popping cherries

i have been writing ever since i learned to hold a pen in my tiny toddler lefthand, and i figure it’s about time i utilize the means of sharing the thoughts it jots down, in hopes that the words may touch you in some way, let you know you’re not wandering alone out there, or perhaps to reassure you that there are way more fucked up people than yourself in the world. the emotions we feel run deep and no matter our age, gender, ethnicity, religion, or how we’ve grown as individuals, these feelings are significant. you are significant. and so am i. so i’ve taken this responsibility on for i feel these words and my warmth are the only things i have to offer this universe. if you are struggling, if you feel alone, if you’d just like to speak to someone, please reach out. thank you for reading, and i hope you enjoy.


for the women

we try to be thin

because we are told

all our lives

that our existence

merely takes up space.


see me for what i am not

rather than for what i am.

(i am not 300 pounds,

i am 130.)



both of the body

and the mind.


gypsy magic

home is a foreign concept to me,

something i once thought i had

(a thing i’ve since learned to live without)

calling dead gypsies through

ouija magic to ask them for advice, and

they told me, “find fulfillment in being alone,

find solace in being lost,

find freedom in living without a home.”


when you love love


you don’t know if it’s real

if it’s worth it

it: the fear

the pain


it: the giving-your-all-to-someone

and the not-knowing-if-you’re-going-to-get-it-back


it: the potential for heartbreak

or the living-as-a-heartbreaker


it: the after-love

and the after-losing


you never know if you’ll have the strength left to start over;

you’re not sure you’ll have the softness to love again.


the bad people are cold

and the good ones warm. know this.

i learned the fact after my innocence was taken

by the right one, he cradled me before he set me on fire

– it felt good and wrong in the best way.


then I turned to ash dancing alone. i fell into cold arms

that lied so sweet or maybe didn’t even care enough to, but

my eyes frosted over white, too bright for me to see clearly

– it was different and felt very much so. i mistook it for better,


found my way around dry-ice-castles and explored heart-caves

no one invited me into. something happened to me there,

the cold spread hypothermic and quelled my bubbling blood,

dyed it blue. i forgot my own name from lack of hearing it,

it had been so long. in fact i forgot everything, left my love

for all sunstruck things in the folds of that antarctic fortress,

lost my light behind closed doors. now i can’t feel warmth at all

and everyone to me may as well be stuck, too, in this ice age

where the thermostat is perpetually broken

the love question – excerpt

… There is beauty in the hurt ones no matter the cause because sometimes we can’t even identify the source of our own. The beauty lies in the experience of pain and the ability to express such. Beauty erupts in the realization that the before only took place so the after could occur. And the after is lying in bed speaking sweet nothings to my everything until five in the afternoon, almost night again, where we’ll lie and learn the things no one else knows over cheap wine and gas station snacks, touching places no one else has with their souls (though many hands have tried). We feel like nothing alone but we are each other’s everythings and we won’t rest until we’ve stacked all the bricks that will make up our own universe, away from the others and the bullshit expectations of past generations, living only as each other’s everythings.

the love question – excerpt

Night and day, day and night, we think only of each other and that language we speak, the one unspoken through eyes warm only for one another. I don’t want to be cold anymore and maybe that’s why I revel so deep in your chest cavity, a cave in the dark where I can dress up in happiness(?): a content-like feeling I’ve never really felt before. Even though I still feel the forever-lonely in your arms it’s okay because I know you feel it too. I think it’s love because you dance to sad songs with me until I feel that hollow happy and though I don’t ask, you won’t stop until I smile – your only mission, reached, breaches my privacy (privates stripped naked) crying drops of vulnerability and old mascara which stain my cheeks until they are kissed away, a residual shine left lit by moonlight on the August porch.

ask The Wizard for some courage

so many question marks soil my pages because (i can admit)

i’m just living life like the rest, trying to figure it all out.

i’m not sure i ever will; a body waiting to hit the water,

apprehensive and anxious for death,

black ashes dancing down toward the earth.

i can’t dance without concern for my countenance,

not even alone, not even to my favorite songs,

busy watching my movements in mirrors, impaired by inhibitions

the cowardly lion can’t love himself

let alone anyone else


all I want is you to know about me is that I live in my head

and you live in my sex. can you handle that? (I don’t think so).

all I want from you’s a letter and to be my distant lover –

that is all that I can offer at this time.

you can wait for more but I don’t make promises I cannot keep.

I won’t give you forever but baby no one will and

if they say any different, they’re a liar.


I can give you a lifetime in five hours,

lying in bed tracing world maps on your back

finding lost civilizations in your eyelashes

pushing each one aside like the branches of the Amazon. I am a

venus fly trap lonely and beautiful. I’ve got you in my name

I’ll consume you whole, flaws and all, each one a different flavor

the more diverse the better. I’ve got eclectic taste

and I thrive in wicked waters, guilty for wanting more

always guilty always wanting more. you’re enough

I just want more of you. always hungry

I’m never satisfied.

sunshine chronicles

the sun is honey on her skin (where it is midnight all the time)

its drops hang on the ends of her lashes drip onto her lips,

the rays sweet like tooth decay giving life

to the universe around her blessing her like the

God she doesn’t believe in, a flower ashamed of her

fragility (a fragile being ashamed of her flower)

ashamed of the her-ness she feels and that midnight skin, too


she doesn’t realize how beautiful life could be if she forgot

(just lived it) but she remembers it all in flashes with the sun

bathing in light drowning in it until the seeds in her lungs

explode, sprout ferns fresh with the air she breathes

(where it is morning all the time)

the vines slipping around the knots of her stressed spine

releasing botanical scents that intoxicate those around her

(meanwhile she stands immune to her seduction)…


the leaves of poison ivy that separate us from nature

caress her instead, nestle into that soft stroke of midnight

fondle the rosebuds lying atop her ribcage,

and she knows of this immunity (revels in it)

savors the connection like a secret no one else knows

whilst she stands resistant to those insensitive cities

the slabs of grey granite unmoving-unwilling to grow

(suffocating the wildflowers that try

desperately to break through)


and she knows

it is because

she is

one of them:

a wildflower


your tone is laced with nostalgia

but i’m settled in my present tense


finally finding sanctity in synonyms

lips like cinnamon cinnabon

trade a taste for twenty five cents


they say the best things in life are free

so i lost myself in our infinity

dancing vagrant through nonsense


i poke the heart on your sleeve and watch

it shatter, fall into a fit of laughter –

i never was one for false pretense.