I was left unwanted.
The coldest forms of cold are only felt from up close. The tingling whispers of a one inch by one inch slap across my face through a tweet or new photo with her. Why didn’t you call for me when you had the chance? Why did you slip her name into my ear? If all the world was a stage, it’s clear I’ve landed right on my face. Laughed at and unwanted here. Land of dust and dirty lies by friends unfriendworthy. Who calls me here? Who let’s me stay?
Gain pleasure from my pain. I never want to see you again and I probably never will. Unless you curse my cursor with your charm and pull me into a spiraling heaven of clicks and clocks until I ask myself, where did I begin?

Oh yes…




I stare among the women in crossed-legged seated postures and wonder if I’ll ever get there. Smiles strung along their faces. They’ve made it. They have found some place to call home. They pull love and compassion from places I’ve never heard of; from some chakra of the month. I still pull my tears back. The only colorful line up are my excel spreadsheets during fundraising campaigns and no one seems to care how long I haven’t been smiling. Breathe. Count to three. Allow the inner critic to wash away. I need more inner goddess, that’s for sure. Do you get that from kombucha? Taking pictures in a yoga pose? Can you see me now? Calling for help. Breathe. Maybe I’m just jealous of all the love they seem to receive. An internal healing from tailbone to sun salutations. I wish there was a bandaid big enough to cover the wounds I have. The sands of time have only stung like salt ripe on my flesh. “Moving forward” was silly advice. I now exhale my problems onto the next person. Deep, cursed excerpts of my ode to humanity and love and family and relationships and him and… breathe. I guess maybe I am jealous of those smiles stretched across their faces. And maybe… just maybe, I’ll find my own love in my crossed-legged meditation too.

Orders for The Fourth Wave Brigade

Fertilize the Feminist for the Fourth wave.

She is needed for the brigade. 

Arm her with mirror

And tell her to call it Goddess.

Arm her with an audience 

And tell her to call them Sisters.

Arm her with a voice

And tell her to call it Ancestor.

The Fourth Wave rises in Her name.

Arms unfolded, fists up in rage.

Steady as you watch her days.

Mother moon plays tricks on the tide,

Tempting one to hide.

She is needed for the brigade.

Unfinished feminism forms in the wake.

She drifts closer a little each time,

But you must show her the prize;

The Fifth is on the rise!

Days like These

Days like these

We worship.

We worship it,

Not for its perfection,

But for all the moments we wish we could have taken back.

For all the words we should have inhaled instead of spewed.

Days like these

We sit on our thrones alone

Because power comes at a mighty lonely price.

We practice our goodness but never quite get to genuine.

It’s days like these that remind us where we are.

Who has come before us

And how we will pave the way for the others.

Days that are long,

And slow.

But worth every hustling minute.

We will remember the glory of these days

Not for its perfection

But for its purity.

Missing Man

There is a peace missing. A peace you filled many lifetimes ago and cannot be reached without knowing where you are. When I think of you, I am reminded of the nights we laughed in the bed of my dad’s truck; picked stars to call ours and screamed back at lightning in the rain. We would giggle about poetry we wrote in notes and picture frames we once made. I remember the first time we had our first time. The blanket wrapped barely around our hips. A motion so slow, yet so quick. 

And I remember the first time you had a hit. Blunt to your lips, red eyes and long rips.Too many pills came next. A needle and that blue shit. White powder lines, who’s next? You got in the game real quick. Thought I was stubborn and your friends needed you more. They called me cunt, slut, and whore. You were wrapped up in the game that played you harder than them all. The best way to explain is that we still cannot find your soul. You’re out hustling the streets without a way to retreat. Those withdraws have a way of working the weakest into the wall. A build-up, a quick draw, a small hit, a large fall. 

My stomach stretches stress the size of a cigarette burn. The hole you left when you never returned. I know the world can be harsh! I too cannot face people most days! But I’d never hurt them without the knowledge of my stay. I’ve hurt them enough with knowledge of my ways. So if you can hear this, know I search for you in the parking lots, parks, and gas stations of our town. Any spare change or a blanket given is on your behalf. I have dreams of finding you and being the heroine of my past. I also have dreams you’ll leave for the heroin – surely your last. 

The Game, Undressed

Ripped from the waist, tossed in a corner.

clothes are useless in this game.

And we play.

It is a feast of flesh and she is famished.

She roars and rolls around the covers and in between their legs.

It is a play and we are star performers at what we do best 

We love and we feel and we breathe as one tonight.

but this full feeling will not last long

We will crave more.

We will crave less.

This game, undressed.

My dreams, not yours

From the bottom of my heart, all I have wanted from you was you. But you didn’t have the courage to follow through. Didn’t allow me a picture of us two, a baby and a dog Moo, a house with a porch too. 

You didn’t see my dreams come true. You hated how I invisioned my future, called it poo. Believed in your own coo. Believed in your friends too. Just not me. Not what I believe. Make me your enemy so that I may see defeat. So that I might take the heat for you never loving me. 


Yesterday I remodeled the closet in my chest. I cleared out the pictures, the memories and the kisses. I washed the letters in the kitchen sink and bleached the sheets of all the sweat. His impression on the couch was too deep so I moved it out so I could sweep. I scrubbed the floors of all his prints and wiped away where ever we pressed our body together, all twisted in one. My place is now empty of all that he’s done.


I am the worst at flirting. Give me a sign so I know I’m not choking. Your touch is so deep I can feel myself burning. Convince me our tide is undoubtably turning. 

Stop me there.

Let me breathe in your honesty honey. Let me make sure that my chance isn’t running. Tell me once more that I’m charming and funny.

Please beware:

I didn’t pretend that I’m made for your loving. Please understand I don’t make any money. You’re all that I need to remember my body. Make it a point to not hurt me too strongly.

Don’t compare.

Allow me the chance to pave my own story. Leave him behind to not give me the worry. Open your eyes to the truth of this party.

Take me there.

Make me believe I’m made for your caring. Allow me the chance to offer you marriage. Fall into my arms and stay without wary. Believe me, I’m worth the bond that we’re sharing.