Sunday, February 27, 2011

It's Called an Extended Metaphor, Fuckass. Read-Along

A little girl took a walk
to see her new neighborhood
for the first time.
She immediately noticed that everything was ugly.
No matter how newly-painted the houses were,
or how clean the cars were,
they were ugly underneath their fixings.

A little boy saw her walking
and decided to scare her silly.
He got some mud on his hands
and walked up behind her with it.
He rubbed and rubbed her hair with it;
he waved his muddy fingers through it.
The girl was not scared at all,
but she faked surprise
and faked her scared screams,
and this happened every day
again and again,
and she got tired of it.


She walked out of her neighborhood,
and down to the lake,
where there were flowers everywhere:
pretty flowers, gorgeous flowers,
and they whispered, "Darling, you're beautiful.
You deserve flowers as beautiful as we
to fashion into a necklace
and drape over your shoulders."
She remembered her dandelion
sitting in her cup at home,
and these flowers did seem much prettier.
She did agree that maybe she needed
these flowers
to complement her beauty.

The little girl saw an old, log house
and it looked so interesting.
She saw a window that she could peek through,
and she knew that she shouldn't spy,
but she was too curious not to.
She looked through that window
and saw nothing worth looking at,
but she returned every day,
assuming that there must be something
neat in there
if she looked at just the right time.

She went to her best friend's house
(she loved her best friend very much)
and they sat and played with bugs
for a little while,
not doing much,
when a pretty girl with a rich daddy
and a big house with lots of toys
asked her to go to her house and play.
The little girl told her best friend
that her mom called her home,
but it was a lie.
She went to the rich girl's house
and played with so many toys,
but it wasn't fun anyway.

The little girl had a diary,
and she named it Janie.
She wanted to tell Janie everything in the world,
but she was afraid that Janie would be mad,
so the little girl only told Janie what she wanted to hear
and kept everything else locked up inside her head-box,
which was the little girl's way of saying "self."

Friday, February 18, 2011


A mind reels with nowhere to go.
It winds and winds and
but produces nothing.
A problem.
I see it, but I will never know
how to fix it.

I’ve always wanted to invent something.

Thursday, February 17, 2011


My fingers tear through a snag and all I can think about is the fact that my face may be pretty, but it is framed by a torn-up bird's nest. After that, all I can think about is how insignificant hair is. I want it gone.
My lips are dry and flaky, my skin is rough and red and bumpy, and my eyes are chocolate-rimmed and smudgy. Nothing about today feels good, and by “feels good” I mean “looks good.”
My mood is set, and based on what?
Nothing too important.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

I hope someone writes a song about me someday
I hope I can be a pervasive thought
that nags and nags all day.
Maybe I am.
I hope to hear that line that
speaks to me,
tells me, "you know what this one is about,"
when I'm sipping tea in my room or
gripping my steering wheel too tight.

I am selfish, but I want to have to tell someone
that I'm not everything, that it's unhealthy to feel that way,
all the while cherishing the sentiment
in the dark corner of my bed,
where I grip my pillow as tight as the steering wheel,
and sip dopamine
and lavender extract
from my teddy's hands

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

one word; 60 seconds

sitting alone in a darkroom
is much different from sitting alone in a dark room.
darkrooms aren’t that dark;
they’re very red
very sensual
i would touch myself in a darkroom,
but not a dark room.
i would eat a crimson apple in a darkroom and feel evil,
but in a dark room i would only feel