Anthology of sadder days.

Here are some older shitbeats from my journal:


I will twist you to fit me

then drop you, still twisted,

unfit to fit anyone but me.

I want power, control, weight.

I’ll hate and in darkness you’ll crawl and scrape.

I’ll  keep you a lapdog,

lap up my false sweetness.

aspartame. cancer.

growing inside you, its thorns unretractable.

I want a zipless fuck.

you zip. you snag on sentimentality and secret smiles.

you think you know me.

you think you want to.

don’t love me, stop my breathing.

break the skin, my sense of place.

you have nothing over me.


“You have my favorite body type,’ he said.


(no shit)

I may not occupy space, I may not consume and transform the world into myself. I may not be other than what I am. And I am not much.

I am woman, I scream but please don’t hear me. Content to internalize the image of womanhood projected onto my  naked self because my naked self is worth nothing.

Age, disease, fat, sugar, I define myself by what I reject.

Please, don’t hear me.

Am I afraid of women because they might be as fucked as I am?


If I wanted to,

I could take a human being–soft flesh/brittle bone

contort her to conform to the contours of my corrupt self

recreate her in an image of me.

she would eat dirt for me.

she would live locked up for me.



I could disallow life, force her growth

to shoot down twisted channels

carved in the rock of solid, hot hate.

she would feel what I want her to feel

she would feel nothing, nerves misfiring, mixed up.

she would eat my fear, breathe my bruised brown ego

each exhale of hers a gift stolen.



Now all I can think is:

What have I become?

so broken that my splintered edges break others.

Was this in me all along?

Inherent hurt?

Or was spitefulness thrust upon me?

Did he tear my skin wide enough to get to my

deep-down soul?

The instinct to blame outside myself,

another flaw in the torturous system.

I’m not perfect.

I’m not even good.

Just afraid

and sorry.


(RE: drugs)

Is this the beginning of freedom or the beginning of death?

A slow decay.

Mental, physical, every way

you look at it, don’t look at it.

What can I do but follow my joy?

Follow her to dark basements, narrow alleys,

the cobwebbed corners of corrupt minds.

Spin through faces, time, heartbeats,

end up in the dust.

Follow what feels good.

Who can feel nowadays?

Nothing survives anyways.

No one gets out alive.

No arrow flies straight or narrow.

At least I can say I tried.


Sometimes we need the worst things.

He drew blood in pools;

bruised, dark & angry,

memories turned violent and violet.


Blunt force trauma, needles on the brain.

Freezing in the rain, feeling nothing,



He was broken that his cutting edge sliced clean.

Lamb’s blood.

Innocent, not innocent, then mangled, spoiled, rancid,


I’ve got his gangrene.

Would you rot with me?

I could be your worst.


Maybe someday we’ll be

young and in love.

But never as young as now.

You’ll get snatched up in the east.

Some crow will construct her nest, carefully,

and your shining countenance will hold it together.

Not for me.

I’ll hold myself together.


A bee’s nest, a bear will eat me,

sweet and stinging.

But I’ll long for you.

Withered, wrinkled, resigned, we’ll be.

Leading lives of subtle disappointments, we’ll be.

Like everyone else, we’ll be…

Pain is the shadow of this greatest joy.



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