Year after year
you fed me dirt and called it chocolate
I ate it greedily hoping maybe this time
it was chocolate.

It never was.
And even though you’re gone for good,
my stomach still aches every single day…

~ abuse

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This is me writing
a happy poem
because you told me
to stop being inspired
by Sexton
Bukowski so…
Here we go. Ready?
I am so happy 
to tell you fuck off
I’ll write happy when 
I want to, thank you. 
How’s that for happy? 

~ I do what I want.


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My First Poetry Performance

This is not a poem, this is a blog post. I wanted to reflect on my first performance.  I performed, “An Almost True Story About Emails” and “Depression”.

I did not expect the words to set me on fire. What I mean by that is: my poetry came alive and I felt each line physiologically.  The words, rhythm, audience reactions, and sound all took a form of their own and my body was just an instrument.  It was absolutely magical.

I had never performed my work like this before, and now I can’t wait to perform again. Thank you to NYC’s Parkside Lounge for hosting the Inspired Word event and to the exquisite audience. I can’t wait to go back!




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I like to imagine
that flowers bloom
and hummingbirds sing
in the abandoned
ruins of our love.

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I spin silver
to catch feelings that taste
like my image in mirrors.

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This evening,
those stars hanging
in your eyes collapsed
into black holes of
irresistible gravity.

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Some call themselves mermaids,
hopeful that they won’t drown in
the blue sadness of humanity.

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Much Better

My heart was
a seashell you
threw against the
the wall so
each shard became

a heroin needle
you used to
inject my veins
with sweet venom
launching me high
as comets especially
your candied lie
that you knew
me better 
I knew 
but you knew
nor cared
know anything
so why did
you bother to
convince me I
was my own
enemy then lock

me in my
mind’s corner closet
a fictional therapy
and private hell
even my closest
friends couldn’t tell
because when I
cried they said
I was too loud
they said I
should calm down
they said I
was a lunatic
so I pulled
out my teeth
and sliced out
my tongue to
keep myself silent
while you praised 
me whispering I
was the most
beautiful hostage that
you ever saw
and you wouldn’t
change a thing
until one day
you let me
escape without one
pure apology so
here I am

my liver alcohol
soaked while you’re
unaware of the
callouses I’ve grown
from the millions
of hurtles I’ve
had to jump
to get over
wounds your actions
seared into scales
on my skin
“nobody will listen
to a snake”
you said, forgetting
that snakes shed
so these words
are my skin
shedding off your
crimes and your
self loathing too
I refuse to carry
them and I
never needed to

because your guilt
belongs on your
shoulders only 
mine and I
I know that
better than
know yourself.

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The need to write poetry is a tickle
down my throat I must cough up
even if 
I don’t want to. 

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An Almost True Story About Emails

I loved him
the way a
woman loves
a man she
never touches
but writes 
emails to and
has tiny pictures
of him stuffed
in her wallet
and I would have
loved him even
more if I sat
outside his
bathroom and
heard him have
one of his secret
panic attacks that
he wrote to me
so much about
how his famous
only care
fame and not
insane fire that
held no lies and
burned so gently
into genius art

but I never sat
outside his bathroom
because he took his own
life three or four
months before
I knew that he was gone
and I received no replies
to my emails until
his brother told
me that he had
pulled the golden
trigger on his diamond
encrusted gun after
numerous midnights
crying alone on
different rooftops and

maybe I could have
loved him enough
for him to stay
but maybe we
have betrayed
each other
like all lovers eventually
do so maybe 
was the
best way.

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