind electric fences and locked doors awaits a girl.
You will injure yourself by pushing the barricades.
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