This Day.

In a different world with different endings
This is a day we’d laugh and play
this is a day we’d celebrate
a day with a new beginning
the love would be fulfilling
the night would not end with ushering in
so much emptiness
so much regret
This day would be reaffirming.

Kill Switch.

You touch me here;
I’ll touch you there;
I’ll close my eyes,
and you disappear;
this is my heart,
you Fucking Liar;
you said you wouldn’t
go any fucking where.

I’ll tell you this;
you’ll tell me that –
I’ll turn a cheek,
to the bullshit you spat;
so casually envenomed,
in your whispered chit-chat;
you blessed me by leaving,
what do you think of that?

I blow your mind;
you blow all of my money;
It kills me the way,
Life treats me so funny;
While I spend my dime,
to have you gobble my time,
you treat me like I must be,
a dingbat named ‘Bambi’ or ‘Bunny’.

You’ll chase after me;
and I’ll run away;
Don’t all “relationships”,
start and finish this way?
When all’s said and done,
at the end of the day;
Just hit the kill switch,
be quick – and walk away.


My eyes have opened to see something,

well-hidden in mind and from foresight from me…

fluttering just above my outstretched reach,

a flickering phantom in step with my feet…

My heart began to scream out desperately,

arteries bleeding and pumping explosively…

when I saw in my tear-blurred periphery,

that my own heartbeat had long-ago ceased…

the breaths I’ve wasted in looking for things,

that are not meant to be known to my being…

lost or thrown away every moment in between,

used up all my rations and tried every strategy…

the pages in this section are too destroyed to read,

the floors along this passage are red and slippery,

the memories won’t tap out and fade away from me,

the void is all that harbors any remnants left of me…

intensity that’s bordering the edge of combustibility,

audacity that teeters on the outskirts of insanity…

immeasurable amounts of loss and pain and grief,

pitch dark and deep-frozen within all I’ve come to be.




Wretched Life.

wretched life


I have no desire to hear any,
man-made songs about victory,
versions of some dumb “melody”,
that tells my own tale, supposedly…

I have no draw towards the legacy,
that I am trailing behind me, unwillingly,
I have no answer to an endless inquiry,
no horses to show for my cavalry…

I have no lingering warm memories,
my mind and heart have been emptied,
left wide open for any passersby to see,
and carve another set of initials into me…

I have no reason to honestly believe,
in the notion of anyone ever loving me,
like an empty trunk of a hollowed-out tree,
that stands long after death as others live in me.

Let’s Go Home.

lets go home



I’m crying a lot again lately…the Holidays, I assume…

the point of my post is not to gain pity from anyone reading this, it’s simply an observation that I’ve made over the past week about my own tears and the way that they seem to work.

I blew my nose this morning after a disgusting sneezing/coughing fit (yes, I have the creep and bronchitis still…), and was somehow given the cursedly magical flashback of a time during Boo’s earliest years alive – she was probably around 3 or so; she inherited her mother’s schedule-bending allergies, and I flashed upon the time she was learning how to blow her nose. I was overcome by the memory of holding a wad of tissues to her little button nose and directing her to blow from her “booger holes” as hard as she could – and the experience that followed my instruction – the one in which I learned how well my only child can mimic me; she blew with all her might into the tissues and never had a runny nose again, to my recollection. People always used to trip out about the way my toddler regularly retrieved a tissue and blew her little faucet nose, without being told to do so.

She was such a miniature adult, always….

I cried for about an hour after I finished blowing my nose.


Next, were the stupid Candy Corn Rocks in the box of Halloween decorations that I begrudgingly pulled out at my roommate’s out-of-character request (wtf???)

The year before she left my life, Boo and I painted some river rocks that we had started collecting right after I came home from the hospital; the collection had grown over the handful of years, and we spent a lot of time and attention on finding rocks that were specifically reminiscent of Candy Corns, because when we started out with it, she was too young to differentiate shapes very well and it was one she could easily identify. It had been her random idea to paint them in time for what would become our very last Halloween at home together. When I see them, I feel both endearment and bitterness; one of my hands wants to throw each rock as far away from me as I can manage; the other hand wants to somehow wrap each one up and protect it from anything and everything because it’s Boo.