there is a girl in a garden
who sits under a dying tree
sometimes I look out the window
and she waves or smiles at me

frost paints over the window
cobwebs fill the room
and still the girl in the garden
sweeps away the gloom

I've never spoken to the girl in the garden
I couldn't if I tried
but her smile is a sight to see
even if she's long since died

Mum says “light a candle, burn some incense”
but mum my inner sense is the only thing stopping me from burning myself to the ground because I can’t stand the light anymore.

Nan says “your'e too bright to be depressed”
but the bright sparks that flicker of a memory that is dark, and the flame only reminds me that everybody I love is someday gonna die.
But mum..... nan...... i’m not afraid of the dark, that’s the problem.

It’s hard to have fun when i don't feel like having fun.
Don’t get me wrong it’s not that i don’t want to go to the party,
I WANT to go to the party,
but i’m stuck in an abusive relationship with depression and anxiety and they talk me out of going.
Cancel plans last minute, making up a physical illness,
because "sorry I'm too depressed to see u" sounds utterly ridiculous.

There's a little
boy that hides in
the dark corners of
my soul.
He doesn't want to
be hurt anymore.
I spent eight years
with Beth.
For the most part,
it was hell and
constant pain.
She made nightmares
look good.
I heard the
little boy cry
late into the
silky night,
while snails got
smashed on the streets
of Ventura.

When I drank, which was often,
the little boy seemed
at peace for awhile,
while swans were
murdered in Venice,
and I tasted the ashes
of Neruda.
Years flew by
like seagulls;
up
down
and darting.
The little boy
continued to
hide in the
dark corners of my soul.

He wanted to
come out and be loved.
He was thirsty for it,
but there wasn't
any around.
It was dry, like the
deserts in hell.
It's too late for
sorries, here comes
the plow.

He began to see
the pattern of life.
There are monsters
that walk in the light.
Vulnerability equals pain.
The little boy got mean.
And now he carries
a knife.

I need to straighten
my dreams out,
they got crooked along the way.
In my frozen castle,
in this grueling winter of life,
lies in me an invincible summer
that longs to be free;
scabbed up knees and
grass stains on my soul,
it just itches to run, and
swim the rivers,
and lie long in the sun.

Eating my beyond burger with a fork and knife,
drag race in the background,
my Samantha doll by my side.
This isn't loneliness anymore.
This is just life now.

I'm not very good with words anymore,
maybe I never was.
So little has changed and yet everything has.
I still long for love.
I still want to be wanted.
That might never change.

Yet now this lonely world is one I've come to accept,
come to love.
I may be my only friend here,
but that's one more than last year.

Nothing I create is good,
but I'm learning to create anyway.
I'm learning to share my bad art,
at least it's art.
Right?

I dream of slitting the throat of the dog next door.
Someone outta shut him up.
I used to think that was an evil thought,
now I know there's no such thing.

I turn 21 in 2 days.
Math. Yuck.
I'm old,
getting older every second.
Whatever.
I will grow into this skin,
I'm sure of it.
Maybe.

I'm grateful.
More than anything I am grateful for it all.
The pain,
the pleasure,
the guilt,
the anger.

Pills,
family,
friends,
dolls.

No one reads these except me.
So this one is for her.
For you.
Anne,
my love,
my villain,
my biggest fear.

May this year be kind to you,
may you be kind to it.
May you listen to your spirit guides,
may you accept what you never could.

Growth is sticky and wet,
Knowledge is thick and grey.
May you be the light and the darkness,
the cut and the band aid.

More than anything,
be okay.
You're gross,
in a sort of beautiful way.
May you be okay with that.
Truly.




Bad art is still art.
Right?
I think so.
For now.

hiding in the dark
a retreat to solitude
the trees hold my hand

In the cold, dark
        of January,
         I remembered
              you
        the most.
  As the chill
      snapped bones
              like branches,
     as the afternoons
   bathed themselves
in gray,
     as the birds
and the backs
      shook,
so did my lips
   around your name.
I'm so happy
     January is almost
over now.