Saying What You Feel 

Every word falling out my mouth in the perfect position serendipitously aligning with my psyche. 

What a blessing. I’ve never been religious but expressing yourself freely is godly. A sense of hope that’s actually rooted in reality. This shit is sanctimonious

Feeling every emotion make sense inside of me is like finding a polar bear in Satan’s lair. It just doesn’t happen. So for this moment I’m going to believe in angels.

As these sentences guide me to a place of clarity, is peace of mind sitting behind me or in a chair next to me? I can’t see. I can’t see. The excitement has my head in a tizzy. I am dizzy. My vision is blurry or perhaps this was all a dream?


Why My Ex Boyfriend Finally Stopped Fucking Me


Wanting more intimacy beyond foreplay or sex is not a strange desire especially when that’s all you’re getting – sex. Most of the men i’ve been with made me feel abnormal and excessive for my desire to do more things besides fuck in order to connect with them. Fucking was always a part of ‘we’. A part of what we were. Granted, I enjoyed it at times. I actually came to expect it which eventually became an issue  because that’s all i wanted it from him. He’d get angry that I’d get angry when he wouldn’t give me dick, but that was my only way to be intimate with him. And he didn’t even know it. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what that meant to either of us.

Two weeks ago my ex boyfriend told me he didn’t want to fuck me anymore. In so many words.

I said “do you wanna fuck me or not?” after a normal routine curse out and he said “i’m good.”

and I said nothing. I’ll remember reading and re reading that text for a very long time. I believe there was one one other time I didn’t respond to something he said. I guess there’s a first time for everything. it hurt. It felt unexpected but in retrospect I don’t know why I was the least bit shocked.

It maybe because he finally became fed up with me.

It may mean he never actually gave a fuck about me beyond fucking me when it was convenient.

It may be because I gave his number to multiple strangers on the internet and told them to call me and send dick pics.

It could be a number of things and a mix of things but most likely a mix of things. I do wonder if he’ll ever talk to me and I wonder if he’s waiting for the last thought of me to float out of his brain.


It Is Not Easy


It’s not easy to like yourself. It is even harder to write about the act of doing so. it even more difficult to write about the act of doing so while being filled with anxiety about writing about the act of doing so. I’m sorry it is hard to follow. But that’s just a taste of how it feels to own a brain like mine. Constantly feeling like you’re missing something, and providing too much. There is no balance. What is balance? Sounds like a foreign concept I have been chasing for approximately 25 years which has felt like 25 centuries.

I used to think I had ADHD, but my problem does not lie with maintaining attention, it lies with the frustrations which arises when I have to decide WHAT or WHO to give my attention. The decision to give your attention to something if you will. I feel like I may be losing you here.

Good. I’m lost too. Let’s be lost together on this journey through my mind.



upon poetry filled with painful nostalgia is jarring and also sobering.

reality becomes vivid and suddenly all of my problems are sitting next to me nudging my arm.

there’s a hole in my elbow.

my issues don’t know when to let go

and I don’t know where to go when I get this low, I don’t have the energy to dig a hole

and I don’t know where it would lead me anyways?

I’ve been crying and writing for days and I’m still filled with misery.

Even when I stop reading my poems they write to me. an unavoidable history.

erase me.

Delicate in the Morning

I’m delicate in the mornings.

tears can slip out so easily. my face moistened, dewy grass. I am the twilight sky in summer dawn. searching for the light. with nothing but a looking glass and a heavy bag of blight. Yet I’m so light.

you’d think I could take flight if it wasn’t for my hands filled with blight. the handles of the bags are beginning to constrict the blood in my extremities I think they just might break.

I’ve taken on weight that I simply can’t take, I over estimate, I overcompensate. you knew this about me.

so why do you push me?

forcefully into a life I’m not built for? draining everything out of me and then asking for more of me. all these questions about my future and who I am and my purpose? Somedays I’m worthy, somedays I’m worthless. and I am delicate in the mornings.

I am so delicate.

What I Want To Do

I really want to make people laugh.

I want to move people.

I want to shake people.

I want them to be filled with emotion, and I really want to make them laugh.

I want to tell jokes and stories that I find solace in on stage floors, under bright unflattering lights, while sharing laughs transform into tears and sobs that turn to laughter again.

I want to give feelings away.

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