Like my lips are pencils

August 8, 2009 - Leave a Response

My hands turn to paper,
sour letters written in
loose handwriting,
explaining everything to Mom.
We mark days with white tipped
fingernails against thick upper arms,
and the soft click of popping knuckles.
Soft hands over pale quilts,
strewn news papers nest around her body
nearly one with the bed across from
the television that she flicks off
when I open the door without knocking first.
Her eyes too tired to carry me
any further today, my selfish heart sinks.
Slinking over wood and tile and rug
in the kind of daze that dies in a blink,
I come to my own.
And so my hands become paper
cutting thick skin in futile
only leaving cuts between fingers.

This was the day my sister told me she hated me, and for a moment I couldn’t find myself in the smudging bathroom mirror.


more awkward than watching love scenes, let me tell you

July 24, 2009 - Leave a Response


I think she’s still hiding under my bed…

July 21, 2009 - Leave a Response


July 19

July 19, 2009 - Leave a Response

lips down a bare stomach
with a heavy ebb and flow
flotsam and jetsam of eyelashes and fingertips
gathering at the crux of it all
exhales filling the sails
tied down with pulsing veins
God bless me I want him too much and too sickly. All too many nights I fell asleep to ideas of him across me, my eyes clenched in lovesick agony. Those god damned eyes looking up at me with some form of curiosity or concern or the same sickness I have now swim through my mind. Eyes look up at me as I kissed him at 6 in the morning, like he didn’t know he had stopped dreaming already, like he didn’t know I was real.

ah the wisdom of Hellboy

July 15, 2009 - Leave a Response

ah the wisdom of hellboy

and by SEX I mean cookies….

June 23, 2009 - Leave a Response
delicious, sweaty cookies

delicious, sweaty cookies


June 13, 2009 - Leave a Response

2 nights, 7 times, for him, 6, for me, 3 of those in a row.

Buckling laughter, anxious eyes, exchanged breaths.


I make them feel wonderful

June 7, 2009 - Leave a Response

and so I am wonderful, too.

I cry at the sight of forgotten soles

June 4, 2009 - Leave a Response

A pile of shoes clambered into a white basket and overflowing.
God, it makes me cry. My shoes, my shoes,
there’s hardly room here for what I tread upon the world with.
At first and second and third sight hands run to hair to pull in
frustration against these ties that choke and bind.
Mother said to give some away, make some room,
while her closet runeth over tenfold of mine,
and my sister takes up two rooms worth of trappings.
A rusted key shoved absently into some forgotten lock in futile hope of compatibility.
Oil shaking through water, the spider I drowned in the sink yesterday,
wide piercing eyes of a cat on a windowsill;
things begging to be tossed out and longing to be free,
the mantra I inhale every morning
while I gather what sunlight I can muster.

It’s something that I can’t hide.

June 3, 2009 - Leave a Response

I miss people, badly, terribly, awfully, and god damnit it’s embarrassing. I end up looking like an overbearing fool when all I was doing was trying my best not to miss out on any opportunity.

Sorry, really, but, damnit. I miss you.