An existence of a woman
Was never to be found
Not in its true form
She was not treated to peace
For too many
A woman
Any woman
to him
To them
Was merely
Merely
A show
A performance for others
A lipstick meant to be worn
And kissed away

friendship bracelets and long sleeves,
choking down rice cakes and diet coke,

pinning Victoria's Secret models to my wall and
keeping a tape measure at my bedside,

trying tips form Tumblr,
cold showers,
apple cider vinegar,
copious amounts of coffee
(black, obviously).

wondering why i'm shivering in the southern heat and
feeling proud of it anyway.

when i was 11
i spent an entire weekend pacing
around the backyard
pretending all i had to do was survive

on as little as possible.

living off pond water,
i chopped salads of dead leaves and
whisked red clay into something sweet.

i built a home of twigs and bed of mulch.
i let my body sink into the earth,
bones melting into roots and
skin into the ridges of the forest floor.

caught at the cross road of brittle blue nails and
softened angles,
all i knew was emptiness
and it felt like i was finally beautiful.

Exeunt omnes
Exeunt Omnes is a Latin stage direction,
commonly used in theater and drama, which means
“all (of the characters who are on stage) leave”.

Emptiness glares at the unbemused,
and bemused as well,
the entertainment, reenacting old tales,

has left the stage empty, curtains wide open,

O, hear, backstage, listen,
the next act, this is the set, the empty stage,

O, see, that light came on, soon it must shine
on something we must see, from where we sit,
- a light on an empty set is a Chekovian gun
- it must illuminate, a plotted point…
- replat to arrange room to expand

waiting, imagining someone peeking,
through the fourth wall
from behind the backdrop, counting empty seats,

and finding none not empty, but mine,
where I sit, this is it, I am the attendant paying
attention to the nuance evolving constant artforms,
reactive agents
acting out the gluonic mythos accruing arts
eventual discernment, messages to all who see,
rising mist
hear the outside world through the open window,
stare contentedly into the white noise, listening,
obscuring fog
carried on winds, on which prophets say Jah walks,
wafting down
from the empty stage, to fill
the emptiness between us each, in
a sphere of influence, as it were, as real
as Glenda of the North, oozing after ousia,
epiousiatical usual rational, vital substance

essence of first intention, to tell the truth,
about why any creator's mind makes peace,

the heroic struggle is the truth, per se,
indeed, working out your own salvation,

while involved with fear and trembling
anticipation, hoping to be chosen,

as the sorting hat allows, destination,

local J.C., augmented
by an L.A. County Library Card.

-- in the realm of all seeking sanctioned
American citizen level access to idle records…

some never imaginable incredible proofs lie,
credibility discovered while unbelieving lies,
what a freeman,
wombed or un, is,
believe me, no person in prison, is. That
is believable, while incredible is really not.
Free is lonely.
Believing is an act we are assumed
capable of performing, before we have words,
we are bound up in some kinda love,
or we just fail to become what we could be

as we become, we all pass all our infancy,
without words, that is what an infant human is,

not a pup or a kitten or a chick or a kid,
a wordless form of a flesh encased spirit,

a measure of our whole truth weform, as we
breathe and have our being, our behaviors,

in the medium between empty stages.

VOG  cut the house lights.

I long to crawl from my own skin.
An emptiness consumes me from within.

Far and wide, I search for a home; a prison it is to exist within my own bones.
A gnawing begins to fill my brain,
maggots and vermin lead my mind astray.
I long for the day I am severed from myself.  

Suffering, I sell my soul
to gods of worlds old,
just to breathe a life free of the suffering that is me.