I’m fertile right now.

I can feel it in my mouth, my womb.

There is something that wants to be birthed, and I’m not afraid.

I need to level up.

Invade this egg, this seed.

Ask it questions.


Why the pain?

Why me?


I watch the soldiers in trees, my haters.


In trees.

My haters.


I’m an emotional mess, a lonely bitch.


Let’s forget the emotions, let’s get mental?


I’m made of metal, of bone.



In the early hours of a late night out, he asks

Do you want your old life back?”


I’d rather swallow glass.” I answer


He lets his chiseled frame fall on top of me.


I feel his hot breath on my neck.

His mouth on my shoulder.

His eyes on my heart.



This loneliness though, it is a low hum.

Shallow bark.

Bloodied snow.

It is cavernous.

It breaks my heart.


On weekends, I focus on the mundane.

Get down to the mundane.





There is a world that lives in our small apartment that is ours.

We are the Master.

the GOD.

The every-THING.

A world where he paints portraits of me, and I watch myself age and wane, change shape.

My eyes he draws,



blind and heavy with sleep.


A mouth curled,




Sad blue-rimmed eyes.


A pretty artistic coincidence,” he says

Little Girl Blue.


He sees me.

He sees me while I cook.

While I listen to him talk.

While I dance to disco.

When I smoke.

When I laugh.

When I cry.

When I smile.

When I sleep.

When I wake.

When I die.


When I resurrect.



Portrait by John Collins



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