Someone should’ve asked me if I wanted to be born. It’s not fair to come out your mother’s belly without a clue, without being able to walk and gather berries. Without having to suckle her breasts for too long before you can suck on some other nectar.

I’ve had friends who claim to remember being shot down to earth. Friends who felt their souls injected into their bodies.

I wish I felt something, but the penchant to hold in my pee is the only thing I got. I hold it, till it hurts, till I have to walk swiftly down halls and almost burst at the sight of a toilet. The relief is as gratifying as a warm shower. I like to pee in there too. Womb fantasies.

Who knows why I do it, really. I mean, I can put a symptom on it, like any self-aware American would, in order to make some sense of it, to name it and tuck it away. But I like complicating shit. I like making things appear far more important than they are. Instead, I’ll pay some neatly paced psychotherapist to give me her opinion. Here’s my 15 dollar copay. Now tell me what the fuck is wrong with me.

Make it quick, about a year, and make sure that the residue is wiped clean; I’d hate to do extra work after all those visits.

I would have loved to have been privileged enough to end up at mental hospital. I’d love to have been poked, pricked and nurtured. But that costs money, and I had laundry to do and the parents had rent to pay.

Weren’t my rampant, lively masturbation sessions at church some kind of clue that I needed help?

I don’t know, maybe I hid it well and made it all look normal. I’m trying to make sense of it in hopes that I don’t keep pointing my fingers in blame, though I love having an excuse to be angry.

I’m a leper; a tender tainted thing. I can’t see what you see, because what you see is wrong. My pain is too big too immense, and the fear of commitment is too real. I’ve lost the sense of what it is to be human and I’d rather die now than later.

Dramatics are my thing and I tend to indulge in them like velvet. I’m struggling with that peace, I’m struggling with all these hugs and whistles aimed my direction. Soft arms melting at my hip. Apple gifts from Hungarian workmates hoping to make amends. Two floors full of neurotransmitters running amok. I can almost feel it on the fibers of my skin. Still, it’s my 38th year and my cells have regenerated and I’m not the same person I was seven years ago.


food-poisoning nostalgia circa 2013

I wake up.




Brush teeth.

Wash face.

Put some sort of lotion on my skin.

Some deodorant.

Underwear and bra.

Slip on a vintage velvet dress and some clunky shoes from my High School days…

Black knee high stockings and pull my hair away from my face.

I look green.


Something is terribly wrong with me.

I can feel it swimming in my stomach.

I can hear it as I close my apartment door.

It grows as I drive against the sun.

It wants to be birthed, this thing.

I smile and attempt conversations.

Sad attempts.

It’s coming up now, this thing, this fucking feeling of cold damp skin and a beating heart.

I proceed to work, to pretend,

I’m so damn good at pretending.

But it’s dilating, it’s broken and exposed.

I need to go home.

I walk out with class, hoping no one questions me; I can’t imagine talking at this point.

I light a cigarette.

First mistake.

I spiral down, down, down the parking lot, exiting and optimistic that everyone is at work now, and no traffic awaits me.

The detachment from the self begins now.

I can feel my hands on the steering wheel, I can feel the wheels below me turning and I can see the traffic moving in a straight line in front of me.

But I’m nowhere, I’m not there.

My gut and my heart, they’re driving, they’re the ones attempting this drive home.

Inside myself, I chant and remember that it will all be over soon, the feeling of nausea will be replaced by sleep. I will be able to cover my goose-bumped skin into a ball and whine and chatter my teeth until sleep finds me.


I drift and remind myself…

“I want to drown in the zephyr that Los Angeles brings this time of year, and wane into an aftertaste, a scent, a vision and wake up once again in the darkness.”

Nothing like a broken heart and a poisoned gut.


As I write this, things are not right. As I write this, things are amazing.

Things are in flux constantly and I can’t help but feel that they will continue to be until I kill that voice in my head that reminds me that I’m no good. That everything I’ve gathered I don’t deserve.

But I do deserve it, don’t I?

I do.

I am a good person with a wicked past that was fed to me by wicked hands.

In general, I can tame those thoughts, but sleep doesn’t come easy for me.

Sleep doesn’t come at all sometimes. I’m tired and in a dream-like state most days.

I am ugly.

I am sexy.

I am not correct.

I cannot fathom how anyone can love me.

These are the thoughts that plague my head.

I have lost weight supposedly, but I’m still me. I am still not ok. I am still me.

Regardless of how much of me is gone, the same amount of shit remains inside me.

It is Saturday night and I can’t help but feel a bit old sitting here writing this.

I am indoors smoking while my man sleeps.

I am insecure and sad and a bit overwhelmed.

I am you, and you are me.

Summer is coming to Los Angeles, and I am hopeful that we will survive it.
I am hopeful that our love is strong enough to endure the cruel cruel scorching hell that becomes my apartment.
Well, OUR apartment.
I have died on the cross in this apartment.
Created whole worlds, attempted knitting, made cupcakes.

He is afraid that his love of baseball will be the end of us.
But the sounds of baseball chatter and lingo makes me feel whole.

He reminds me of everything that was good and safe in my childhood.

He will never know the impact his essence has had on me.

Sometimes those things are better left unsaid, sometimes those things are better left for you and you alone.


How many times have you come back around?

I feel like I’ve been here enough times to realize that certain people will become some sort of test. Nothing scholarly about it really, just a test of strength and compassion.
I wasn’t blessed with a sculpted body, the kind men want to ejaculate on. I wasn’t blessed with perfect skin, or any talent that could change the world somehow.

I’m just like you, and you’re just like me.

Have you ever had food poisoning?
Sounds like a senseless question, I know, but seriously, that sort of thing shapes a person.
Changes them.
You die and resurrect.
You sweat out the old and remember the good.
The fragility of a human body, the importance of your gut, of your hunger, your ability to function without the need to hide under blankets.
I’ve had more than my share of toxic bacteria circling my insides.

I’m already quite fragile when it comes to food, since food is so fucking questionable in the first place.
What is food?
I could live off of marijuana, chocolate and wine alone if I had to.

Ideally alongside someone to share it with.

Sometimes all I need is a little food poisoning in my life to clear some shit up.

Fevers are detoxes, they allow you to reminisce and indulge on your mistakes.

I can’t recall a fever that didn’t put some sort of perspective into me. It’s very similar to menstruating in my opinion,

in the way that the mind clears when it’s all over and done with.


old notes…old old notes

The weekends were delicious. I didn’t do much but sleep and eat or sometimes walk around Los Angeles at inappropriate times. I’d eat whatever was available in my pantry which was mostly rice and beans, peanut butter and jelly and the occasional instant miso soup.

I’d usually wake up several times throughout the morning since that damn internal alarm didn’t subside on weekends, and return to the comfort of my bed when being awake for too long bored me.

My phone hardly rings but when it does, it’s mostly people in need of some advice or my willing ear. It’s one of those hypocritical aspects about me that I can’t stand. I feel hate for most people but take great pleasure in bringing some sort of balance into their lives.

I suppose that’s my ego at work. That’s my well-endowed ego wanting to be in control of people’s emotions or at the very least, able to influence how people perceive themselves based on my words. What power these imbeciles give me.

But my God how much love I have for them, for their vulnerabilities, their fragile souls and bodies being held together by their malleable carcasses. They all think they’re immortal too, don’t you? These little pains you feel are so goddamn important, aren’t they? Everyone else’s turmoil’s are nothing in comparison, right?

Yah, yah…I know…

Your need for details and for decent traffic, your need for this contiguous reality to cater to you and meet your specific fucking needs, am I right?

Don’t forget to take perfect care of your body, of your insides, the “gastroenterological you” whose need for organic food makes your vocabulary change, and your eyes turn to slits when you see someone not ingesting organic crackers with their home-made soup.

Keep that flesh scar free, beautifully intact in case the man or woman you marry has perfect vision. In case you don’t want a story to tell, just a blank canvas ready to be adorned by whoever is willing to hang their ornaments.

Speak three octaves higher and twist your mouth into a smile that speaks to all hidden demons.

I’m probably just jealous, jealous that I wasn’t dubbed with such characteristics. It all looks so easy, so natural, the way words flow out their mouths while I struggle to not say the wrong thing.

I was made wrong, handed traits that collide when they come to know of each other.

Contrasting rudiments that make a very unattractive human being.

I see it when I’m walking alongside a beautiful female, the way I’m ignored, thrown aside.

And then I ask myself, would I want that kind of attention?

The craving of my sex, my honey?

Shouldn’t I spread my legs for the worthy, the kind, the blind?

God, I spend entirely too much time deciphering men’s desires and the lack of my own.

I think I’ll drink tonight, I’ll pretend I have something worthwhile cooking in my brain and speak of all the books I have yet to write and all the movies I have yet to watch.

There’s nothing wrong with carrying around your fears and crudely soothing them with poison. I’m a drinker Monday thru Friday and take the weekends off, but not today. I have a budget strictly for it and plan on making the most of it. Drinking alone isn’t all bad, I enjoy the sound of my music and the smell of food cooking, Food I took the liberty of marinating and dressing up to suit my palette.

It’s date night.

Date night with myself.

The time of the month when I indulge in my own presence.

The time of the month when I’m not bleeding and I’m not emotional.

I’m stable and starving.

I take real good care of myself then. I set the table and let Miles Davis set the mood.

This whole gender role bullshit always had me twisted up in a knot. I never wanted to give into the feeling of being a woman. I thought it weak and malignant.  I could never be those things correctly, I thought. I could never live up to all the women I’d see in the streets, on television, read about in literature or was even friends with.

I lacked some sort of Venus aspect.

My mutable masculinity permeated my every move, the tone of my voice, the way clothes hung on my body, the way I held a fork or smoked a cigarette.

But someone would come along, I’d tell myself.

Someone would look at all those things and love them.

But no one ever did come along.

I waited and waited.

I searched and pulled away in hopes that maybe someone would see me from afar and feel this unbearable pull towards me.

That weight in the pit of the stomach, the need to stare into my eyes until they could see their reflection in them, until they could count how many specks of black adorn my brown retinas.

That close.

That deep.

Until I could smell their breath and taste the pungent aroma of cigarettes.

That close.

Closer even.

I’d like to remember what it feels like to have a mouth on top of mine.

To feel the anticipation of nervous nerves and fumbling heads positioning themselves accordingly. Poor nervousness, contemplating love based on the amount of butterflies flying in the gut.

If I think real hard I can remember my first kiss. The first kiss I count as the “first” anyway. A sloppy sort of mess with a boy named Randy. He wore yellow shorts and was shorter than me, and I’m 5’2.

What an atrocity.

I’m surprised I can still recall such a tragic event.

We started this “kiss” standing up and graduated to kneeling. What fools we were. Trying to have that fleeting moment “mean something”.


Firsts are always a joke. Most people romanticize the idea of a first since it’s brand new and you have no prior anything to compare it to.

I like to think back to the times when I had already gone through the agony of my first and I mastered the essence of whatever it was I was tackling.

When I became a good kisser, a giving lover, a good woman to keep around for as long as you’d have her or until I’d get bored and move on to the next lesson.

What I wouldn’t give sometimes to be clueless and beautiful, to have a rotten personality attached to a beautiful face. I think life would be easier then.

This wine is terrible.

Tastes like olive oil.

I’d hoped that perhaps a bit of lime juice would do the trick but no such luck.

I decided to cook some brussell sprouts, potatoes and carrots.

The stereo played James Brown and I could hear the neighbors fucking if it weren’t for James’ singing.

I didn’t care if James resonated through the halls or that my bass playing bothered sleeping children. I paid rent just like they did, and I deserved my sanity.

Most days felt like a cartoon.

I felt invincible and drained from the years of lost sleep. I had the same pair of boots I bought 15 years back and they were in dire need of new soles.

Shit, I was in dire need of a new soul, but at the very least it was only going to cost me 45 dollars to fix them boots while my eternal damnation weighed down on my shoulders.

I could hear teenagers outside my window, yelling and touching each other, forgetting that their flesh would one day either rot in the earth or burn into cinders. I wish I’d felt immortal at that age. I wish I could’ve thought that I’d never die so that I could’ve taken more risks and hadn’t been so fucking dull.

I had the occasional blackouts and the drunken nights with hard bruises of lusty kisses on my neck, but nothing more than that. Most days all I did was walk around watching myself from the outside in. I never understood why most people passed me by. Shame really, but a co-worker of mine once told me that you’re not only judged by the people that like you but also from the people that don’t.

Gave me hope.

Maybe I’m just too picky, I expect too much from people. We are only human after all. But to stand so close to someone and listen to them speak without them saying a single thing made me question the constant bickering that plagues my head.

Who am I arguing with?

What does it all mean?

Will I finally come to a final answer before the big sleep?

Music helps, but not always.

Phone conversations help until the person on the other end decides they’d rather be doing something other than talk to you.

It’s hard to stay motivated as the traffic passes by and the love of humanity withers. I wish I didn’t care so much about dying and started to live. I wish family was the soil I stepped on and friends came only when I needed them. Lovers I’ll take any time of the day, the need for it can drive a woman mad with undigested emotions; the kind that simmer in the spine and erupt in bus stops and hospitals.

I don’t want to erupt; I want to slither out fashionably late with painted nails and cigarette in hand. I don’t want my lipstick to smear when I kiss and I hope that one day someone’s hands will touch me and sigh at the exchange.

One can dream.


I have this full length mirror, a housewarming gift from a friend.

It swivels up and down and it doesn’t stay put unless I lean it against a wall. I keep it dirty, full of dust, thwarting my very existence when I look at myself through it.

I stay long periods of time looking at my imperfections, my gluten bumps that appear randomly on my ass, thighs, arms, and head.
I am not attractive, the mirror agrees.
I am merely blessed with words and the monthly occurrence of menstruation which makes my features nuanced.

It makes every woman’s features nuanced.

I’m not special.
Although I’d like to think I am.
My body is full of scars and burns and bites and I dress it in velvet and lace to throw off its gloom.

It can’t suffer all the time; it needs some sort of relief.

Walking around in this body I’ve at least come to understand that I was built to last. Sturdy shoulders and legs.

I’m the mule, the horse in case of the apocalypse.
I was once told I’d make a good meal, and if extended long enough, I’d last for days on my legs alone.
These are the type of compliments I get.
I’d like to think this makes me tasty,




At least fuckable,

everyone wants to be fuckable, right?






“Your pussy is magick.” he says between heavy wheezing.

His asthma is acting up.

We smoke too much.


We’ve been up for hours, talking.

The way new lovers talk.





While the city sleeps, we make love.

I haven’t slept right in weeks and last night was no different.

I am in shadow mode.

The great revelation is coming,

I can feel it.


But, in the meantime, I am sitting at work, smelling of sex, cigarettes and sandalwood.


My inbox is full, but one of the e-mails has the subject line:




The promise of donuts depresses me.

I will watch everyone enjoy what I can’t have.

I have Celiac’s.

But I cave in because I hate myself.

I want the migraine, the brain-fog, the bloating.

What better way to spend my Tuesday?

I can taste him between bites of my donut.

I carry him in my mouth, my hands, my nail beds.

He is everywhere.

He is everything.


We sheep flock to free treats like addicts.

We are addicted to validation.

To recognition.

To sugar.

To love.


We want love more than we want carbohydrates.

We want love more than sex.

We need it more than the hot sun on our cold skin.

More than soft fingers in our hot pockets, more than anything.


We eat to fill the stubborn grumble.

We drink to sink into warmness.

We smoke to burn.


I want to marry him.

… burn with him

To sink into his warmness.

Soft digits in my sugar.


honey drip
















Tonight, sleep will come easily.

We’ll still wake before the sun.

He’ll still make the coffee.


Exhaustion makes coffee taste better in the morning.

Gives us something to look forward to.




Art by John Collins


Donut picture by Todd Leafgreen






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



I’m bleeding.

sullied thighs, teary-eyed, ravenous.

My man is sympathetic. 

Buys me wine, ice-cream, weed. 

Makes love to me and doesn’t mind when I stain the bed.

It’s a good life.

Another day at the office, and today they are trying to appeal to our hunger and depression by having a corn-dog truck come during lunch. We need a ticket because we are numbers. We are hungry office monkeys waiting for Friday to get paid. We watch our bank accounts like voyeurs and hope that the $11.34 in our accounts will hold us over till the weekend. We eat every single thing in our pantries and refrigerators and go to bed hungry cause it’s easier than going to the store and looking at food you can’t buy.

But you buy the wine and the cigarettes because life was meant to be lived in the best way possible. 

I get the soy dog because meat sits like an enemy on my guts. But something is different this year. The corn-dog truck is getting lazy. They just don’t taste the same as they did last year. Maybe parts of my tongue have died. 

Our meet-and-greet lunch is as awkward and uncomfortable as it sounds. I’m bleeding heavy now, and I can feel it seeping through my clothes but I doubt I’ll stain those pretty white corporate chairs. A shame really, they’re just as depressed as all of us and deserve a good story to tell. But I play the part because acting comes easy. I nod and take a bite of my corndog. I smile and take another bite. 

Back at my desk, I watch my horoscope on YouTube because the last couple of months have been interesting. They predicted the towering down of my relationship, the rising up of another. They told me that my “twin flame” was close, and that I had paid my dues so I was ready.

They reminded me that Saturn was about to leave after sharing close space with me for almost 3 years. As silly as it sounds, I felt the release. I am now left to fend for myself. 

I return to work.

Real work, and remind myself that it is indeed Friday and the weekend awaits. But as I sit there, sipping on semi-expensive Parisian tea, I remember that Monday is only two days away, and the weekend doesn’t sound as good after all. 


Do you ever think about getting all your ex-lovers together and putting them in a room so they can have a meet-and-greet?

You know, ask each other questions, compare notes and hesitantly but curiously ask, “Did she eat your ass?” secretly hoping he was the only one.

Don’t worry baby, you were, you were…

I don’t know why I think of things like that.
What’s the purpose?

Feeling the bulk of my conquests, my indiscriminate soul manifesting in all colors, shapes and sizes. Love in numbers. Literal, tangible numbers. It’d be quite a night. I’d cook, of course. I’d incorporate ALL of their favourite meals. To ease the discomfort, to remind them why they loved me.

Now tell me, why is this all so necessary?

Why do I need so much validation mixed with desire, the need to BE desired, the need for love however temporary however fleeting?

I can’t seem for the life of me to answer that question.

I’m beginning to think that these words made into sentences and paragraphs resemble the human, or what is perceived as the human experience. Trying to make sense of it all and navigating from one topic to the next, because that’s how we beating blood-filled pieces of flesh work, a million miles a second. I’m no fucking scholar, I never finished college, I taught myself most everything, MOST everything I know.

You pick up the things that enthrall and you run, run with them like your hymen depended on it. Like your very virginity was at stake and you gorge on that thing, whatever it is and you get so full, so disgusted with it, but you keep going, don’t stop, until all you can do is taste it when you smack your lips together and see it when you close your eyes.

I think of books I’ve read, lessons learned, the calloused heart, fleeting emotions of passersby, co-workers becoming friends, friends becoming acquaintances, enemies becoming obsolete, body getting stronger, mind getting wiser, time ticking by, love in the ether, me in the city and you nowhere and everywhere.

Speaking of the city, GOD, I can write endless supposed prose in her honor.

The beautiful City of Angels.

But I’ll spare you the bullshit so that you can visit her yourself.