“It’s you and me, Kid.”

{internal monologue}

Maybe if I push my sadness down
deep enough, it won’t be able to reach me anymore.

Little Miss Muffet
sat on a tuffet,
eating her curds and whey.

Along came a spider
who sat down beside her,
and yet she does not stray.

Though an arachnid–
preferable sidekick,
better than being slain.

For, vacant across the room:
“A stool?” No! a tomb!
where he-wolf lies in wait.

I don’t want to carry bear spray
because I’m afraid of being
attacked by a bear; I want to
carry bear spray because I’m afraid
of being attacked by a man.

If I had to choose between being
alone in a forest with a bear
or being alone in a forest
with a man, I would choose
the bear. See, you can reason
with a hungry bear; you cannot
reason with a hungry man.

There was never a “before” sadness.

Perhaps my sorrow is like god:
it is impossible to precede
something that has always been.

He said I abandoned the ship
(but he was the one
who forced me off the plank).

And the irony, although cruel,
lies in the following fact:

People always leave,
but the loneliness never does.

“Is that the only thing people are good for?”
She whispered.
“Leaving?”

You can take the girl
out of the traumatic environment.

But you can’t take
the trauma out of the girl.

The term “ghosting” is inaccurate.

Ghosts actually care enough to stick around
because that’s the only way
they can haunt you.

To say a guy “ghosts” you when he doesn’t text you back is an insult to real ghosts

(see, real ghosts are actually
capable of commitment).

I am not an apostate;
I’m a feminist.

He told me:
“You should really smile more.”
So I grinned as wide as a Baracuda.

He said:
“You are so much more attractive when you smile”
so I showed him my fangs before sinking them
into the supple, tantalizing flesh
of his ego like a shipwreck.

It's hard to write a poem
when you've got Benzo-Brain.
But I mustn't worry;
the amphetamine shall kick
my brain in soon.

**** shaming women
is a form of ****** harassment.

“Do you ever think about dying?”

“All the time, Barbie.
and I think I’m starting
to get bad again.”

I’d write a Haiku
but I’ve got too much to say
(it’s irony, kid).

To be a women is to choose between
being a thot or having thoughts.

I don’t know if it’s possible
to be delicate when the serpents
survive solely on insecurities &
intrusive thoughts.

Really, there’s no need to put the word
“alleged” before the words “****** Assault.”

Mama says it’s time to get out of the tub
cuz I’ve been in there too long.

Better to just listen

[I don’t want to]

than try to explain I’ve been thinking
about dying again

[I want to]

wicked draining selfish twisted ***** disgusting pathetic shameful lazy ungrateful
manipulative selfish ***** you’re mind is twisted evil no one wants you here delusional you’re so bipolar pig you need help man clingy afraid to be alone in a room with her sadness ******* ******* irresponsible you’re so borderline you’re so so I’m sorry I have to cancel [again] inconvenient I “care” about you wicked we “love” you imposition I don’t want to see you hurting selfish ***** it breaks my heart to see you so sad just another body that takes up space space space

Twenty-three-year-old female
found dead in the bathtub.

when will I be enough for you

when will I be enough for you

when will I be enough for you

It’s 8:02 PM on a Sunday.

And I can’t help but wonder
if anyone would miss me if I didn’t
wake up tomorrow morning.

“I’ve spent nights crying for you.”

“I’ve spent nights crying BECAUSE of you.”

I’m confident that if all the King’s Men
were women, Humpty Dumpty
would have survived.

Call me hysterical all you want.

Some of the greatest artists were
[are] hysterical women.

Bumble, I find it quite ironic
that your mascot is a Bee.

Not only have you chosen a mascot
who belongs to a dying species
(good men are also a dying species,
I'm afraid) but you have chosen a mascot
who is known to sting.

Tell me, Bumble, if I am the one
who is being stung does that mean
he will drop dead immediately
after stinging me?

Or is he just a No-Good-Wasp
that will never be held
accountable for his
mistreatment of women?

Shhh.

Stop crying.

Shhhhh!

Better cover that mouth of yours. Or else they’ll hear.

Shush!

The power’s come back on, the darkness can’t  protect you anymore.

Enough!

That’s a good girl. Now, let’s see a smile.

I let myself break like the lines of a poem,
because every break is a continuation
of this wild & beautiful journey.

Every break comes with another grand adventure.

Another chance to try again when the sun rises
(there will always be tomorrow).

Every break comes with the promise of more poetry.

(I suppose I am so fond of parathesis,
because I, too, only exist as an afterthought)

If Medusa took a Xanny,
would the Xanny only sedate Medusa
or would it also sedate the serpents
writhing in her hair?

They can only say they love me
with their fingers crossed behind
their back.

TW: Self-harm
•••
I’ve never looked as good in diamonds
as I have in red. Blood:

a string of pearls around my wrist.
Crimson lace—garter caressing thigh.

Diamonds don’t shine in sorrow
the way steel does.

For the record:

no, not everyone has a “little bit of OCD”
nor can you “almost” have OCD.

You either ******* have it or you don't.

Really, it’s blasphemous--

to use the sacred art of poetry
to gatekeep an illness you are
fortunate you don't have
all for the sake of clout.

ADHD forgets to feed the fish
and when she finally remembers,
it is dead at the bottom of the tank.

Well, I suppose dead is an understatement:

a mossy film embalms the body
(at least what is left of it)
its suction-cup maw putrefied
as it suckles the sickle of death.

Half of the body is there.

Half of it has disintegrated.

Imagine existing nowhere and everywhere
all at once; microscopic remnants
defile every particle of water long after
the rest of you has vanished.

Can beauty exist in the aftermath of sorrow?

Not sure what I need to feel better:
a benzo held under my tongue like a secret
or an exorcism to take the edge off.

But I’m genuinely curious.

If I’m just a poet.

Or if I’m just sad.

****.

Do you see my sadness, too?

You don’t really care for poetry,
do ya?

Sometimes, pretending not to be sad
is easier than telling people you’re sad.

Maybe I don’t want success
maybe I just wanna get ******!

I’ve never been someone’s “everything”
and that really ******* hurts sometimes,
ya know?

I only know what it means to miss someone; never have I known what it means to be missed.

When I uproot the hairs sprouting from the glabella
and strip my cupid’s bow of its wildflowers,
Frida Kahlo writhes in her grave.

She haunts me.

“You are beautiful.”
[unibrow and all]

“You are beautiful.”
[moustache and all]

“You are beautiful.”
[sadness and all]

Was she actually clingy?

Or was she reasonable in her response
when you neglected her?

Was she really needy?

Or were you just incapable
of meeting her needs?

If I’m the villain, then you’re
the origin story.

What do ya say, Kid?

Do you have another poem in you?