Words. Lots of Words.

Storytimes — December 9, 2015


There have been a thousand nights.

A thousand ‘not tonight’s’.


A thousand mornings you have

not chopped off my head.

A thousand mornings I have

kept it.


I have told myself a thousand stories

so that I will not have to fear

the tomorrows


will not have to wonder, when it will come.


There have been a thousand mornings

where you have seen only your own



instead of your woman-less country,

the suffering, the daughters

you killed.


We have crafted thousands

of words together, you have

made me a thousand promises


Maybe they will come true,




Unsaid, Unfinished —

Unsaid, Unfinished

I live with a ghost.


I let him in the front door,

second-hand sadness and all.


You can see him

-in the smoke curling off the stove,

the steam in the bathroom.


He leaves whispers on my cheek

-names of people long dead,

love letters long forgotten,

wars long past.


When he leaves the house feels empty.


I leave out drops of milk on windowsills,

fancy undergarments across the floor.


“There is life and vitality here for you!”

I shout, if only you would stay.


Caverns open up inside of me.

As though I am the ghost

-waiting for blood and water to flood back into me

along with the rush of his shadow.


I hear knocks, and I twitch.

I hear whispers, and I swoon.


The old house creaks with me,

like it misses him in its bones too.


I would let him in again.

Second-hand sadness and all.

I miss the whispers and old stories.

I miss the smell of death.



Prior — November 3, 2015


We are reaching for something beyond us,

calling out to the mother-void;

knowledge before language,

gods before men.


“recognize My honor,

My valor, My struggle,

I found the true thing

I had no need of mortal womb

or breath, or touch, or speech

to know this truth.”

Visions — May 2, 2015


I want them empty,

but they are full.

I want a lack of lines


Space, to roam in curves,

a world that does not

incite these kind of angry tears.


A world where we do not

make places for people


all mapped out roadways

and jurisdictions and over used tropes

and zoning houses and business



I want a place where my kind

was not cut from a rib

was not laid over the image of earth


to likewise be pillaged and raped.


A place where I am empty,

and my emptiness is without

further meaning.

Spattered — April 28, 2015


It feels impossible to explain

the gap.


the great void between

the world of feelings

and words.


the gap that makes aesthetic lists of grotesque

bloodstains into stomach churning

that feels something like love


the endless blackness

of speechless sex

dripping and warm and dangerous


that cannot hold the simple form

of two people playing parts,


the subtle violences

of ideas, the fleshy


Fictional Problems — April 8, 2015

Fictional Problems

there are endless possibilities

itching at my back of my hipbones,

crawling out between my ribs,

spilling through the gaps in my teeth.


it could be vomit, and bile,

or tears mixed with semen,

makeup and sweat,

happiness, sorrow, insanity.


slipping between the milliseconds

hearing you call me a goddess

and a whore in the same breath


demonic, tied up in the

scratching. sloughing off skin cells

unsure of what will

come up from beneath:


mermaids or harpies,

your terror, or my own.

Pressure Fractures — April 7, 2015

Pressure Fractures

I miss holding them in my hands,

running with the inkblots

smudges, painting shadow-picture



all leather and ribbon and cracked

spines with wetted corners.


honesty is the only way out.

I am bleeding fire.


I can write about these things

as though they are true for me

when I have never been there


never had a house in the trees.


I am a maker,

I make water

I could make life.

There is a secret language

I want to share with you


all careful brushes and fingertips,

but without the physical.


you can speak it in the spaces

between words.


know it in the smell before

and after the rain, but never



Creation Myths — April 6, 2015

Creation Myths

A plant will always reach

to what you have told it

what you made it believe, is the sun.


Heat lamps, vertical irrigation,

it knows nothing else. We cannot

help but desire, and you have

planted each one of us


Down the line, in repetition

growing from one another’s ashes,

bones. The gristle of DNA


and something else I have forgotten,

reaching to the sun

out an east-facing window.


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