From Me and My Inner Monologue

Don’t talk to me

Oh God, what am I doing?

Don’t talk to me until you

can look me in the eyes

and I see the same pain

that rages through my blood

I’m throwing it all away

stupid, stupid girl


you’re just insane

Don’t talk to me until

you’ve spent those eternity minutes

of quiet tears and

restrained hyperventilation

Stop being a drama-queen

You’re always so over dramatic

Nothing that is happening is wrong

except for you

you’re wrong


I don’t know what to do anymore

I love you

loved you –

I’m so torn apart

It’s an easy choice

to be

or not

to be

stop making it bigger than it is


I don’t know what to think



everything I think



is wrong

so wrong

Stop making up


Where have all the butterflies gone?

They were here

just a few eternities ago

but the flutter of their wings

has vanished from the music

and the magic is gray

and dead.



But Only If

Hey, look who it is! It’s me, here with a random poem that I started years ago and only recently finished. Still not a huge fan of the ending, but maybe one day I’ll go in and change it. But for now, it is what it is. As always, reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated!

If I am light, then you must be pitch.
Pitch darker than the depths of the untouchable ocean, you must be, if I am light.
If I can do no wrong, then you must be seated at the Devil’s right hand.
He must praise you and call you his own, if I can do no wrong.
If I am safety, then you must know no refuge.
What a horrific reality you must lead, if I am safety.
If I am freedom, then what heavy chains must strangle you.
Such planetary sorrows must burden you, if I am freedom.
If I am all you say I am, my dear, then you must be the worst of these.
But only if.


For You and Your Hatred (A Song of Forgiveness)

Shatter; slivers of broken glass

the desperate sip from the ice cold flask

and we both knew this feeling- it just couldn’t last

because of the shattered mask of your past

and though of my story you never did ask

I came from the stars and the moon and the sky

and I find when I’m dying I finally fly.


We played with the shards and our fingers, they bled-

Onto the cards where our fates, they were read

and you were your own and unto yourself –

so my feelings were locked away on a shelf

that was dusty and worn from years of disuse

and my heart dangled from its thrice folded noose

between the cage of my ribs and the pulse of my blood

and the dry of the tide and the song of the flood

and the beauty in chaos and the stars in the sky

and only when I’m dying do I finally fly.


We shout in vain at the man on the moon

our hysteria harmony to a sweet little tune

of death and despair and the pain here on earth

while we wait and we wish for our first second birth

but there’s no solace to be found in a man in the sky

yet still when I’m dying, I finally fly.


I fly, I fly- I swear that I do

I closed my eyes and thought happy thoughts

and then suddenly, I flew.


But if flying is like dying and the waning moon draws thin

and this flying is not flying, but instead drowning in my sin

then what am I to do with my filth coated wings

when I was only searching for that little bird that sings

because I wanted to ask its secret- the message in the song

that is sings without ceasing, in the darkness, all night long-

for I had found comfort in that sweet little sound

and I wanted to be grounded in the steadiness of the ground

but a different song still called to me, the lilting of the sky

and I found that though I fought it, when I was dying

I could fly.








Those Who Walk Among Us

It was a dream-

or the fragment of a dream

(an echo of a scream)

where the white bear of the north

whose frost he issued forth

limped past a snow glazed window

‘neath a starry sky.


And the white bear of the north-

with the comets he would fly,

his fur starbrushed and stardust gleaming

As I dreamed this dream I thought I was dreaming,

but dizzy and unseeing

for a moment, I could fly.


The sickness spread from blood to bone,

the liar’s lips with string were sewn

and I lost the soul I called my own

to the white bear of the North.


Longing and leaning, from dust to ash

searching for his clandestine stash

of souls he took that were his to him

and the hope he tore from limb to limb

and a soul can’t be saved with a holy hymn

beneath this starry sky.








I’m hungry-

but not enough.

No matter how hard I


there’s always someone



I want to succeed

but I find myself

too tired

to study anymore.


We learned about the Romantic’s


They think that


can be an



I wish the world




Not All Dreams Come True

When I rise,

I fall.


My feet twist underneath me,

arms flailing-

as I stutter to an awkward stop.


But there’s such a beauty in the motion,

losing myself in the rhythm

of music

and my pulse

roaring in my ears.


It’s such a marvel-

the way dancers show


through their body

and I want to speak their language.


I want to dance so badly

it hurts.


But my body

feels foreign

and stiff

and unyielding.


When I rise

I fall-

amid the sounds of laughter

and joking nudges,

murmurs of

poor girl –

she’s so clumsy.


So I’m left

with nothing

but a burning jealousy

for those who can dance-

and a passion

that I can’t




I Heard He Said She Said I Was a Slut



Could you perhaps explain to me

the exact way to show off that sliver of skin

between the cuff of my shirt and the edge of my

mother-of-pearl glove buttoned tight against my skin.

Or perhaps

you could teach me the art of just barely-

brushing fingertips-

just enough so you can feel it,

but not any more.


Because I am apparently

a thing controlled only by hormone

with no sway in my own actions-

(because one thing only leads to another,

young lady,

and if you can be near a boy-

a young man-

so comfortably,

who knows where you’ll stop?)

I’m just a teenage-hormone machine,

and my only drive

is for sex,



I know that you’re just

“looking out for me”

because you don’t want me to be

another statistic,

another teenage pregnancy

with another silent tear-stained abortion.


But all I hear is static

and that all of a sudden I’m not a

“mature young lady” who

“has her head screwed on right”.

I’m not “oh, she has such good grades”

or “she’s going places” anymore.


I’m just some wanton slut

to you

and maybe that’s not how you see it

but that’s how I hear it

and all of a sudden

that changes



So I’ll compress my hurt

into a lead ball to sit comfortably

between my ribs

and remind me to not be so



Because perhaps you waited

months and months

to hold your boyfriend’s hand-

but I don’t love

like I have time

(like you tell me to-

because maybe he’ll be “the one”

and then I’ll have the rest of my life).


I love like I will loose him tomorrow

because odds are,

I will.


All things end.

All friendships, all connections-

and most frequently,



But just because I see

what I have as finite-

does not mean that I’m going to

make the same mistake as my so called friends,

in dark rooms of seedy motels.


Because I do 

have my head screwed on straight

and my priorities intact-

and while I may derive some pleasure

in the mutual warmth of a hug

and his familiar scent

I do indeed control my body

and my “teenage hormones”

do not define me.





I have come for my glove fitting-

and a corset drawn too tight.

I will be a perfect little lady, you see.

Shy and demure-

if only you’ll explain it to me.








When Did We Start Wasting Wishes?

When did we decide

that the stars were somehow


those cold



that are incapable of caring

whether we





When did fire

become more magical

when we snuff it out,

a gray wisp in the air

the dying


of a silent



You will never understand

the value of a wish

until you discover one wish

that no matter how much you believe

in the magic of stars

and birthday candles-

it will never

come true.