Walking contradiction. Choking on consonants and syllables until I pull out my ribboned tongue.
When I was with my husband, 3am was my witching hour The weight of my shame, blanketed around me Eyes barely adjusted to the darkness always silent sobs I learned to hate my body every curve and round soft spot I wanted my body to stop craving attention and affection I did not want any longer to…
i used to be afraid of the way his eye twitched and he shook his fists he never sent them like hammers on my flesh, but the flash in his eyes showed me that he was hanging onto ever bit of self restraint / i don’t think that i ever liked him much anyway, though i told a good story so many times. that’s the funny thing about stories, even if you hear…
i presented as a pebble, solid but not much to behold
no grand story arch, no epic plot line, not a character in which to invest
unsuspecting, non threatening, a rock to skip across the waters surface tension
remember that diner where we tipped all of the waitresses outrageous amounts because we came in at odd hours and they kept our glasses full and memorized our orders? you’d roll your eyes as i talked to them about their…
i imagine that i’m the sort that people look at and see potential / i’m a plot of land where you can build your house that becomes a home with a white picket fence and 2.2 children and a dog named buddy / i’m the space that you could rent to become your studio you’ll fill it to overflowing with paints…