I am a conceptual experiment composed of blood, hair, and mucus, and the beholder is only myself. Everyone else walks idly by, seeing nothing but last night’s decomposing dinner.
I was crafted by a selfless person who projected that somewhere else and not onto me.

Get fucked over by your boyfriend and call it true romance

a spotless mind

so happy, so happy, I chant to myself,
so happy, so happy, so happy.
it could always be worse, a stern voice will say,
you could be uglier. raped. murdered.
and again,
so happy, so happy,
so happy,
it’s morphine of the harshest kind; there
are no studies on it, no papers on its properties,
no treatment for when it gets out of hand.
smiles! plastered, no meaning,
no hands to hold.
so happy, so happy, so happy,
acidic laughter rings in my ears.
this quiet room feels like a barred cage, but it’s just me,
there is no room. just cameras, flashing, crying,
so happy, so happy!
beer, heroin, poppies, lilies, eggs, mothers, seahorses,
so happy, i’m happy, 
i’m happy.


I could do this (it!) for money, or so I like to think, but in reality there is just too much crammed into my mind. They all spill out in incoherent barrels of shit, with no one listening and instead exclaiming that it smells bad. Taming it, in a sense, is impossible, other than when I’m asleep. Sometimes it all feels like a lucid dream and I just want to lie with the grass, breathe in sun, drink in wet leaves fresh from a rainstorm. I like to think of death as an eternal high; there are no more worries or secrets, feelings of incompetence, uselessness, jealously, and I feel like a million dollars without ever getting ugly or developing track marks.


To the vast, empty plains of tomorrow, where neither you nor I matter.
To where my cracked veins and sore thumbs will find a balm, where a whole soul is possible once more.
A visage that is cleared of past charges, a new body that is soft, embodies warmth, evokes passion.
Why can’t I find this now? Where does it go? How does it continue to elude me?
I seek a self where there is no more doubt, but no more narcissism, where I can completely unmask myself and look back, seeing fresh, running water, happiness, empathy, joy.
Feathers rustle at my feet, where dead birds lie, cawing no more, this silence ringing like church bells, a place of worship and hope where I refuse to step foot in.


when I write love poems, words of longing, they never pertain to anyone particular, not in this world, but a figment of my imagination, perhaps the heat I felt for a lover in a past life.

Someday Soon

Adore you;
lacerations on my throat.
Kiss you;
sores on my back.
Hold you;
burns on my breasts.
Bury you;
skin flakes off,
(“thank you for the blinding white light”).
A new shell.


"You’re disgusting," he tells me, flexing his two-bit muscles to himself.
Cigarette smoke infuses the room, intoxicating and delicious.
“You’re a fat cunt,” he continues, rubbing gel into his lacquered hair.
A mouse scurries across the tiles, running for dear life to its safehouse. My eyes trail it lazily, as ashes drop waspishly onto the floor.
“Listen, bitch, I’m talking to you.”
His vanity period is over; his fists round on me.
The hot red ember, the burning fuse dangling from between my fingers falls onto his foot like an anchor to the ocean floor, where it sizzles and he screams.
The mouse crawls back, winks at me.
“And you love me anways, don’t you?”

I Will

I inspire myself. How else will I survive?
You look too long into another’s, lovingly, and you’re accused of being unable to hold your own. A soft sigh, meaning affection, turns into a vile battle of word games, mind tricks, where no one wins and everyone is left for dead.
I wish I could count every star in the deep, inky moonlit sky, and see myself in every constellation, worth being studied, named, remembered.
One day you will see, everyone will see, the magnitude of apathy that’s been projected upon to me, leaving me listless and so unwilling.
I’m looking vainly, for another pair of ears, an absorbent heart.
Listen to me,
hold my aching skeleton together. Remind me why my cheeks flush with blood and why my beating heart thuds loudly when your palm is pressed up on it.
In reality, your own losses are never real until someone else feels that hollow echoing emptiness with you.

girl, you might be a woman soon

She breathes out a long, world weary sigh, aged 7 + 1 + 12 - 2.
The cigarette in her hand dangles precariously from her stubby fingers, threatening to catch the carpet below on fire, as ashes pile up in sooty lumps.
Her limp white curtains let in more sunlight than she likes, but blackout curtains are forbidden, according to mother. For some reason, her parents are convinced she’ll wither away if she never sees sun. 
Days like today, she toys with death in her mind, as she sucks in more noxious fumes from her death stick, which is so fragrant to her.
The house is silent, the air ablaze with golden dust motes which float around in a thick haze around her.
Her hair is greasy, limp, short pieces sticking to her face, as she sits up and traipses outside.
The grass is dry, the stones cracking, and the neighbours allow their dogs to bark til they’re hoarse.
The cigarette is reaching its end, but she holds on to the warm nubby end anyway, resisting the urge to extinguish it on her own thigh.
Her breath pervasively smells like smoke, and she inhales as she subconsciously summons death to strike her down. The breeze lifts her skirts, toys with her inner thighs, and a door slams.
Her wish is granted, as her parents lumber into the house, as her heart skips beat after beat, as the worn cigarette, her good friend, is tossed over the fence