Post the Twentieth

“Every lover is in his heart a madman, and in his head a minstrel.”
Neil Gaimain

Of course, this is
a well known truth.

I can feel the
cracks and chasms
form when I think
of you,
and yet I’d never stop.

Lunacy be damned
as my hearts head
beats out of tune.

The only chords
I can create
are heartstrings tied
in lovers true.


Post the Nineteenth

via Daily Prompt: Final

Instead of a poem, as I usually do with the Daily Prompt, I want to talk to you guys about me. Last night and this morning I posted some insight to my instability. I got a little heavy. It gets heavier, so I don’t want to not address it.

I was raped when I was nineteen. That was seven years ago. Almost seven years ago. It happened in late August of 2010. I didn’t tell anyone that mattered until June of 2011. I had what the legal people call an Outcry Witness. I remember distinctly being balled up in my then-boyfriends bed where it happened and texting my then-room mate “I want to die.” So, she knew. My best friend, though, who’s boyfriend did the heinous act, had no idea until I couldn’t take it anymore and showed her a poem I wrote about it.

She believed me at first, but then asked for some time to process it. I gave that to her, out of respect. He didn’t. During the next few weeks or months (time gets a little blurry there) he did he best at convincing her I was lying. Then she did her best at ruining what little life I had left.

It wasn’t until a little while later, when he sexually assaulted her one day, that she actually believed me. Which hurt. A lot. But it’s been years since then and many tears and shaking later, we came to terms with everything. She and I are still best friends.

I got really heavy into drinking. I got really heavy into smoking, and cocaine. I had numerous sleep overs with people I can’t even name at this point. I had a list, but it made me want to vomit every time I looked at the numbers of names that all blurred together. I thought I was taking control of my body. I wasn’t. I was searching for any way I could possibly loose control, really.

That was seven years ago. In the last two or three years I stopped having flashbacks. I stopped having nightmares. I only talk to two or three people who knew me back then. I don’t mind that so much. I had a good life before it, but my life isn’t bad now. Just different. And when I say I stopped having vivid PTSD symtpoms about it, I don’t mean to say that I’m over it entirely. I thought I was, I said that I was, but I think that was just another way of trying to control what I can’t control.

So, what I wanted to say from this is that this feeling isn’t Final. The remembrance I’m feeling right now, the anxiety, the out of control emotions, the tears that seem to spring out for nearly no reason what so ever, they aren’t Final. This will always be a part of me, because it happened, but it doesn’t need to define me. On the day-to-day it doesn’t define me. But it is a part of me. It gets easier every day. It gets more manageable.

Being upset isn’t Final. I get through every day. I may have faltered, I may be faltering, but I haven’t given up. I won’t. I’ll keep talking about it. Because that’s how we take control. We can’t let people do these things and then not say anything. I didn’t go to the police. I’m not going to. I don’t want to. It won’t give me closure, and at this point I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations is up. . A part of me died that night, and I don’t want any more negativity. I don’t want to be the smaller person. I just want to get better every day.

Not sure if this wall of text will actually be read by anyone, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is this feeling isn’t Final. That’s the thing about surviving. It’s always in the present tense. Yes, I survived that night, but the point is I’m still surviving. Everyday. Because nothing is Final. There is always more path to be followed.

Post the Seventeenth

Today started out
pretty wonderful
I walked seven miles
in beautiful weather
and now I feel I’m
being dragged apart.

I guess that’s the way
of depressive episodes,
you never know
when they’re gonna start
or how to make them stop.

It’s no ones fault.
I mean,
I haven’t talked to anyone
all day.
Unless you count my brain.

But the thoughts weren’t bad…
Unless you count
when they
roamed to my rape.

But that was seven years ago.

I should be ok.
I thought I was ok.
I may not be ok.

Post the Sixteenth

I’m not an intrinsically female
type of girl.
I have all the biological features,
that’s been made more
than apparent to me
But I never liked pink
or doing my hair
and I can’t make liquid eyeliner
do anything more than cover
the whites and get stuck
in tear ducts.

I bought press on nails
nine months ago
and put them on this week
like a pregnancy of
the birth of a new me?
Now I can’t figure out
how to hold anything
more substantial than the air
and I’m scared to wash
my hair
since waterproof and real life proof
aren’t mutually exclusive.

There are new facets of my
pushing there way into existence.
You’d think I’d already
be aware of this.
But I’m not.
I’m constantly expanding
and constantly expecting
this personality to

But for now I’ll watch it all
and listen
without trying to respond
and wash my hair
and keep going to bite the nails
that are more comfortable
with dirt under them
then this oddly cohesive
glue meant
for female bodies.

Post the Fifteenth

He texted aw shucks lol
in response to me
calling him gorgeous.

Just the timing of it all.
A response within moments,
made my smile erupt
and my cheeks gain pigment.

you look beautiful in the red.
he said once as we stopped
at a traffic light.
Is that because I’m so white
that any color helps?
I joked,
running my fingers
along his mocha brown skin.

He shook his head
and ran a finger tip
over the contours of
my high cheek bones
before pulling my lips to his.

Post the fourteenth

I’ve witnessed two and a half decades, five presidents,
five schools, and five Burroughs, come and go.
To me that seems a better way to say that I
am twenty-six. No one takes you seriously unless
you’ve lived through trying circumstances.

I read the classics so young that by College
I’d forgotten them. Blurring Merchants of Venice
with orphaned gentlemen until I was literally
illiterate the way the word was first meant
before perception had changed everything.

I was thrown down the rabbit hole my Sophomore year,
only it felt more like the Labyrinth hole. Maze
of indecision with Green slimmed hand-made faces led
me opposite the directions given. My own King a goblin
more than anything. I scarred the way his finger prints.

I’ve seen twelve moons wax and wane since we
last lay on our praying mantis mattress top,
attacking as we slept. Tearing our heads like moths
trapped in their nest. Until, like most good things,
we forgot to feed it.

But then there was last night when he felt
my whisper on his skin, his wrist, waist,
and finally his whimsy. He humored me.
Allowed one question while the cigarette aftermath
burnt down to ashes. Crazy girls would wait
and save the butt left over.

Instead I made sure to even wash
the ashes out.

Post the Thirteenth

Now Prophets Can Podcast Our Fall From Grace

In the beginning the spirit of God was
moving over the face of the waters
as the waves crashed
with a force that has no bounds…
This has made a lot of people very angry,
and been widely regarded as
a bad move.

The match of the century: absence vs. thin air.
The silent morning prayer overshadowed
by the static of our societies quiet panic.
We watch our bones drop in density
and our cities expand
with warfare technology-
chem-trails leading the way.

We have become Darwin’s Nightmare.
Survival of the strongest hypnotist
and their semi-automatic semantics.
But no one is the killer
and no one is the martyr; instead
toasting frosted glasses to the hands
that coddle to keep us from throttling throats

While Prophets are lost to pathologies
or topographies of keyboards
blogging on the presence of evil
instead of ending it.
All the while watching the anchor man
smile into the lens
before reporting death rates.

So the Prophets preach about peace
and say it’s a mistake to think
we can solve problems
with potatoes, and forget that life
doesn’t cease to be funny when people die
any more than it ceases to be serious
when people laugh.

Post the Twelfth


I took a shower this morning
I made the water hot enough
and scrubbed my body hard enough
that the skin
near immediately
turned pink with rawness

I tried to scrub the morning off
the feeling of unease that came with
loud tones and no goodbye kisses
as he left
for the next
fourteen or fifteen hours.

I ran my hands along the naked
pink skin beneath my finger tips
the rawness of me beneath my palms
while even the moments
of silence
while scrubbing made me anxious.

Pink, raw, shaking, and wet
I started off my day.

Post the Eleventh

Sick of being lifted from my grave by callous
hands. If I can’t feel the dirt, the worms between
my rotting edges then what exactly was the point?

They called me a spit fire. My mouth refused to shut
until my words came out well done. Left a charring
taste on tongues. But I don’t spit no more.

Now they call me Grey- a phoenix. Ashes of my past
existence collected atop my mahoganny box. Nailed
shut. Keep my remnants off your rug.

Vacuums scream injustices. They dislodge captive puzzle
pieces. Make more space for me. Is there room enough
in that bag for an ice boxed phoenix heart?

My fire’s not for them, but they want the burn. Sadists and
masochists masked by hair, fur. It’s good that I’m not
human. They can’t hurt me, but they want to.

Grave diggers follow commands. Cut off my wings. Clip
my spirit. Add dry ice to my corrosive casket. Can
no special animal die in peace?

Are they really all so selfish to think they need the fire
more? It won’t smooth wrinkles, wash death from
your fingertips. I only leave black holes.

Doves can shit there though, if you’re white enough. Save
the flying rats. Vermin of the sky. They need dirt to lift
their bodies. You’re all messes.

I’m too busy cleaning. Ridding spiders from my ears. They
want a mystical being. Zombie of a phoenix. My misplaced
ashes were stolen. Mixed with water.

Wrung out over rusting sinks into drains. I’m dirty and
I’m pretty- Trust that you don’t want me. Because I
can’t yell a warning until the pipes decay.

But I can leave you all here. 1,000 deaths for every
day of my abandonment. But what for those
who have abandoned me?

Must I be reborn in their destitute? Must I kill for those
who killed me? These missions aren’t mine by mere
virtue of decree. They singe new wings.

One day I’ll be more black than white. I’ll dodge
a bullet. Jump off a ledge. Soar in open air. I’ll
put a Lily in my hair.

I’ll send them messages in clouds. Tell them my tears
can heal, then they try to hurt. Pull my feathers
one by one. Soon I’ll have no tail to turn.

It’s not that hard at first- but then there are no seconds.

Post the Tenth


I will never stop
pursuing the people
that mean the most to me

It could be years since we’ve spoken
months since we’ve hugged
or decades since a moment was shared

I don’t forget love
and I won’t let it die.

I pursue the people
that have ever meant
the most to me

Because we all deserve it
we all deserve to feel
and know our endings
but most of all
we deserve to make them
what we want them to be
with who we want them
to be with.

We deserve the chance to try
and so I will always pursue.