Stretched out to find
You’ve lost what was mine
All of my cherished love
Has vanished from the room
And you stand in front of me
Hoping I won’t break down
Everything I’ve ever known
Is forever in the ground



Sore from all the time wasted
left to face this all alone
i never asked for your sympathy
never asked for your dreams
you look at me like i’m your failure
always taking credit for everything
that is your nature
this time the stench is too much for you to bear

worries may end nowhere slowly
leaving certain roads of sacred solitude
every cut obviously means goodbye

lying awake and sitting in bed
remembering the times ahead
forgive and forget all again
this is all a dream in your eyes


Subconscious Suicide

Every now & then I wonder how I am still alive today.

I spent many a night hanging out in the middle of the desert with groups of people whose real names were a mystery to me but their street names were legit enough.  Meeting new faces in new places night after night. The faces continuously changed but the habits remained the same for years.

Drinking &                 smoking &                                          snorting 

                                                   – but never injecting – 

All the best & worst in life. I had no direction in my life & I could care less. I was attempting a subconscious suicide at every waking moment. 

And surviving day 



But oh how the times have changed! Now I’ve got goals & dreams & hopes & optimistic thoughts & I swear – if after all of the shit I’ve put myself & my body through – I end up dying in some random,  boring, non-self-inflicted way?

I’m going to be so fucking pissed.


Perfectly Sunny

Sometimes I despise the weather in Arizona.

Is it too much to ask to look out my window & see an overcast day & feel like 

– on some level – 

the universe gets me?

But I suppose that’s asking a lot of the universe.
Especially when I don’t have a thing to give it in return.

I aimlessly go through the actions of my days with nothing to show for at their end.
And sometimes I feel okay with this.
But most of the time I don’t.

Welcome to my DNA…


Welcome to Me…

me Me ME Me me.

Welcome to Who I Am.

Oh….oh fuck.

Who am I?

Labels are shit, I know this.
But I still feel the need to belong somewhere on the spectrum.


Am I
A photographer?
An artist?
A poet?
A linguist?
A granddaughter?
A daughter?
A caregiver?
A friend?
A gay woman?
A decent person in general?
A active citizen contributing to society?

I don’t feel like any of these things right now.

And maybe I don’t belong to any of those labels.
Maybe I never will.
And maybe, just maybe, I’m rambling right now.

My DNA right now consists of just a big, awkward ball of yarn that is
tangled up.
And I know that somewhere in this tangled up version of “me” – there is such potential to be made into something practical.
Something useful.

If only I could find someone to help me figure out this mess I’ve put myself in.
Because I’ve tried for so long to figure it out on my own.
But I’ve hit that point –
There is nothing more I can figure out on my own.

But who am I kidding?
Even when someone does attempt to untangle me –
I am always right behind them –
Working against them.
And convincing them that
This is the way I am meant to be.
This is my DNA.

I cannot change.

So here I am
Back at square one.
Just me.

But you know what?
All of these words are so
completely and


The cons outweigh the pros.
My cons outweigh her pros.

I don’t know if I will ever know who I am.
Or who I think I might be eventually.

I really just cannot handle this perfectly sunny day right now.


Wooden Spoon

If I hadn’t closed my eyes when I did, I would have been blinded. Probably. The wooden spoon was smacked against my face with such force and speed that it created two open cuts around my right eye and produced a devastating sound. My collection of scars had begun at six years old.

Brian and I were raised more like siblings rather than uncle and niece, so I embellished the pain more than was necessary to ensure he’d get in trouble. Naturally. I’m not sure what made him dish out the wooden spoon treatment. It might have been because I kept pestering him to take me along for a bike ride with his friends. He had recently installed the shiny metal pegs onto the back wheel of his maroon bike, which was covered in silver scratches – a testament of his toughness on the homemade neighborhood dirt bike jumps.

I held onto his shoulders, standing on the pegs behind him, my head tilted downward. He was peddling at a moderate speed, my hands going up and down in sync with his shoulders. The whipping wind against the fresh cuts stung, and my eyes were squinting from smiling too much. As I grabbed a handful of shirt with one hand, the other had found its way around to my backpack, fumbled with the zipper, grabbed the wooden spoon, and torpedoed it into the back wheel spoke. The revenge of blood and dirt never tasted so good.


What was I talking about when I felt the hairs on my arms begin to singe? The memory escapes me now but what I do recall is that I was not going to react how he wanted me to. He needed more than just the slight twitch of my eyes. It was a test of endurance.

I barely noticed as he pulled up my sleeve and pressed our forearms up against one another’s, creating a small valley for his half-smoked cigarette to rest in. Whoever pulled away first was the loser. The pain was dulled by my pride as well as the six gin and tonics coursing through my veins. The November wind was on my side, cooling the ache that was gradually gaining momentum. His smug grin failed to escape my periphery, so I simply continued on with my conversation and took a drag from my own cigarette.

He repositioned the same burning dart three times and grew more agitated as I continued to ignore him. As he began to light another pawn for this useless battle against me and his girlfriend appearing to be too “friendly” with one another for his liking, I knew it was time to end this silly war.

Sobriety had left the scene of this crime hours before and would take no responsibility for when I plucked the remains of the cigarette from its carefully balanced resting place, my skin numb to the last of its flickering embers and extinguished it, drilling it down deep into my arm. I remained silent, glaring into his eyes as the live burn slowly transformed into an oval of smudged ash on skin.


Your grandmother, Juanita, her auburn hair in a tight high bun and tinted glasses that dominated her face, stared at me from across your bed. Surrounded by her own four walls and encased behind a thin pane of glass, it was the only photograph you had of her. She was balanced on a tiled shelf that jutted out from the wall of our room, once a ledge to a window leading to the kitchen, now boarded up. You once said I had her hands. I couldn’t touch you the same way after that.

As I stumbled into our room, I could feel Juanita’s eyes following me. An intruder in your bed. I only meant to set her down on her face, but the news that you had decided to stay in Kentucky made my anger a more potent force. When I awoke the next morning, I was alone. Except for Juanita. I walked over and saw her on the floor, covered in shards of glass. A jagged triangle caught my eye. There was no thought process as I dragged it slowly against my skin. What was once used to protect was now being used to destroy. It had to be slow, deliberate. The cocktail of unsavory substances blurred any chance of normal vision. Yet somehow a straight line was achieved. Perhaps it was Juanita guiding our hand. It would be easy to transform into a feather someday.


We each burned the ends of our bridge
But it did not completely disappear
There was just enough to mend it as best we could
And so now we can still walk across – we just need to be far more careful from now on

So many times I tried to believe your words
Yet your actions never failed to prove them wrong
Blame your inability to stay sober
Your undeniable truth was revealed in those early morning hours

Dishonesty paved the way from your lies to my heart
Can never get that time back
Can never replay the part
For I’d rather live with my darkness than to ever be blinded by your tainted light ever again