grab em by the pussy


trust not men who shrug and laugh

and say “i’ve said worse than that”

they are snakes clumsily cloaked as friends.



trust not the man who heckles you every day

chanting slogans with an ugly smirk

he is danger loosely clothed in human skin.



your breasts, your bottom, your vagina,

these belong to you

no matter who tries to take them from you.



take our outstretched hands

offering a single finger

grab those.



your mother had daggers in her veins.

she sharpened them on the tightrope that you walked and

you watched the rope become threads,


Diana Was Still Alive Hours Before She Died

inspired by searching for strange headlines.
hours before diana died, she was alive.

her lungs sang with air

and her cheeks were stained red

blasted by the chill.
in the hours before diana died, she still was alive

alphabetizing the nonfiction in the bookstore

only deviating her concentration

when her boss asked if she could tackle biographies next.
in the time frame shortly before diana was abruptly deceased, she continued to breathe

heels snapping along the wood floors

until the toes locate a tiny crack in the wood

large enough to send her flying to the ground.
her knees hit the floor

her chest soon follows

her head cracks back

and it is over before her sightless eyes 

are able to gaze dully at the ceiling.
in the minutes after diana was alive before she died

her lungs are not singing

they are not even crying for last whispers of air

and her cheeks are stained with white roses

a color slowly spreading across her body.

insomnia poem #8

maybe idle hands are the devil’s playthings

but when yours move lazily down my back

as though tracing every muscle will get you closer

to memorizing all of my mangled molecules

it feels like your leisurely fingers

are so much closer to divinity than anything else.

insomnia poem #2

she wears the gunmetal thorns bound too tightly to her skull

as a blessing and not as a curse

because when they pierce too deep

and the blood trickles down

drip drip dripping

onto her lashes and over her eyes

the world gazes at her in awe

there is a woman

they whisper quiet as gunshots

who is tied to no past or pain

there is a woman who has no soul to bare

there is a woman who feels nothing

and when she observes the searchlight pinpricks

of their fear and admiration

it makes her feel invincible

and perhaps one day

that will be enough

that she will bleed no longer.


do you think oil and water knows it can’t mix?

because if the oil is doing it on purpose

than god knows i’m begging to be anything

other than the water

that loves you more than breathing

that’s just trying to catch hold of you

with slippery fingers

before you rise to the surface again

in plain sight

but just out of reach.

insomnia poem #7

there’s no way out but down

and isn’t that always our way

your hands in my hair still bearing the powder burns

and mine clutching your faded leather coat

we have finally reached the point


where holding hands is not enough

and kissing quick won’t save us now


and looking in your tired eyes

somehow i get that funny 3 a.m. feeling

where i miss people i never knew

and regret decisions i never faced


and it aches hollow in my chest

and you know, you know

so i press the side of my face into your shoulder

and know your fingers are gentle and frail on my sleeve

i can’t bring myself


to close my eyes when there may be

so little time left to look


“we can only fall”

i whisper

too fragile to loosen my tight hold

too strong to look up at your face

yet i know that you are wearing


that five a.m. nirvana smile

when you answer

we only ever could”

and as one we shuffle towards the abyss

to continue our descent


down, down

to the chaos of uncertain paths.

insomnia poem #1

it’s funny,

how when they look at each other

each is so sure that they

are the lucky one


with her form compressed

of gunpowder and ballet shoes


body woven together of

bandages and empty quivers

both with bones

that have been weakened and snapped

and twisted until they poke at

unsettling angles outside their

thin thin soft soft casings,

until they learned how to mend them back

into supporting structures full of

hairline fractures and

missing pieces-


(for them),

each miss the pieces

the other has and when they stand

so close by the other’s side

it is like they are one whole person


broken boys (insomnia poem #6)

broken boys with busted hearts wandering through a desert
have always been my weakness.

boys with scars from their fathers
who smiling bore the rod
and swore “never i, never i”;

who whispered songs like prayers in the middle of the night
and treat every scrap of praise like a benediction;

who have fallen apart under the weight
of the piece of the world they carry around in the pocket
a little heavier than everyone else’s;

who have learned to glue themselves together
but are still fragile at the places the cracks intersect.

for i too have fallen into the dark places of this earth
and i too know what it’s like to look into the mirror
and see the shadows peering out from behind your eyes.

and truly isn’t it best to find someone
to share your shades with?

printer paper

and i write her letters on printer paper
the white pages neatly holding the pencil scrawl
that contains my promises, my aspirations,
all my honest thoughts
and in turn she sends me words
sandwiched between lines on paper
telling me who she is and who she is not
who she was and who she will be
she dedicates herself to me in crimson ink.

and slowly, but surely
i begin to fall in love with a straight girl.