I am worthless trash. misused potential, and lost chances

fat and ugly and old

But she gave me a tin heart filled with mints.

So I guess maybe I don’t suck too bad.


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.