She feeds on Fear.

Feeds on past insults and old rotten words.
Feeds on what ifs?
and “what can I get away with?”

Oh, she’s a clever one.
She can be a dragon and a terror,
but more often than not,
she’ll make herself real small,
like a tiny kitten.

Nibble away at all that is Good
without me noticing.

[Just call them love bites.]

Meows:
“play with me,
play with me,
I need the attention
and you aren’t doing anything

Important

right now

If you love me,
play with me.

Make me purr.
Sure I scratch
but you don’t really
want me to leave.

Make me purr.
Sure I scratch
but no one will know the
difference.”

Get her purring
and I am no longer
myself.

She is satisfied,
temporarily.
[Always temporarily.
She’s always hungry].

And me?
Who knows what I am,
when she’s in control,
except convinced
that I love poisoned claws
digging into my soul.

I’m used to her,
I love her,
I swear.

[I’m used to her.]


The thing about
Monsters
is that they can
shape shift.

This is no Disney movie,
no horror story,
no evil step-mother
to contend with
and vanquish.

A simple battle
between Good and Evil.

Monsters are not
black and white.

It’s all a mess of colors,
you see.

-
Maybe the monsters within
are not even truly
Bad.

Only:
afraid,
hurt,
wounded
abandoned.

Trauma’­s
last defense
against all that
accumulated Hurt.

Maybe
the monster within
can be

tamed
disarmed,
declawed.

Turned back into
a kitten again.

Tough,
playful,
protective.

But not Destructive.

Not a Terror.

Not Deadly.

-
Don’t say for sure
that there are no monsters
lurking within you.

Mine are loud.
Yours might just be
dormant.

-
[Tell me about your monsters within.]

This is more than “block” or “hide posts.” No, this is permanent, this is calling it Quits, this is “we cannot be civil towards each other after all, we cannot bear to even potentially see each other on our newsfeeds.” Unfriend. We are not Friends. We are Over. Unfriend means “out of sight, out of mind.” Is it a feeling of relief at the finality of something that wasn’t working, or a sinking feeling that yet another relationship has gone down the tubes? Probably a sick combination of both – unfriend means you’ve both finally called a ***** a *****. Given Up. “…I am done trying to be friends with you,” written in the Final message. Is anything really Final? It’s hard to know. Human relationships are messy. We try to cut people off when they hurt us. Unfollow on tumblr, block phone numbers, delete them on skype, unfollow on twitter, but sometimes we run back to each other when we cool off, despite ourselves, we think, no, it can’t be The End, it can’t be Unfriend, we had things in common, we had something, surely it can’t be Over. Can't we try again? But “Every new beginning come from some other beginnings end” as a song goes, and some endings are necessary. What we don’t want to admit to ourselves is that not everyone is a Good or healthy person, no matter how many chances you give them. And maybe some relationships are doomed from the start, maybe it really was your fault and you are just “incredibly selfish,” maybe it was their fault, it was probably everyone’s fault somehow or another in the end. There is a drop down option on facebook called Unfriend and when it’s finally utilized, no one really feels good about it. All it means is that it’s time to move on, once again. Find someone new. There are other fish in the sea.

Be careful what you say to a writer
you are not exempt
from being weaved into my work.

I
Spit back
Spit back
Spit back
Don’t think
I won’t spit back
your words back at you,
good,
bad,
ugly.
I have nothing to lose,
I have nothing to prove to you,
I am not desperate
to be liked by Anyone,
not in the long-run,
not once I get Hurt,
not once my defenses are up.
I promise you that.

My pen mightier than any sword,
my pen mightier than my soft voice.

Be careful what you say to a writer,
because I document everything.

And these days
I neither forgive,
nor forget.

you know what,
never mind.

I’m so tired,
so done,
You hurt people so recklessly

you know what,
never mind.

Incredibly selfish.
Incredibly selfish.
Incredibly selfish.
so incredibly selfish.

you know what,
never mind.

I’ve had enough
Had enough.
I hope someday you realize
you do things wrong,
too,

but like --
really realize.

you know what,
never mind.

It is incredibly
heartbreaking
to try to get through to you

You want to hurt people

you use your avoidance
and self-destruction
to hurt people.

I’m so tired,
so done.

you know what,
never mind.

The way things are now,
I don’t see how we could ever be anything

Real.

you know what,
never mind

I am
Done
Done
Done
with trying to be friends with you.

You have hurt me
irreparably.
I deserve better.

you know what,
never mind.

Good luck with everything,
Truly.

you know what,
never mind.

I've never been an exhibitionist. Fame and money have never been my goals. If I played music it was for myself, softly so no one could hear. If I made art, it was unassuming doodles on scraps of paper that didn't matter. If I wrote, the final pieces were buried away, whether in journal pages or word documents in neatly organized file folders.

Social media changes everything.

Suddenly, everyone has a voice. Suddenly I'm thinking, why not my voice, what's wrong with my writing?  Sure, I didn't get an English degree, I hold no MFA, but plenty of people write online, after all, it's just the Internet.

"It's just the Internet." What a catch 22 - in my head, it's either "Don't air your ***** laundry, no one wants to know," or, "Go ahead, air your ***** laundry, you're a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things, who's going to care?"

I've never been an exhibitionist, but social media changes everything. You have a thought? Tweet it. You like a photo? Pin it. You have an opinion? Post it. Facebook, tumblr, ello, Hello Poetry, wordpress, blogspot - there are so many venues, take your pick. The world is your oyster. Express yourself.

Fame and money have never been my goals. And I don't say this in an attempt to be original. I don't say this with the idea that I'm above anyone who'd want either. Because let's be real, would I say no to being paid to write? Of course not.

No, what I'm really after is something else. Connections. If I unleash my thoughts into that strange universe that is the Internet, maybe, just maybe, I'll get something back, a spark, a "message received." Not a "Hi, how are you," but a "Yes, I understand. Let's share stories."

I've always talked to myself,
but these days
I feel stereotypically crazy
the "I should be locked up for my own good"
kind of crazy.

I don't know how long
I spent in my room
laughing until
there were tears in my eyes.
Twice I made a move
to leave the room,
twice I collapsed laughing.
I wondered if I was actually crying,
But no,
it was laughter.

Laughter,
because my god,
it's all so **** funny.

I counted my Klonopin today.
She told me to ration them.
I took four on one day
three on another,
if I skip a day or two,
I'll be able to take
four on a different day.

It makes sense in my head.

Without the Klonopin,
I'm angry again.
She asks if I'm thinking
about eating today,
"not really idc"
An "I care" response
only elicits
"Sorry about that,"
too much of a coward to say
"That's not my problem"
or better yet,
"*******, leave me alone,
go tend to your partner,
or datemate,
or whatever the ******* call them."
Maybe I don't really mean it,
but there's only
"*******"
in my heart today.

I won't take the Klonopin today
so I can drink wine or a beer
or whatever is cheap.

It makes sense in my head,
as I continue to cackle to myself.

Who the ****
do you think you are,
Kerouac?

It's all a joke to me.
I walk and walk and walk
and I buy a too sweet coffee,
instead of *****,
which I tell myself
I'll buy later.

I can behave,
if I'm in public,
only emitting
a tiny chuckle
from time to time.
Everyone here
is absorbed in their lives.
No one will know the difference.

It's all a joke to me.

Cat-like, I've always described myself as cat-like. Don't tell me what to do, don't expect me to like you, come too close and I'll scratch you, I'm not joking. Don't expect me to like you, I don't trust you, it's not you, just on principle, I'm no schizophrenic, but you never know what people will pull on you, you never know, it's safer to not trust, how can I trust with all this anxiety in me, people aren't safe, there is no safe space.
Ah, but give me a beer, give me a whiskey, one, two, I stop counting, and nothing matters, I'll come up to anyone who bothers to give me any attention. Whiskey gives me that high until the fall, but oh! what a high, just a moment of peace.