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.




watching your parent’s age is like watching yourself die. I can’t imagine losing them, yet, I’ve killed them in my head a long time ago. My mother taught me about death as a kid, she sat me down one day and looked me in the eye, real serious and said…

“I’m not gonna be around forever you know, I’m gonna die one day and you’ll continue living. It won’t be the end of the world, just the end of me.”
Then one day, when I was sixteen, I came home stoned and hungry hoping I’d have the kitchen to myself, and I saw this man. He was dressed in a black suit, real professional-like this man, and he stopped yapping when he saw me. My mother told me to sit down.
“We’re buying our plots.” she said nonchalantly.
“We’re gonna go pick out our coffins right now, we were hoping you’d be home in time.”
I put on my coat and there we were, in a straight line waiting to be picked up by the black-suited-man in his van. I wanted a cigarette so bad then.
We didn’t drive far.
I hadn’t realized that we lived so close to coffin vendors. I had passed them right by.

It was December of 1996 I believe. It was cold for California and the time change made it dark by 6 p.m.
There weren’t many coffins to choose from but I managed to pick one that was fairly decent and was lined with what looked like purple cloth.
My parents got matching ones.
The “transaction” was easy and we were dropped off 45 minutes later.


so the probability of dying is inevitable. It could happen in our sleep, our cars, in our homes, at work.
You forget where you’re at when you work on the 9th floor.
I have this wonderful view, the kind most people take for granted after a while. It becomes a sort of painting instead of an actual landscape. I catch myself pretending that if some sort of fire took place, I’d be ok.
So it’s lunch time again, and I’m munching on some crackers and I’m contemplating whether or not I want to finish the wine I carefully disguised as Italian soda when the alarm rings.
“This is a fire alarm, please evacuate the building!” it yells at me.
I continue to munch on the crackers and feel my legs weaken, picturing myself trotting down nine flights of stairs.
But I get up, take my backpack and my crackers and guide myself to the staircase. I see a hoard of people, unrecognizable in the sea of panic trying to fit in one dysfunctional line down the stairs.
I feel like a sheep, a literal sheep led down by instinct.
First floor, crunch crunch, second floor, crunch crunch, third floor, tap tap tap go their high-heeled shoes forcing their tightly wrapped feet to trample trample trample, fourth floor, crunch, crunch, crunch…
First floor, I’m surprisingly alright, not bad, not bad at all…these sturdy legs did me good, I was built to last through fires and all.
I’m less hungry after all them crackers and the anticipation of death.
Death by fire, how romantic.
So the thought comes up in the sides of my mouth now, the inevitable need for love during times of despair, during times of 9th floor mishaps and knowing that we are fucked, fucked beyond these rounding 9 flights of stairs. Fucked beyond our files and our recordings, we all just need to get fucked, nice hard thrusts of re-assurance. Rolling thunderous sequenced bursts of light rays, saying silently and brightly….I love you, at least at this moment, I love you.
I see a crowd gather, the rebel crowd that ignored the drill and continued eating, continued laughing and pretending it’s all pretend.
They start to ask strange questions, and I assure them that questions aren’t strange, they’re necessary.
“Who would you fuck if the building was really burning?” I ask almost nonchalantly.
I mean, these are real concerns of mine.
They all laugh, as if such a thing is blasphemous.
I know they’ve thought of it, I know they know exactly who’d they fuck. I’d fuck myself first and get myself ready, you know, nice and moist before I head off to the second person on my list.
They all admit a half-hearted subtlety that smells like a bunch of shit lies.
I know what they’re thinking but I just don’t care.
I’d fuck them all if they’d let me, for the sake of being that infamous giver, for the sake of knowing I’d be ash come morning.


lunch comes whenever my hunger grinds on my guts
it varies in time, depending on my menses
sometimes I’m ravenous, sometimes I’m a drought
I’m velcroed to my desk chair, strapped in like a submissive
my master is my paycheck, he determines my quality of life
he keeps my fridge full or empty
he pays for my therapist and my multivitamins
and the occasional extravagant liquid lunch

I walk into the break room, again, in full armor
I’m ready for the shrapnel, the benign conversations, the commentary, the gossip and the awkward “hello’s”

If I’m in a particularly good mood, I’ll wear make-up, comb my hair even
but most days I look windswept and interesting
and smell like cigarettes and sweet bread
I warm up my leftovers and watch the microwave spin on its axis
I picture folding myself up and positioning myself inside
melting into my rice
a bubbling marinara
hot noodles to slurp
but the beeping brings me back
my food is ready
I slip out without much pomp, but with inevitable circumstance

I eat inside an empty office, because it’s the only way I’ll get any peace, any quiet
I leave the lights off so that no one will assume I’m in there
I put on my headphones and watch a mukbang
another lonely person eating in the privacy of an empty room, talking at me, to me, to hundreds, thousands…

I cry into my soup, I hate this place
but I have an apartment to pay, and food to buy, and a car to pay

I am just another victim of this 9-5
so on my days off, I indulge
I take in as much of myself as I can, replenish my drained battery with music, art and masturbation

One must love oneself
that shit can’t be left to someone else
they don’t know your buttons, or your ghosts

so I burn candles in hopes that Santa Muerta and Elegua will grant my wishes
I smoke cigars to clean my lungs
and drink spirits to soothe mine

lunch is over and I unplug
time to float on the brink of insanity
I return to my electric chair and strap in
20 e-mails
most of them are “reply all” responses to a meme
it’s how we get through our days, how we cope…






it is a perpetual fatigue that sleeps with me, wakes up with me
i’m not even sure how i get to work sometimes
all of a sudden, i’m at my desk and there’s a hot cup of coffee in my hands
it’s shit coffee, but because of its shittiness, it does the trick

turning on the computer feels like putting on heavy armor, a battlefield on the keyboard

as I type this, i am tired
as I type this, I am tired

the blue screen prompts me to remember my password
it’s changed a million times since I’ve been here
been here 5 years
and all I got was a German knife set and a $100 VISA gift card
a plaque that they probably bought in bulk and took to the mall to be embossed

I’m special, but you’d never know if you watched me at work for 8 hours
i have however perfected the copy/paste method down to an art form
you should see my fingers glide, like a fire ant Queen laying her eggs

what is my password?

Usually I keep it the same, change only the sequence of the numbers
now, since I’m in love, it is his name and my name and the date we met wrapped together like we wrap our limbs

I’m allowed in.

my computer is ancient, because somebody like me doesn’t deserve anything new, just something reconstructed

something rebuilt and rebuilt, mimicking me, mirroring me

I sympathize.

I am tired as I type this. I am exhausted as I sit here.

I don’t wake up until 10 a.m.

But the traffic that passes by me in the form of humans reminds me that I’ve been here for hours

I hear someone growl like a bear from deep in the hallway, and the crazy lady that works feet away from me is dancing again


I am miserable
I am a monkey
I am a machine being prompted to “grow up” so that the company can grow

My desk is littered with dead flowers
reminders of my soul
reminders of my withering heart

but in-between there are cheaply printed photographs of my men
the men I love

Travis Bickle
Henry Miller
Marilyn Manson

there are crystals to soothe my throat chakra so that I can communicate succinctly
crystals to keep me calm

paperclips and highlighters

a picture of my father and I at the airport on our first day in the States

little did I know then
that I’d end up here