she encourages me to draw the curtains
i'm on her couch for an hour or so
explaining to me that, "all men aren't serpents."
even if he's slithered in my bed... around my throat

reminds me, "isolation is a birdcage
he'll never know you if you're ruffled and shy"
yet, i cannot find the courage to engage
my craving for adventure is... out of supply

she listens to stubborn reasoning and woe
allows me to sit in unanswered silence
she's heartening every wednesday even though
my distaste for growth is shown through defiance

red sheets
      knotted
the closet
      half full
rusting
      faucet
brunette
      lulled

the children
      spinning images
their father
      consumed
wife
      exhausted
homewrecker
      perfumed

dishes stacked
      high
lights flicker
      on
sheets hung
      dry
door
      unlocked

If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.

Creating noise
out of silence.
Itchy ignorance
and fine lines.

Pretended poise.
Parental guidance:
Your deliverance.
Trying times.

doors: heavy
one small window
searching for
a frantic heart

mixed emotions
drive: uneasy
commotion
a tender friend

girl, sedated
small arms bandaged
aid: belated
a worried self

His fingers poked and prodded,
Sweat stung my bare skin,
Sheets wet and knotted,
Correlation was enough for him.

Having a defined lover,
Meant *** was given,
Clothes weren't to cover,
In the same shoes as fellow women.

Because I was his girlfriend,
My body was his.
Just for the weekend,
Or any day, that is.

You cannot judge a piece of art
you do not delve within
each day

You cannot speak poorly of another writer's
sweat and tears
and consider yourself a creator

You cannot effectively write
unless you choose to read or record
each day

You cannot decide to tear my stanzas apart
but uphold your short phrases
and consider yourself a creator