Sunday, October 11, 2015

crying didn’t help me.
it made your skin crawl and I,
well, I do think you liked it.

because you can’t cry. No,
I know that
your tears have waterlogged your weary head.
all that pressure sealed your
pulsing eyelids
and kept you silent,
but thrust my legs (left-toe to right-heel)
all the way out the front door.
I saw a
hard, cold, little rabbit.
I picked it up
and laughed right at it.
I even made myself sick
when I decided
what I was going to do then.
I picked up that ceramic piece
of what she called art.
t was fired in her summer camp kiln.
it was fired in the infernal internal fires that she caged.
…I thought it would explode,
that pink little rabbit.
I thought her unhinged desire
would burst
into a fine display of
no, I project.

I projected my
foaming, fizzing,
volcanic fear ready to burst into
an ugly display of
childish panic.
The ceramic piece of
(that pastel bunny with the chip on its shoulder;
a deep pit that we used as a cigarette holder),
her kiln-fired, summer camp, funny
was NOT
the catharsis of my
rage parade
It did not light up the streets
when I heaved it
with all of my internal infernal hate
put behind it
it crumbled into ten dusty pieces
that I swept up
all alone
the next morning.

Thursday, June 19, 2014

To be wildly angry at that which terrifies you is the most vulnerable of things.
Powerless yet thrashing, you’ve never felt so empty.
Do you remember when you were a child, and you screamed and you screamed and you flailed on the ground, 
but they never felt sorry for you, 
and you dug your hole one hundred feet deeper with each desperate attempt to fight? 

You did it again when you begged him to love you and that word slipped out and you didn’t mean to say that phrase and now he is so angry and you’re flailing on the ground again. 
Please, you beg. Why don’t you help me? 
All you want is for him to wrap his arms around you so tightly and squeeze until there is nothing more to the universe than his heavy weight protecting you from what this has been about from the day you came through that warm and safe tunnel 
right into the cold, white hands of a man who has lived two billion, two hundred seventy million, five hundred and ninety-two thousand times longer than you. 
If you could have looked into his eyes he would have desperately tried to warn you with them. 
His old eyes would have tried to show you the pain and the sadness and perhaps would have hoped to comfort you by letting you know we’re all the same. 
But that is only what he has been told by others who knew just as little as he and, likely, just as little as you. 
Your father will never tell you that he fantasized for years about murder because he was obsessed with the moment of death, 
and that his fantasies ended when he watched you exit your mother’s womb because that ambiguous moment of your birth was just the same.
He was not satiated. 

Nineteen years later, your lover will hold you in his arms 
at midnight once a month 
and listen to your sobs while you try to explain through gasps and gulps that you must be more scared than everyone else 
because no one else talks about it and you 
just can’t stop. 
He says that it’s not worth thinking about 
and you wail with your head thrown up to the ceiling and your sticky mouth wide open. 

Every book, every film, every story you have ever witnessed or been told leaves you with a feeling of dread. 
Your friends exit the theater unaffected and you look at them in disgust because how can they carry on? 
How can they continue as if life has not just ended before their very eyes and is ending all around us and there is NOTHING we can do about it? Aren’t you ANGRY?, 
you shout, 
and they shrug. 

When you dream that night it is of an atomic bomb with a timer, 
tick tick ticking, and you watch the seconds 
count down to your finality 
and you wince and you flinch and you bang your fists against the wood paneling above you 
because you are hiding under the house you grew up in, 
because you have to do whatever you can to protect yourself, 
because inevitability does not mean you give up
and it does not mean you can’t be pissed as hell about the fact that something less real than you can decide 
that you are no longer.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

The best thing is that everyone expects to be listened to,
but nobody wants to listen.

And they stuffed cotton balls into their ears
because they're oh-so-so-so comfy.

Friday, October 4, 2013


Sorry, but I just don't buy that happiness
is something you feel, that it's real
if I'd only give up the one thing i could
tell you about me (I mean truthfully:

what is identity? you think I was faking
when I furrowed my brow
as if asking, "but how?" when you
told me to 'be myself.'
Do you know what my favourite song is?
Well, neither do I).

But I do know how to measure myself,
and that I don't measure up
because I ate a whole cup--not a fourth--
and I'm too large by three,
I'm obsessed with A's know what I mean.

When he asked me if I was an actress
and I said, "Yes" with a smile
I was answering an identical question

but not the one he was really asking.

Monday, August 5, 2013

I am not real


boy, did I convince each and every one of you
that I'm the realest there ever was.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

You know I don't see you the way you see yourself?

You know I see something beautiful?

Monday, December 10, 2012

I have been groomed
to be this way
but I have to say
it's better than what I otherwise
would have been