Oct 12

Becoming Woman

One the day of her becoming,
She cried crimson tears --
Rich in iron,
Stolen from the women who came before her --
Her fingers intertwined
With the lace
From the scraps
Of her mother’s Wedding Gown.

The edges burned,
Rubbed against her knuckles,
Ripping
The stitches of her personhood --
Taking away
The false meaning of her virginity,
Of the space between her thighs,
Air between her lips…

She tried one million times
To read the spaces
That her body filled --
To shrink her hips
And her breasts,
Removing herself
From generations of bodies
Commanded to conceive.

All she wants
Is to barely fill
The Wedding Gown
That her mother left her.
Oct 09

On The Kavanaugh Confirmation

One day, she took a bite
Of the world that refused to provide her

With the fruit
Whose sweet nectar

Could nourish her bosom
And those of her daughters

And her daughters’ daughters
And their daughters, and their daughters…

And the bite turned into a chunk
And the chunk turned into a third

But it could never be a half.
She would get a half of what’s left

And a half of that
And a half of that, and a half of that…

Until she was almost to half of what she should have had.
But the closer it got, the farther she was

From the inevitability
That they would never give her

What she deserved.

 
Aug 26

Puzzles (Selfishness)

I find much of the world’s written work to be superficial
The pretentious voice of a writer who assumes that I,
In my infinite lack of time,
Would choose their words to fill the hole
That lies at the base of my knowledge.
 
And yet when I think this,
I realize that in my every thought,
I mimic the qualities that I most hate within this notion.
That I am assuming that the writer,
When taking their hand to the page,
Does so for the sake of informing me,
Rather than for fulfilling the path
That has become meaningful to them.
 
And yet the strength with which I despise this style
Of expressing the most intimate thoughts
Remains ever pressing within me.
 
I often find myself wishing I could relate
To the more mundane of works,
That these occurrences of everyday life
Applied to my realm of being.
And yet I yearn with every page to read an account
Jul 14

Easy Lies


It is easiest to believe lies
When they are wrapped in the package of success,
Topped with a bow of apparent self-confidence,
And sprinkled with a healthy dose of humor.
 
It is so easy to say,
That I used to be sick.
That I’ve grown,
And I’ve learned,
And the meds work.
And I feel like myself.
 
People will believe anything
When the alternative is something
That is too confusing to accept.
 
Some days I feel sick.
Some days I feel amazing.
Most days, I do not know the difference.
 
I am not a story of a manic pixie dream girl,
I will not meet a boy who teaches me how to eat,
And how to think,
And how to love myself.
There is no inspirational music—
Streaming through the background of my life.
 
When will people realize that being okay
Has never been more complicated?
 
When will I realize—
That eating is not being cured,
Feb 03

Obsessive Compulsive

One day, she fell apart
The sunset on the edge of a tear
Burning red, like the leaves
Of the autumn that it was.
And that night, she slept.
She slept for seven months,
Reeling in dreams with her lies.
 
After seven months, she woke up.
And they were real dreams, not dreamt as real—
She could finally breathe.
 
But then it happened.
Drunk driver on icy night
There was no grace in the way
It skidded past the driveway
And flew into Hell.
 
Outside the leaves were budding
Breathing new life into every step,
But there was no budding breath in the way she bled that night—
Her mind came back,
And the thoughts broke into the house she built that fall without a foundation.
 
This time she welcomed the intruder as an old friend,
Stretched out her arms to death,
And said,
“Don’t take me as I am—take me slowly.
Let me melt; piece by fabricated piece
Apr 05

Shades of Red


Author's Note: This was in response to a prompt at school to describe a scene from The Book Thief using color imagery.

The poets obsess of red
They tell me
Shades of love
They bleed 
Shades of passion
I return with shades of pain.
My blood is not Holy,
My red is rust, not Pentecost
The poet's red is sickly sweet
Filling the border
Between spring days 
And brick walls.
But the poet's red is consumed by mine
Sugar pink drowns in darkest wine
Hell fire bent
By worshippers of red-
Satan's claim on the once pure shade.
My red is simple.
The shade of blood orange and just as rare,
I make it myslef.
The poet's red
Cannot compare
To the authenticity that I bleed.
Feb 17

Dear Yesterday


Dear Yesterday,
Why didn’t you hold me
When you knew I was almost dead
Why didn’t you swaddle me
In those silk curtains
That could’ve been my noose,
If I had waited one more day to find tomorrow-
You almost had to sing me to sleep.
I thought I wanted to go to sleep.
 
My limbs,
Heavy with artificial dewdrops,
Weighed down my stomach,
Made my whole life bloated with the certainty of my uncertainty.
I lived in a circus-
A funhouse,
Filled with distorted mirrors,
I called it reality.
 
You called it a dream,
They called it psychosis,
I called it life.
 
I counted the number of times
My temperature dropped
As often as the clock ticked
My blood dripped
In anticipation
Of the scars I almost have.
Hidden behind a shadowy haze
Of poetry and antidepressants
And parents
And self-image
And loathing
And pride.
 
Jan 21

Toothmarks

What does my body hold
What intrinsic value
(or should I say lack thereof)
Is there to inspire the world
To take ownership?

I am a toy
My body,
Because I did not love it,
Claimed to be loved by them,
But when they had it
Clutched beneath their teeth
Instead of holding it sacred
Ripped it apart.
Toothmark faded into toothmark
Returning my body
More broken than I left it-
I slept that night.
 
I slept that morning-
Comatose in an animate body
Toothmarks painting my skin
I thought they were smiles.
I thought I was smiling.
In my broken state my face
Forgot what it meant to be happy.
I knew nothing better
Than the tears of blood
Dripping off my skin
I thought the sweat was from working too hard
When in reality
The only thing I was working too hard on
Was my illusion of myself.
 
Jan 19

Breathing

I don’t find death, he finds me.
Cloaked in the lies of my solitude
Veiled by the desperation of my body
He breathes with me
In…and out…
My oxygen is no longer supplied
By the lips of this golden world
Kissing me goodnight
Instead I listen to the voices
The three in one within his grasp
One-the honey-tongued angel
Sitting on my bed telling me it’s okay; to
Two-Hear the song that romanticizes what I feel
Because he is Juliet and I am Romeo; and
Three-The screams that he pushes through my own throat.
I stay there all night
He sits with me
His body almost broken as my own
I listen to him breathe
In…and out…
A whisper, trapped in the soul I never had
Taking my pain in…
… and back again

 
Oct 26

Last Winter


Last winter I was dead.
Cold permeated through my soul,
Ebbing and flowing,
Eating at it until there was nothing left;
Last winter was eternity.
 
Last winter I was made of glass,
Or should I say ice?
Every time I was touched, I shattered,
And the pieces melted;
Last winter was my breaking point.
 
Last winter I was small,
But I thought I was big,
And so I started to twist my mind,
Not remembering that no two snowflakes are alike;
Last winter was the beginning.
 
Last winter we held hands,
My quietest nightmare and I,
She flew in with Jack frost,
Screaming and wailing;
Last winter was deafening.
 
Last winter I lied,
I said words devoid of meaning
Because I was devoid of meaning
Like a leaf hidden under the pearly-white blanket
Last winter was cold.
 

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