First she broke her fingers because
she wanted to know pain.
Then she broke her arm because
the first pain wasn’t strong enough.
When she got her heart broken
she said there was no pain.
Then she broke her neck
because no one knew she lied.

**** poor, dying for a dream,
or a drink, one more cigarette,
the landlord comes around, asking for rent
and the money is gone, it was never there,
so you smile and bat your eyes,
one more week, I promise

soon he'll be at your throat
with eviction notices that scream
louder than stereotypes of poverty
louder than your baby's growling stomach
louder than all of your meticulous schemes.
are you uncomfortable yet?
I've barely scratched the surface.

the stereotype that you fell into
doesn't suit you, single mother
wiping off tables and smiling your hardest
to make tips, bend a little further,
hike up your skirt, show some leg
some ***, let them see your ****,
generous patrons love that ****.

you go home and scream into empty spaces
and curl into cold corners thinking of
Bukowski in cockroach rooms
eating candy bars to survive
and dream of an end to a means.
you play some Tchaikovsky
and hold your own flesh and blood
close enough that they can't leave you,
drink White Russians until your hands melt
and write **** that nobody wants to read
about your struggles, knowing that
you will be gifted with rejection letters
and apologies.

**** poor, it is a way to live
but if you prefer sanity, not one
that I would suggest.
it will devour you
destroy you, upend your hopes
and shatter your dreams.
god will not help you,
nor the state or the politicians,
but if you make it out alive
you could be stronger than
diamonds, harder even than
your own resolve.

Light spills on the floor.
It's bright and clean and fresh.
The cold sheets are feathery on my back.
I bury my head deep into the pillows.
My toes curl and uncurl lightly.
I collapse in with a breath of air.
The bed is an infinite landscape.
Just my cheeks tucked between covers.
Layers and layers of light cotton.
And a feeling wells up inside of my chest.
I want to share this with another human being.

You're like that little bit of juice I thought I had left in my cup.
Foolishly I reach to take a sip, but it is gone.
Then you're like that candy that doesn't really taste good.
But still I continue to eat it anyways...
Sometimes you're like the rain.
I like the smell of it. I like the sound of it.
But when I get caught in it; I end up so cold and I am left ashamed.
And at times you're like thunder...
Kind of like dangerously beautiful.
You're like the mornings that I dread before sleep...
You still make your appearance and shine your presence through my sheets.
And at last you're like the night...
Dark, frightening, and qiuet.
Where no one knows the secrets, tricks and importance behind it.

A* chiffon floral blouse
Torn to pieces on the floor
Aside a girl as delicate as a flower
Curled around a pillow
Her petals ripped *away

I've never dreamt
Of people that I love
So when you ask me if I dreamt about you
I didn't want to tell you yes.