but i’m a martyr for this,
I crave

even self-abnegation
needs an audience
or else it’s just masochism
without the gentle recompense touch
of her sadist
after she laid her.

all cathedrals use pain as payment
and my crucifixion,
while self inflicted,
is just as copper,
just as baneful.

and my bloodletters will wash the splashes
from my feet,
stitch my gashes


I never write about blossoming but
i’m seeing inflorescence in

my unpolished toes at the edge of the kitchen,
an unwashed bowl of almond butter next to my tea,
empty half of a house,
my patient sponsor and the
tail end of my frantic texts,
my affinity for inscripting every feeling
when I could have been
sitting still,
explaining through watercolor,
doing the dishes.

a water filled horizon that distorts my perception of what
leverage really means,
and the big picture–
obscured by my fluorescent bulbs,
my censorious self-portraits,
overdone with ornate explanation
and constant editing,
constant litter in the place.

it used to be just dirty bowls and I
saw clearly,
spoke the same,
soaked in soft lighting,
mouthful of
(bitten tongue)
some little good timing,
ready for
             hi there

some soft little revenge.




I’ve always been drawn to sentences:

spent sunrise picking at covered clots;
veins growing lush with unsheltered heart,
profuse & spilling drops that
take years of self harm but eventually amount to
(fingers crossed)
one very disconsolate
I’m upright;

soaked in red tributaries,
caged in sore body &
the newest sun.
smear some copper from my thumb
when I pick up my phone to
take a picture of my torn knees
in the rising dawn.
find a filter first.

to cloak my embattled joints
(hide your armor)
before I send you the scab-spattered snapshots
about it.

I’m a woman of course


under my therapist’s guidance,
I sit down and talk to my inner predator,
learn where all the trouble started:
now, now,
listen to the guilt,
it’s talking.

she reminded
gently, without any
assertive verbal confirmation
that she knew that I
reserved a small section of my organs
specifically for shame;
the ways I failed to amend
my wayward behavior
that started from the moment he demanded I
stay on all fours in my daybed,
and has never ended.
my digestion suffers
we were talking about my inner lion.
my inner kitty-cat
who once ate her own guts
during a pretty short famine
so sometimes
I can’t be trusted to navigate things

I decided to have some boundaries with the universe;

lined the edges of my bed with geranium and
lilac threads. my tub dripped nightly:
an altar of salt and
lavender sage.
watched my toes glide lightly to the surface
by votive.
tease the cat
with little splashes.
my entire winter began to smell of rose hip oil
and diffused celestite.
the curtains shut tightly.
I could see the moon when I wanted
from my dining room table
or on a brisk walk
to pick up oranges and Earl Gray
for the morning.
rediscovered medicine in prayer and herb
and open mourning for my karmic retribution,
suddenly rectified.

                      but I deserve it

amethyst in my sock drawer and jasper
near the lamp. I hold
one shout in my throat
in an effort to subjugate

protect myself from myself:
watch my little predator
waft in and out
without a discussion about what
s  t  a  r  v  a  t  i  o  n
really means
and just let it

                            I decided to get rid of my light and aventurine,

                                                   I calmly tell Genie.





give it to me, God
can be a risky request.

immured in soft crystal, I felt
on the verge of therapeutically unhinged
all winter.
my hair was combed,
my lips were never chapped,
I wore blush every day,
no runs,
my tongue tied completely
so no one asked
what I may have needed.


chased an impartial sun
half of December
and spent the other half
soaked in flower essences        I preferred
helenite draped in tiger’s eye so I’m more
sudden hot eruption than slow boil
but tonight I try more benevolent blooms
and pausing
watch my flimsy, cherry-dipped
ylang ylang fingertips
shake unsteadily
and without any observable provocation,
suddenly stop untying my velvet collar,
suddenly shy away from the mirror,
suddenly lunge and land
on my ball of red sheen obsidian
delicately scraped from the bottom of some
extinct volcano;
still mired in sudden climax,
rinsed and smoothed for my
handling pleasure, it was

“heart chakra activating.”

for wisdom.
for understanding.
for love, for love, for
soft, soft
l       o          v              e
with protection.

with protection.
and my heart;
my poor, twisted carnivore
always unsure of when the next meal will
lunge back,
can shape shift her way into a
permanent snarl
with protection.

I stomp into the other room and
shatter the bowl
she let me borrow.
strip my skin of clothes and scent in
a hot steam bath
let the pieces rest.
watch my step
around the house
for now.

my place,
one carnelian cobweb,
can’t be swept.


  • “Miss what cha doing? Where ya going? Why ya not smiling? Come here ma. You look like you’re having a rough day. You shouldn’t look so mean. No man will want you when you look so mean, Oh excuse me while I walk right in front of you and touch you even though you and I are the only two people on the side walk. Miss why ya such a bitch? Can’t ya smile? Hey girl like those shorts. Oh you can’t speak. Oh she stuck up. Oh she stuck up. Miss love your hair.hey hey I just touched your back to walk past you even though there was five feet between us and now suddenly none. Hey miss come here. come here. COME HERE”

–sounds of summer