The Girl, The Woman


Girl: Do you still remember what wild tastes like?

Woman: Have you ever seen your reflection shattered? A thousand pieces of everything you are scatter at your feet…

Girl: Don’t you miss sleeping half the day away?

Woman: There’s nothing as wild as waking up before the sun, just to be woman who gives birth to a new day.

Girl: Aren’t you worried you’ll cut your feet?

Woman: I spent half my life jumping over eggshells, nothing is more exhausting, you learn to live with it.

Girl: With what?

Woman: The weight of your womanhood.

they dance on, about life like things;
when to let go, how ashes give birth
to new life, how heavy second chances
are, how pretending to be friends feels
a lot like love, actually…

tangled in strings that stress
the breaking point, how to press
your palms flat, but that still never
brings down the glass ceiling, how some
days the horizon hangs so low to the ground

you can’t tell if you’re a heavenly creature
or earth bound, they redraw lines to manmade
maps, hold a candle light vigil at the moment
when womanhood wins; when hips and breasts
fight over which one gets to fill

the little black dress that was never
made to fit your big dreams, your body
pushes at inseams, and you wonder…

will you ever forget what wild tastes like?
will you ever own enough self-control
to tame the parts of you that no one can hold (down)

will you ever give (in) so much, that there’s
nothing left? will the woman still see the girl
that she used to be? the girl who birthed the woman

she is.

tiger woman’s child

child danced in womb
she was a creative space

before she was an unmarked, pulsating
tomb who embraced the last heartbeat

of a child, born dead; we add this
tragedy to the list of things

that shape us, the things that make us
rip and tear at stretched skin, the marks

of tiger woman, hand made out of gold leaf
paper, thick with texture and set

to burst into flames, if not crafted into
a kite, into a new creation, because she

was a broken space, haunted
by all things almost possible,

but not possibly the kind of kite
that tangles it’s strings around the

hands of child who wants to run
across open fields of tiger woman’s

stretch mark covered skin, skin that
clothed the tomb she once was

tiger woman’s womb believed in
killing what it creates, but

no one bothered to tell
her heart and head, so

tiger woman’s child
will always end up dead.

No Sex. People Die.

Four years is too long (for me) to go without sex.

It’s difficult to focus on anything…

I was planning on running away, but I think I might miss my routine-being a creature of habit has made me a bore.

I was hoping to meet my reflection-someone who enjoys being alone, reading books, and likes their coffee black-that’s the person I want to have sex with. Myself, I guess.

“Are you okay?” is a stupid question to ask anyone, most of all to someone who does not appear to be okay…”are you okay?”-blue flames leaping from their heart box.

I’m ignoring my reading, and was trying to distract myself by thinking about sex, but all I can think about his death, and the fact that I bombed an exam today after someone threw death at me, and then immediately after class someone else died. And-well, that’s three people in a one week. And I wish I could just be someone who is having sex, and able to focus on their reading, and not have horrible test anxiety, the type of person who likes cream and sugar in their coffee, but that’s not me. And now, here I am. Heavy with someone else’s postmortem secrets, wanting to be able to fantasize about having the sex I haven’t had with someone who doesn’t exist, no closer to having any of my required reading done, and almost sure that I’m going to drop all of my classes and run away.

Someone died this week, she overdosed in the attic of an abandoned house in Milwaukee. Alone.

Someone else died this week, he killed himself in Illinois. Alone.

Someone else died this week, in a terrible and untimely accident, he was not alone, but he died alone. That was in Minnesota.

We all leave alone. Not all of us have sex. Some of us like black coffee and being alone, with piles of books and enjoy the sound of pages turning over the noise of human clutter…I think I’m none of these people, but all of these people. I also got a 63% of my exam, and I care more about that than I do about the fact I haven’t had sex in almost three years.

Ant Hills, pt. 2


she carried skittles in her pockets and sang sad songs
about her mother forgetting to come home after
work one day, and this made greta different
than other girls

her lips were stained bright, like cherry bombay
delicate blonde hair covered her upper thighs, and
she kept tugging at her bra, wondering when her
breasts would blossom

greta was too colorful for any one room, so we sat
outside and smoked tight rolled pinners, we kept
up with our lows and swapped tall tales about dead
president days

my pockets were full of tiny teeth, no molars, nothing
from deep depths of anyone’s mouth, just incisors
and canines, pockets full; and we gravitated towards
visibly crumbling

fault lines, encouraging one another to grow up
gracefully, complacency tucked under our eyelids,
we dreamt up being queens atop ant hills, and
greta kept cutting her tongue

on the juvenile moral dilemmas that won’t fall
through her lips, tiny half-truths coexisting in an
unstable environment; and this is what we call

spoken for the sake of human touch: everything
else occupies her as dialogical self, induced by
love and loss, and i romanced addiction to
attachment disorders

caged heart boxes between twin sets of pearly
whites, canines chomp at the bit, sensations seep
into obscure sorrows, and we’re still wondering
what we’ll be if we’re not

peculiar past times, rushing through growing
out of our past lives, crushing childhood memories
for a chance to be woman enough to fly freer than
the caged girls who stomp over ant hills to feel

like they are something
like they are anything

Ant Hills, the original post is here…Ant Hills.

Fall Semester 2015: 1 of 3 tragic stories

you’ve stopped drinking out of disposable cups and there is a solid layer of bar soap scum stuck to your johnny cash record, the only piece of true love you ever gave yourself, and you sucked down five menthol cigarettes in long drags while you watched your shadow grow long and lanky, wondering when you might tell your kids you’re dying; you now believe in impossible things
you’re not sure how, but this is all interconnected; there is a strong possibility that all the time you have to kill is mounting against you, and this all has an awful lot to with you feeling uninspired and the cancer that’s eating you from the inside out-and maybe, just fucking maybe you want to let yourself die so you can escape to create shapes that your body only makes when you’re curled around your own scar gardens, while tucked into fetal position
you have been feeling oppositional and you’ve defied your own broken wing, before tucking it under your pillow and you’re sure that you are your own favorite abnormality; and you hug the extra rib that’ve been cursed with, fingering the neck bone that is common among birds and reptiles, like you’re something special, but you know you are owned by all of the same feelings that haunt other women
you have kissed the silver-tongued more than you care to recall, and this makes you feel like a fool, which confirms you’re average, at best. you relate to the poor and the dead more than you do to your own kin, you are built with flesh and pvc piping stolen from construction worksites where they’ve dug up all of your childhood abuses and every skeleton in your tiny closet, this is when you realize, what’s done in the dark will bite you under fluorescent lights.
stop the fight, go with the flow, be like water
you start to watch old bruce lee movies and then break your copy of the crow which stars brandon lee’s death with your stupid funny bone and soon swallow your own epiphanies with red beer and muscle relaxers you pocketed from your last surgery. fuck growing, and fuck the pains that accompany the growth of you and the cancer that eats you away.

Ant Hills

this poem was entered into a major poetry competition that i just entered, and is originally posted on my All Poetry account, i s’pose my ‘style’ of writing is free verse and I favor prose. I’ve really enjoyed this piece, as it’s very close to my heart.

Childhood Home

Ant Hills

peculiar pastimes, turns yellow box in her hands
greta shoves a handful of vanilla wafers into her mouth
she crumbles crackers and talks through bits that fly out
past her pale pink lips, she talks over her own feelings

contagious, contaminates arches and arcs
chambers flood, she jumps up
hops to her feet, rambles on about broken palaces
clumsily paces, mumbles on and fades off

odd taste in music, counts the beats on her knee
flicks her lighter and sings about pretentious types
coddles daddy issues and tucks bad blood
into her back pocket, she’s like black coffee

bitter and barely sweet, stings the senses and most of us
cannot handle this; simple yet so unbelievably complex
she spills her ceramic mug, peruvian blends
she sculpts the immediate future, pretends to disconnect

cordial with the past, superficially threads fabrics together
limits united, untied these parts of normalcy
bleeds onto the pavement, stirs vanilla wafer crumbs into dirt,
caught up in the moment, and the moment holds us tight

tiny particles of dust flutter through light,
and we’re complacent, and we’re fools who embrace follies
if only for the seconds that are slipping away
if only for the space between us, the conversations unheard

we’re capable of more than peculiar pastimes,
living through our past lives, we’re strong and complex
like black coffee, greta and i; two girls pushing ants
across pavement in the middle of the moonlight.

Very heavily influenced by my memories of living in a group home, although the names have been changed to protect the assholes we once were! Ha. I’m funny. I used metaphor to address unraveling what “Becoming Woman” meant/means to me. This has been such a laborious task because of my life experiences as well as the cancer that threatens total loss of my uterus and having to use synthetic hormones-which I am very much against. While I’m not a feminist, I do support feminism, and do not wish to see a backslide in any movements made by those who are heavily involved. And I do what I can, when I can.