Eighteen Hundred Dollars

I want to uproot this life

each radial finger, dichotomous

corn-hair from the husk.

I want to pry coldhard fingers

off of it

want to unravel the cross-stitch and run.

Want to feel the road stretching herringbone-

it is what you’d recommend.

I fish bronchi of stream-water


out from under this sand.

Aspen-grove arms of entrapment

constrict and anchor me still

I am strong enough to unclasp them

wisteria clinging,


ripping away from both heels.





I feel


I want to     save


more good, better

Why are you insecure about your body !?

A stranger on the internet asks,

His hands,

clutching his crotch

as he seeks stories of flesh in the cartoon breasts of my


He’s trying so hard to get off.

It’s possible to have a cornerstone

Which you didn’t build yourself.

or maybe you did,

Not sure where it came from,

Sure what you did

didn’t help.


I’m laying on the couch

In some shorts

In the living room with my parents:

My step-dad says “when did your thigh get so big?”

(Size doesn’t matter unless a man’s the one looking,)

He has a grin on his face.

You used to be so skinny-minny;

I withdraw

for the rest of the day.


This week I looked in the mirror

And I said “I love you” to my face.

It felt amazing,

Like rolling, movement

it felt a lot like change.


In five years I want to

look in the mirror

And remember when I only saw hate.

I want to meet my eyes and

tell that reflection:

I used to be


a lot of things.


I’m reading your poems and I’m looking for me.

I’m turning over stones and I’m searching for us-

I’m opening snapchats

Breath caught in my chest,

I wrote a new poem,

Let’s see it.

Let’s see our year:

This time,

These fights,

Our love:

Let’s see that power she triggered.

I thought for sure

In your happiness,

You’d write about me for once, too.

I know I sound bitter,

I’m crazy they have you,

What I’m asking for’s extra, extra.

Need more than to know it,

Need more than to feel it,

Want to, so badly

Print reassurance,

I’m waiting to

read all about it.

Beginning of an Apology

Here’s what I want to say:

I hate being naïve.

I hate being a child

At the bottom of a stairwell

And I know I’m a child,

At the bottom of a stairwell,

But I want to feel powerful too.

I read that as: synonymous:

Taste what it’s like to be cruel.

I had a wet dream

About wielding my organs

In a way that would let me hurt someone.

I read that as: antonymous:

You are virgin of “Virgin Conqueror,”

You are third of “first love,”

You are victim of “child abuse”

If it even was “child abuse,”

You are weak/you are low/you are wrong.

And I know that it’s shitty and you didn’t ask for

Co-opted pain to be my release

But I haven’t learned how to touch myself right

I haven’t learned how to love myself right

I thought that your words were so touching, alright?

And I made a mistake.


Eleven (11)

I am closing my eyes to see you.

I see you with closed eyes.

You seem,

In pain,

My hands are holding your face.

I am kissing your forehead.

Nothing else matters,

Although all of you matters.

But my love is leaving my lips.

The minute hand turns and I

Cross myself

Did you feel it?

That was my wish.

You Are Not Yourself, Maybe You Never Will Be

Find a girl who wrote emails to screenwriters,

Hoping to learn their craft.

Find a girl whose name rang out in hallways,

…yes, i won awards, yes i was the big fish just like you were…

Find a child who wasn’t afraid of herself

Who didn’t find FL/A}SHBAC(KS!

Who didn’t scream FLASHBACK

Who couldn’t inhale but could breathe.

Bring me Alicia who used to

Used to was better at loved to

Had something she loved

Besides loving a person,

Who had enough love for everything.

Find me the version that dreamed of this thing

That has ruined the person who dreamed.

You Are Not Yourself

It’s hot here.


And I’m sitting in the chair where I sat when I screamed at you

,Best I could.

Best I could muster,

When it feels so wrong to hate you.

When it’s hard for me to even despise you

To be anything other than swindled.

But I’m not swindled.

I’m just sad.

I just miss you want to hold you, want to feel my empty parts taken up by you,

And filled, like a river, just like water

Like this swimming pool.

I wish that I was stronger

Strong enough to fight you.

But that’s the problem, that’s the rub

Soft rub, gentle rub, no one’s ever kissed my forehead

(the way that you do)


(do you see me?)

I don’t want to.

Where Did My Poems Go?

My first instinct is to share my poems.

And maybe that’s what stripped me-

The female version of emasculated me

(see: femininity).

I wrote those words for myself,

Didn’t I?

[not] When everything’s for you-

They start one way and end another.

They are a stageshow

They are performance art

(I hope they’re art. I hope you like me).

They are not my comfort

They are my plea

(please, love me.)

-Love, me

To you

From me.


I like the feeling of our


My hips, no your hips, our hands fit


I love the rhythm of our



I think the beauty of this


Is the


It’s like


We trust each other


We love each other


We’re meant to be.