Archive | March, 2015
23 Mar

wearing moons

under my eyes,

i sigh

and questions tumble

out of my face

like galaxies.


survivor’s closet

11 Mar


his name was Justin.

his name was Justin and I dreamt about

him last night, dreamt that he

was living upstairs and i had no

choice because my other option was the

street, and because his confusion

and rage held me bound and

silent, confrontation not an option that

tasted like confidence when his mother was

there, too, watching me gag on

his voice. i forced myself to

be the bigger person

and forget his sickness.

gunshot eyes, he haunted me even downstairs,

because i was railroaded by guilt into my

survivor’s closet. and the coats and hatboxes

wanted to know why i was still holding

onto what he did and they asked questions

like, ‘shouldn’t you just

move on?’

and confrontation tasted sickly when she

demanded to know why i’d begun

avoiding him.

it tasted like rain in the junipers when i

took his sin and my barefeet alone into the

moonlit sagebrush and hid in the trees from

her motherly love.

coming out doesn’t feel so brave or bold.

his name was Justin.

all the nightmares he’s given me, and

this one scares me maybe most of all.


11 Mar

maybe one day,

i will use your name,

but not today,

when there is so much at stake.

today i am not brave,

and the gaslights you dropped inside of

me fill my mouth until it is mute

like cotton, like the thistledown outside

your house in Shelton.

maybe one day

i will stop cowering before her

and the shit she might talk

loudly, over my voice

and the friendship and love that

guilt me into submission.

not today.


i am not brave.

forever now

11 Mar

but what if he was,

and what if he is there forever now?

a part of me,

inside of me,

he left himself there just to

fuck with me.

i won’t ever fucking know.

but now,

he fucking owns me.






11 Mar

and i want to cross my arms

like an insect’s legs across my breasts;

and solder my hoodie

to my exposed skin

for the first time in three years.

and for the first time in three years,

my body is not

lofted by wings, but rather

a dessicated husk

with its hairs on end.

i’m different, because i build the cocoon

and fold my skeletal legs across my thorax

inside of it

and don’t bloom.

i was already a butterfly.

now, i am

an exoskeleton

filled with rot.

new symptoms bloom on my skin,

lilke bot flies.

quit laying your eggs

inside of me.


11 Mar

this isn’t about revenge, and i’m not out to

prove something.

this is about me, and my journey,

and my sorting through my

maze of scars,

so i don’t use his name.

i won’t say this to your face,

because however unassailable i am,

i am afraid most of all that you will still assail me.

but did you

10 Mar

it sickens me to think

that you could have