heavy as a sledgehammer
with nothing
in your mouth

I Rick Rolled My Boyfriend And I Don’t Think He’ll Ever Forgive Me

I Rick Rolled My Boyfriend And I Don’t Think He’ll Ever Forgive Me

the moment was sweet
when I sent the text declaring
there was one thing I’d never do,
then I sent him the link
of Mr. Astley’s most famous tune

I laughed until my sides hurt
but the sentiment
was true

and I know months from now
I’ll forget about Mr. Astley’s
song filled with soul
and I’ll be the one my love
will be able to roll

I Stood Alone

I Stood Alone

I watched the moon rise
beyond the tree line
past the roofs of houses
in their neat little rows

with their straight blinds,
and their level walks,
and their locked doors

some of them
shut up tight
to protect the outside
from what lies within

I know those sets of claws,
the sound of crooked teeth,
and gnarled roots,
so cleverly disguised
in their moral wrappings

I have lived
behind the veil,
as he cleared his throat,
my arms yellow and sore
for weeks afterwards.

I Want to Be Much than More

I Want to Be Much than More

I can only fit part of my fist
in my mouth

I bite down hard
to prove I was built
to take it

but no one feels the scrape
as I do
and anyway
I’m not fooling anyone
when I show them
my knuckles

sometimes there is no reason
let alone
the reason being you

and I can talk all night
about what is wrong,
solve nothing,
then I’m back to where I started
in the beginning

my jaw aching
behind a mouth
known for the saying
the right words
without intending to

and I can only fit part of your fist
inside my mouth,
I’m waiting on you
to shove the rest in

I will suffocate,
draw blood,
but I promise
it will be my own
this time.


Inspired by the song Fireal by Deftones. The title is a line from it. I love them. So much.

This is not beautifully written. It is ugly, sharp, and painful.

This is not beautifully written. It is ugly, sharp, and painful.

When I was five my mother gave herself stomach ulcers. My father was known to disappear for a few days, but this time he was gone for a week.

She had very little money because he didn’t want her to work, and two small mouths to feed not including her own. She drank Pepsi (hence the ulcers) and fed her children the best she could. We ate a lot of bread with mustard that week, but we never went hungry. My mother prayed he’d come back. He’d be hungover and in a rage because of it, but she loved him, and had no idea how she’d support her children without him.

She lost weight. Exactly how much I don’t know, but I know it must have been quite a bit. My mother was already thin, so losing anything would have been dramatic. When she told me this story years later she confessed that at the time she thought the weight loss was something good to come out of it. She thought that if she was thin enough my father wouldn’t leave. By the time she had had enough, ten years had gone by. Patience may be a virtue, but it should never be an excuse to tolerate abuse. (That rhymed).

My mother didn’t tell me this story so that I would hate my father, she told me so that I wouldn’t change who I am as a person. She’s awfully fond of the daughter she raised and I am too, most days.

I didn’t understand this lesson until about ten years later when I was miserable, in a failing marriage, but desperate to hold onto it. I dropped fifty pounds in a short amount of time (three months to be exact). I didn’t realize at the time that I was only trying to control something. My weight was the one thing I could change without needing anyone else. My marriage failed and it had nothing to do with my appearance.

Memories like this pop up every once in a while for no reason and I’m always unsure of what to do with them. I’m a little girl all over again, angry at her father, but too damn scared to say anything. There are very few people that I talk to about these things, that know other stories that I won’t tell here, and it’s always so exhausting to share them, but doing this will help me sort this out. At least I think it will.

Writing about this is kind of like shutting your hand in a drawer. It reminds you that you have hands and how important they are. Pain is often seen as a negative, but it doesn’t have to be. Without pain we wouldn’t grow as people. We’d stay exactly how we are because there would be no reason to be any different. I guess what I’m trying to say is although writing about this is hard doing so can help me grow as a person. Maybe I’ll figure out how all of the lessons I’ve been given fit together. Maybe someday putting those pieces together will make sense. Maybe they won’t. For now, I’ll focus on the pain in my throbbing hand while I put this in its place.


Note: I originally wasn’t going to share this. I thought I’d write about it, then scrap it. After thinking about it and talking with people I love, I decided differently. Not posting it wouldn’t be fully letting it go in my opinion, so here it is. Hopefully it will help someone. I’m alright, there’s no need to worry or contact me about it. I know that sounds shitty, but it’s me being honest. Stay rad you cool cats.

The Thin Red Line

The Thin Red Line

I swallowed arson
the match struck against my teeth,
blooming in the darkness

the perfect scheme
a getaway,
get under,
get off,
get out

help me
God, are you listening?

I count the seconds
on my fingers

one- this time your hands
are not filled with glass.
two- you will not scar me
if you touch me.
three- he whispers everything will be alright.
four- do I believe it?
five- breathe.

I recognize the shelter
in your words
I’ve heard their sound,
their soothe,
their slow acceleration
while I curl up
ignoring the alarms ringing
inside of my head

tick, tick, tick,

Prompt: Artifice, provided by @pomegranatepithos. Thanks again!