A Butterfly’s Wings.

I spent all of this miserable time,
With an eye ever watching what’s mine,
Oh, how these strong emotional walls,
Break to bits when they finally fall,
Watch as my own wrecking ball,
Bitterly destroys it all in due time.

Wildly employing harsh strategies,
Idly killjoying my fantasies,
See how the peace is so far gone?
The why and how, the right and wrong,
Unsevered ties to my tragedies,

No bottom to the darkened depths,
no solidity beneath my many missteps,
Hear how my world is death rattling?
See my walls of glass as they’re shattering,
Around the feet that the mirror reflects?

Like a fluttering paper in a wayward breeze,
Screaming answers to queries whispered silenty,
A blessing disguised as an atomic bomb,
To explode and expose what our oaths have become,
The violent detachment of a butterfly’s wings.

Still Eating Thorns.

All this time

in between

then and now

been simmering

been building up

rather patiently

brooding silently

been grinding teeth

been stomping feet

been digging holes

with an upward swing

eating poisonous things,

picking thorns from trees,

like a blended sugarcane,

DMT, bonfires and peyote,

cigars and syringes,

sparkling fringes,

champagne, cocaine,

and pornography,

somewhere out there,

fathomed too deep,

Where I hardly sleep,

And maybe it’s killing me,

how my eyes stay closed,

mouth neatly sewn,

over words of my own,

this place is forsaken,

this space can’t be taken,

the loose change shaken,

from the secret pockets,

sewn neatly in my cheeks.


I’ve been circling the moldy, plankton encrusted bottom layers of life; feeding off of the slowly sinking debris that once littered the surface layers: the leftovers of a long-ago feast that I attended up there.

My vision has adapted to the murk; my breathing has adjusted to the oxygen depletion of dangerous depths and harrowing heights; my skin has settled into the wrinkled prune-esqueness of an over-long bubble bath; my hair now growing shafts of seaweed and tangly kelp in place of it’s natural fibers.

I’m a flounder, living with a great white shark who is lazy with a eating disorder; I am stuck in the suction of his hefty submerged wake; I am seemingly happy to gobble up the chunks of shit that fall from the sides of his razor sharp bite as he chews incessantly; I am his shadow down here.

Go On.

Scratch every single thing
That ever held meaning
Swipe away the empty words
All Ive said and all Ive heard
Make it rain with truthfulness
Wash the stain of uselessness
I dont need the toxic lies
The well concealed goodbyes
Its all a joke told cruelly
Behind the trusting back of me
Just go on and get in line
And take your place in kind
Youre all the sorry same
Point fingers and place blame
In the face of reality
Incapable of solidity
Its like a giant oozing wound
Stitches opened far too soon
Im alone in the responsibility
Of letting mutants close to me
Days and nights between
The lies fed forcefully
I vomit each and every breath
Until nothingness is all thats left
Go on.
Go live your life.


Image from we<3it.

This is what happens,
or, moreover: what can;
when a woman is broken,
by the hands of a man;

these are the facets,
that the light reflects through;
our many faces of torture,
that somehow still smile on queue;

we sit on display in a window,
it’s all that we know how to be;
like a sideshow in a circus,
to glimpse tells a million stories.

A scale that is constantly sliding
from and to either of its ends;
A timepiece of nature’s abiding,
until it balances us out once again.

You’ve got the innocent, young, and the most naïve,
next to the masochist who can’t get up from her knees;
you’ll see the ancient and calm; the kamikaze love-bomb,
the wise, archetypal matriarch and the shivering fawn.

We are each so different, while exactly the same
our memories are connected by torturous pain;
we’ve accepted and together we stand once again,
against the demons that left us with scars in our skin.


Image from we<3it.

This is what happens.
Or, moreover: what can;
when a woman is broken,
by the hands of a man;

these are the facets
that the light reflects through;
our many faces of torture,
that somehow still smile on que;

we sit on display in a window
it’s all that we know how to be;
like a sideshow in a traveling circus,
to glimpse us tells a million stories.

It’s a scale that is constantly sliding
tipping from and to either end;
unsure of which side that our weight will land,
until it balances itself out once again.

You’ve got the face of the innocent, young and naïve
aside of the broken down masochist, who can’t get up from her knees;
you’ll see the ancient and calm – next to the kamikaze lovebomb,
we have every archetypical matriarch and fawn, here for you to see.

We are each so different, yet exactly the same
our memories are singed with torturous pain;
yet we’ve accepted that we are each as much to blame,
as the demons that left us with scars in our skin.

At Least “Miss Muffet” Ran.



My CPTSD is in abstract form; surprise, surprise…”complex” is an understatement, at best. An “absolutely unreasonable” fear of spiders woke up with me in the hospital after I survived the Ripper; a strange manifestation indeed. It made me sick with myself; I remember how disgusted I felt by my own feelings and behaviors surrounding the fear I SUDDENLY felt of arachnoids. I didn’t understand it, couldn’t find a way to understand it, it just simply took over entire areas of my persona without my having a say in it. The arachnophobia took over my existence at first; and I found myself reshaping that existence to fit around the presence of the affected fear. I began to worry constantly about spiders falling into my hair from ceilings; I boycotted going outside, altogether. I even put a mosquito net up over my hospital bed for a while because it somehow offered me comfort (though, in hindsight – a mosquito net only could’ve translated into a huge, prefabricated home to any eight-legged creep lol).

Point here is:

I did things, felt things and perceived things very differently from the way I had before the traumatic event/injury. I mean, I earned my stripes at age 6 by hatcheting a baby rattler snake to bits while it was still inside the bottom of my sleeping bag – reflexively. I was never afraid of nature, like I should have been – until my do-over. And then, suddenly – I was lying awake at night on the lookout for Daddy Long Legs. Therapy didn’t help much at first, either…the therapist was a hippie, and preferred to go outside to the lawn for most sessions…I eventually stopped going at all and allowed myself to become rather incorrigible to the nursing staff upstairs. They likely had the BIGGEST party imaginable when I was finally released to leave. If I were any of them, I would have undoubtedly found a bag of spiders into the “goodbye” gift bag that they assembled for me – to begin with. So time went on and I went “home”.

The spider thing became an instant family favorite with my brothers and friends, none of them comprehended that I was truly terrified beyond of description of them now. Prior to this experience, I had never actually been stricken by the inability to move my feet when I was hit with fear; after I woke up in the hospital however, I was dumbfounded to learn that such fear DOES exist – as well as to regularly experience the associated “lock-up” pretty much on a daily basis. Being too afraid to move is a terrible, terrible thing: it humbles you beyond comparison; it limits your entire perceptive realm down to a teeny hole that you have to lean close to in order to press an eye against to see anything. It not only immobilizes your body – but your brain also chokes and defaults to idle; the only thing that is there is the fear.

I still struggle to put it into words that cast true light on the convoluted nature of the “arachnophobia thing”, all I can say is that you may as well put a rabid and ginormous dog with razor-teeth in front of me when I see a spider…my response is the same either way. I know, I know…it is lame. I have been to psychotherapy, hypnosis, etc. to try and un-fear spiders…to no avail, thus far, at least. But I have, at least, come to harbor a deep understanding of its roots, which in turn has empowered me to some degree.

In my former life, as a perpetually violated female body, I spent a lot of time in semi-consciousness as a result of physical violence; a sad amount of time, if I am being honest here. After a few times of getting my ass handed to me, the numbness began to kick in and I eventually evolved to survive via “dissociation”. I spent the majority of my time alone in solitude and helplessness (outside of the Ripper and my then baby daughter); I was a blank page, so to speak. During this era of my life, I would often awaken somewhere I didn’t fall asleep, or have things turn up missing often (when there was nobody else there to have taken or relocated them). Sometimes, I know it was the Ripper who had moved me while I passed out unconscious; but other times, I know that it hadn’t been him.

During a session of group therapy about two years ago – the memory was resurfaced in a matter of moments, the one that undoubtedly bore my arachnophobia on a subconscious level, so long ago. In the desert, there are all kinds of insects that we NEVER see in the city – ALL KINDS. It was June, a month when you can’t safely open your doors and/or windows, in spite of the insane heat, due to the multiplied masses of newly hatched and hatching generations of bugs from every genus. The Ripper had broken out three of my front teeth and kicked me so hard in the chest that my ribcage was stabbing me from the inside. I recall laboring to breath and the heat and dry air didn’t help. I got my ass kicked again at some point for being hurt, and wound myself up in HIS garage (actually, in a “secret room” he had in the very back of it – shiver).

He wasn’t in there when I woke up, luckily; but I could not move for the entirety of the time I lay there in near darkness. I think I must have either been temporarily paralyzed due to some freak nerve damage, or in physical shock or something…not sure, but I was literally stuck like glue to the dirt floor rolled on my left side. During the therapy ah-ha moment, I remembered that a spider crawled out of my mouth that day, while I was unable to move or scream or even spit. Most likely because of the more pressing and immediate life-threatening circumstance that I was bound to from day to day back then, this instance went right out the window with other “mundane and meaningless bullshit”; only to rear its delayed reaction after I was no longer in immediate danger at the hands of my husband. Just a little food for thought on the issue of PTSD/CPTSD, and it’s ripples…