thoughts while my son yells at me

His lips tell me everything I need to know.
I can’t even hear what he’s saying, staring at them.
I can see the skin re-knit in a blur, the blisters healing
a fast forward time capture of his skin, his immune system
obeying me

I imagine myself as my mother’s unwilling inheritor
kitchen witch, aura reader, potion maker, ghost talker
unsatisfied in my own skin, running away every time things get
that close to the center.

So what if it’s true.
My son’s lip is healing
and I know that means his sickness has receded
his immune system, the tiny soldiers within
taking orders from me at last.

I have learned to run without leaving,
wrapped in silent self loathing
and he can inherit love and loyalty instead,
become a kitchen witch
and heal his own children.

Unedited late night poetry

2am, and I obsess over these fictional men

wrapped around each other in never ending bromance

reading fiction by women like me

like I did when I was young

But then it was published with the Great Bird’s blessing, and now

we can reach out through the void

clasp hands, 

and write about our favorite men peeling off each other’s carefully constructed

brooding exteriors. 

We can be heroes 

to each other.

Unedited morning poetry

I have no time to write a poem

I have to get the boy to class

I want to die,

but I thought I’d say,

Not today.

I thought I’d say it to the inky black void of the internet

because saying it to people 

means I have to explain.

But if you’re reading this,

if you’re nodding, and 

rooting for me to make it to the end of the day

with as few wounds as I can,

then I don’t need to explain.

Not today.

unedited lunchtime poetry 2

While everyone was sneaking out behind the school where the woods were

I was tripping over myself, shyly laughing at his jokes and wondering

what was wrong with me. 

Caught in my crush’s vice like grip I was unable to make a move

While everyone was smoking pot and buying condoms in packs

I was shyly learning how to kiss, wrapped up in a much older man in the front of his shitty car. 

Balancing on the knife’s edge, because

when everyone else had already had one or two breakups,

when everyone else was buckling down, graduating, learning, getting A’s..

I was having the life squeezed out of me over and over

reconsidering leaving the psych ward

opening my body for any man or woman

evil enough to catch my eye

Now, while everyone else is watching their kids graduate high school, thinking about what to do now with their lives,

I have my first best friend.

My second kid is going to preschool,

we are buying a house.

I can’ t help but hope that when 

everyone else is in their graves,

I will be learning how to fly a balloon,

or taking my first trip abroad,

opening my mind to any beautiful city

vital enough to catch my eye.


unedited lunchtime poetry 1

It’s the last year here.

A free pool. We can shuffle down in our sandals. 

The sun bearing down, but such lovely heat.

Stay in the pool all day long.

But I sit and look outside, and despair.

Because it isn’t raining.

And I’m too afraid to go outside.

Even though the sun on my skin is a balm

Even though the kids are dying of boredom

hours of their lives ticking by

We’re going out today, I have decided

like a blitzkrieg

rushing out the door and into danger

we’ll stay out and get burned and laugh and splash

and then I’ll shake myself apart in the shower later

killing myself a little for them



Too early for a panic attack (reblogged from Tumblr)

I saw you in the store
angrily stuffing bagels in a bag
you were not five inches from me
I could have punched the back
of your ugly head.
I could have flayed you with words
for what you did to my boy.
I could have tripped your clueless ass
and hoped you broke your nose.

Instead I pulled up my hood,
I turned away and waited.
Helpless with anger and fear
losing breath, losing dignity.
I pray for indifference.

Been forever. I wrote a bit on tumblr.. I’ll repost it here. I also wrote some seriously bad fanfiction, but we gotta start someplace, right? I am thinking of challenging myself to write something every day and see if I stop being utter crap, or what. 

By grumpyphoenix Posted in Writing

I hate winter

Sitting to write about pain makes me so stupid

I sit to write about loneliness, how even though he sits right beside me, we are separated by a live wire cage of tendons, running red hot through me, and branding each thought with lightning; quick ceaseless impulses that tell me to stay quiet, because what can he do anyway.

I sit to write about being tired, how there are days when every movement, down to the smallest lifting of a glass or fork is planned.. how I have become a strategist and waste no gesture, lest I be set on fire from within, and lose track of the time while I sear.

I wrack my brain for adjectives and nouns, and clever metaphors, but everything I can say sounds like it comes from the brain of a black-clad time traveler from the 90s. I stay silent, as silent as I can, and instead hope to sleep.