poetry

Tuesdays

I’d always drive over on a Tuesday.

Volume dialed to 26,

humming foreign languages.

Breathlessly making my way up

those stairs.

Taking my place on your

velvet orange retro couch.

The couch sagged on the left

from the sleepover nights.

The wear of laughing fits

and group cuddles.

The sagging fabric on the left

is our proof of life.

My proof of life.

One that took 20 years

for me to find,

because a pulse just wasn’t enough.

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poetry

Lonely

I’m lonely.

I have a filled up

space with an empty

bed.

I have an empty mind.

Not even my mind comforts

my needs.

I don’t have love

that’s worth singing about.

It feels blank.

And it’s lonely.

I imagine my chest

empty.

I don’t want to depend on

someone to feel full.

I would still feel the

cleared out space.

I want a reason to dance.

Instead I’m still.

Staring expressionless

with the music running

to my ears.

It keeps me motionless.

Statue made of life.

I won’t move and

it breaks me.

It happens when I’m alone.

When I can’t hide the fact

that I’m loveless.

I want to be opened and read.

Taste fingertips and meet glances.

I know I can’t have it.

It leaves me on pause.

I refuse to keep playing.

But the melody is still going

and I’m left behind.

Now I am just so lonely.

Chronic illness · poetry

A Slow Hollow

It’s slow. Agonizingly slow.

With each moment it grows more

and more swollen.

Closing my throat.

Digging my nails into my neck

trying to catch one breath.

Hours pass and I don’t want to

keep fighting for survival.

I can’t get rid of the poison.

Every heart beat feeds it.

The longer I continue to live

the longer it has to find more ways for me

to suffer.

Who could ever love this reality?

To exist next to it.

Who would choose to suffer

because I had no choice?

It eats me.

Slowly consuming me.

Seven years, what is left of me?

It makes me into nothing.

I’m wasting away, unable to

choose my existence.

I exist as it wants me to,

Hollow.

Christianity · Chronic illness · poetry

I’m Just Fine (My First Rap)


People ask me “Why you don’t talk” all the time.

Well here’s your damn answer,

My body’s decaying, it’s breaking.

But no one gives two craps unless it’s cancer.

All I do stare up at ceilings

Trying to ignore the fact that my skin keeps peeling. Off

Damn Doctors, they insult me 

It’s all in my brain, they say.

Thanks Doc,

Slam the car door, mom asks those three words,

“How are you?”

My mouth is under padlock.

She just wants to hear that 

I’m still as strong not easy to knock.

Even if every words a lie.

[CHORUS]

I’m, just, fine.

I’ll be okay, I’m living a normal life.

It’s sad from time to time, but God is kind.

Don’t you worry about me, I’ll bloom on time,

I may have thorns in my sides, but I was made just right.

I have my eyes on the prize, it will just take some patience and Christ.

I’m, just, fine.

[CHORUS]

There’s not light, I look at the time. I have a realization,

The medication can’t stop the PTSD or depression, my silence is a confession, open your eyes and make a correction on how you see me before I make a stupid decision that will make you learn your lesson. 

See me. I’m weaker than you think, don’t blink, you might miss it. Terrified of the what if’s the worlds darkest screw it’s.

You tell me I can’t live this way, I’m lazy and I never move from where I lay. 

No really? you think I wanted this? What about all the things I miss? Really?

This is my body, not me. If pain wasn’t in the damn way I would runaway, stand in line just because this mother could, I would dance all night pretending this white girl was from the hood. Only if I could. 

You ask me with that fake voice, “Girl, How are you!?” 

And so the conversation goes…

[CHORUS]

I’m, just, fine.

I’ll be okay, I’m living a normal life.
It’s sad from time to time, but God is kind.
Don’t you worry about me, I’ll bloom on time,
I may have thorns in my sides, but I was made just right.
I have my eyes on the prize, it will just take some patience and Christ.
I’m, just, fine.
[CHORUS]
What should I say? You all ready know that the pain is chronic, that I have PTSD and I can’t love myself, that I dig so far into my body that bleed, it’s ironic.

Can’t be my own lover so I make myself uglier.

You know that. But say it out loud, you run faster then a freaking street rat. 

So I’m fine. Cuz it’s crime to check box other.

Mother always says to treat others how you want to be treated so I show compassion.

Even after you ask me that question in poor fashion. Because no should be alone.

Even if love was never shown. In the first place.

So I get another text, the same stupid question.

As if I could describe with the words in my possession. So I hold up a mirror and have them ask themselves. Thats all people have wanted since I was twelve.

And…

[CHORUS]

I’m, just, fine.

I’ll be okay, I’m living a normal life.
It’s sad from time to time, but God is kind.
Don’t you worry about me, I’ll bloom on time,
I may have thorns in my sides, but I was made just right.
I have my eyes on the prize, it will just take some patience and Christ.
I’m, just, fine.
[CHORUS]
If the pain would go, my heart could show, and all this loneliness would be just a memory. But just because that’s what it should be doesn’t mean it could be.

poetry

You’re A Whore

Shes never had sex.

She hasn’t given consent.

This was her choice.

Yet, her breasts have been 

squeezed and ass has been 

smacked red. 

She’s a slut,

because she’s not dating

anyone.

She’s a tramp,

because they touch her

and yell “complements”

as she walks her dog.

Ugh, she’s the definition of vulgar!

She’s terrified of the 

consequences of telling them 

to screw off.

She rests there for her bus.

He turns the corner and

yells, “Nice rack!”

Wow, what a whore.

She is a national treasure.

Born with sculpted curves,

skin painted with the best 

paint Van Gogh could buy.

She goes to the Chicago art 

Museum and she is the 

masterpiece.

People are degrading.

They can see that they have 

ruined themselves.

No longer worth her time,

but they failed to see

the beauty left in themselves.

So they ruin her.

They tarnish her purity.

They take away the truth 

of who she is so she suffocates.

They make her something 

only to get pleasure from.

Instead of someone who 

should be hidden, cherished,

by people who will see who 

she is and will become.

We all believe the lie.

We know the truth,

But we are silent 

we join in.

Our minds are bought and 

sold so easily.

And she’s the whore…

poetry · Uncategorized

Can You See Me?


I am hidden.

I pride myself on being 

transparent,

but I find that I am so

much so, that I am invisible.

I have no color. 

I feel myself 

and there is no intriguing 

substance.

I have lived only 20 years 

and I just bought my 

first thong.

I am behind the times.

My body is a chameleon.

Morphing to the colors, shapes,

and habits of my surroundings.

No one can see me. 

Why do I blend into what 

I don’t want to be a part of?

How do I find myself?

Why does my honesty 

hide me?

Why can’t you see me?

Chronic illness · poetry · Uncategorized

Things That Pop Into My Mind


I like the smell of rain 

when it hits the pavement.

I don’t enjoy puddles 

because I always forget 

to buy shoes that are meant 

for jumping in them.

I have never envied others 

for having siblings because 

I knew if I had one,

they would be the better 

one.

I could stare out a window 

for hours, just spacing out 

at the nothingness.

Daydreaming while standing or 

sitting, creating worlds that

truthfully I never want

to become reality.

In middle school I was so 

bullied, that I changed my 

handwriting five times,

all as an attempt to get them

to like something about me.

I don’t know what my natural

writing looks like, since

when I don’t think about it,

it looks like five different fonts.

There is this reoccurring 

dream I have that I watch 

myself walk down stairs.

All in slow motion, then

suddenly,

I see a knife stab me in the 

chest.

It restarts, same snail speed.

Leaving me feeling anything but 

terrified.

What I do fear is fate.

Not mine but his and hers.

He’s gullible and enrolled in

the military.

She thinks life is like a

game of “follow the leader.”

Both big hearted, 

both scared of their past 

truths.

Afraid of being alone 

with themselves.

I know that I’m not 

going to ever work like 

my mother does from 9-5.

My body is broken and

there is no fixing it

with doctors, medicine,

herbal therapy, yoga, veganism,

vampirism, or detox program.

There are times when days 

go by and I realize that I haven’t 

eaten.

So no Shelly, I’m not thinking of 

children anytime soon.

I somehow have a zit on

my ear.

That won’t stop me from

picking at it like the rest.

I’m not afraid of confrontation,

in fact when it happens,

I get a thrill from fixing problems 

or even putting people 

in their place.

I want someone to hold me 

but I’m scared that when someone 

does they will find my intimacy 

repulsive.

This is my madness.

The FAQ sheet of yours 

truly.

Ramblings of a chronically ill,

pajama party loving,

chocolate eating,

wise-beyond-her-years,

20 year old woman.

poetry

Swipe Right


I aim to be a missed call

in 2017.

You know that my phone

is glued 

to these bloody palms.

I just didn’t swipe right.

Isn’t that what we desire?

Look at me,

see what I created for you to see,

love what I can never be, in a second,

and swipe right.

I won’t get close to anyone,

so let me get inside you,

just for tonight.

Swipe right.

Our hands are chapped from 

the friction.

It takes at the least 2 years

to know the complexity of 

ones existence,

but all you need to know about me

can fit on your phone screen.

Swipe right. 

Bloody hands from rubbed

raw finger tips.

How long can we lie?

Emotions are enevitable.

The faster you run,

the slower they slit your throat.

Humanity cannot change 

how it feels by manipulation.

There is no app for deleting 

the past.

You will sense every connection.

Swiping right 

cannot protect you.

One night will last with you

Forever. So be right.

If you believe that everlasting 

hides behind the act of

a swipe,

find it in yourself.

You think you can avoid 

loneliness by

using private parts 

and manipulation,

you fool.

Lies call you now.

They know that the phone 

is in your grasp.

The trap is set and 

all a bleeding thumb needs to do is

swipe right.

poetry

Can We Talk?


People don’t like to hear 

Other people talk.

They enjoy only the lies

That allow them 

To fornicate 

With pain, despair,

Dressed as sweet everlasting.

A chameleon, 

a cop dressed as a prostite.

A grown mans first try at

Being a woman.

Obviously something 

Trying to be what it’s not.

What it desperately 

Needs to be.

People treat the voice of 

Truth like how some

Treat Muslims.

How the nazis treat 

The Jewish.

They piece together 

Their oxymoron 

Of truth. 

And we all believe the lie.

People don’t like to hear

Other people talk.

Good thing  I 

Can never stop

Speaking.

Writing.

I’ll never shut the “ef” up.

poetry

Let It Be The Bullet

04f1bbb6f316bd6b9c861c65843999e9Let me say the words you never wanted

to hear.

Let me poison your existence faster then

I can say “it’s over.”

We both know it is, once I paint my face with pity.

Realize that two years you spent kissing me

was worthless.

Feel your heart shatter like stained glass

when you realize you made the mistake

by letting me inside you.

In every sense.

What a fool you have been.

Thinking that this was meant for

the end of days.

Only to grasp, I usually only lasted 2 minutes.

Refusing to see our intertwining breath

as just us finding warmth in the winter.

But now your breasts are changing into spring

and my fingertips now have frost bite.

Naivete has always been your

talent.

Now blame yourself for my state of

perpetual lingering.

For my fear of change being more potent

then any love I could feel for you.

I will know the truth and I encourge

you to let my potential unsaid words

scrub at the inside of your skull.

Let it be the bullet.

As if ending it all wasn’t enough

of a mugging.