Tiny splinters black against pasty skin. Spiraled tight and stuck in me. Scrub it off. The smell, the heaviness, the hair. The chill. The tick. My boiling blood. Shut the fuck up. Where did that come from. The uncomfortable burning heat. The chill. That space between as hard and cold as that cheap piece of jewelry. Twirling around in my puffy hands, making my skin itch of metal and fraud. White sugar itch of sweetness. Stop. Just go to sleep. Spiral tight into his warmth. Self sooth. Coddle. Sleep.

The cold snaps my toes to my tits. Trapped. Blankets shuffle and release the fading bits of you. Another sweet word, another knot. That familiar jolt of my feet leading me away from here. I don’t believe in this.  


He was filling the ditch with the dirt he just dug out of the tunnel to his body. Did he ever make her feel whole? He loved her for what she seemed. Above the league for shit pants and boils of puss just below the falsely ordered surface. A fragile beauty to an uncoordinated giant. He toppled over, and he crushed her pale bones. He mutilated her innocence and coddled her insecurities. He made her shrink, he made her fade, and she let him write with that chalk. The powder shaking about her nostrils with every pleasurable pain. 

*Originally written in 2015


I have to go to that house full of china cabinets, the smell of nothing familiar, and pictures of perfect children of god because we failed them, we are different, we do not sing in church, our parents committed a sin, the drugs and alcohol and rock and roll tainted us, and we might stain the carpet, and I think they have a camera, it’s in the psycho poodle’s eyes, seeping from its surly, spiked teeth, I’ll feed you to the turkey vultures, I wouldn’t want to die when there are turkey vultures in that tree, they are dumb for having a chicken heart poodle as a guard dog because the vultures would pick the eyes out first, and then the brain, and then they would crawl all over the carcass until the bones are so brittle they can eat them too, so they shouldn’t find out that there is a pipe in their house, they would definitely have to paint the walls, the color of rust, I don’t know why, it is an awful color, blood red is more fitting, or green because it is God’s favorite, but he has to watch the dogs, that’s why he did not eat with them, and we didn’t either because we didn’t know, we never know, the black sheep bred more black sheep, and we will never be seen with the clean sheep, you should bleach that dog, ragtime has never been played on that piano before, fingers that have touched sin should not touch the white keys, make sure you wash it, or get a new piano while I pet the dog, and while they marry mistakes, the poor kid is trapped, and that’s what happens when you twist a string so tight and let go, and that’s what happens when you get caught breaking rules, you have to follow the next one in line, abolish that rule I think, but he can’t think anything because he is trapped in the claws of expectations and religion, they crushed his mind long ago, they removed his brain before birth and fed it to the dogs, that’s what they do with all the white wool, but the sound of laughter surrounds his condition because we are not possessed, but we still don’t belong here, we never will because they will live until they are 150, they will walk with a cane in one hand and anesthetics in the other so we can never be welcome because we are real, and they are not real, nothing is real in this house, the poodle is an invalid, I could probably stab it and it would make a horrid popping sound and deflate, I should try, but then the turkey vultures could not have their feast, you are like a doll, except not beautiful, but all nervous and proper and plastic, you should certainly send your voice back to the manufacturers, it’s annoying and high, so is the poodle, we always end up running into her and she shrinks in embarrassment because you shouldn’t run into your grandchildren, and her lips fuse together unless they are mouthing the names of other robots, the object of all pride and affection, and he looks sad because she is the wicked witch but he is the cowardly lion, she has him on a leash around his neck, I can see it digging into his flesh but she only pulls tighter, after the leash chokes him his head is going to topple over, but he should be glad when he is decapitated because his brain will be able to roam free, unless she puts it in Tupperware or feeds it to the dogs, she would have to put something else on that leash, but he was never good enough to be on her leash, that is why she sent him away to a frigid farm when he didn’t know any better, she gave up and he gave up, that is why he is so fat and red and selfish, that is why we are so mad, and that is why we might stain the carpet, the poodle is still watching us, but you would die if you knew of that real people were in your home, you belong in Quilter’s Corner with a serial number, I would not want to die with turkey vultures in that tree, I do not want my brain to be picked out, or my eyes, but it is okay because you will only go to hell if you believe in it.

*Originally written in 2009


Her delicate appearance is contradictory. Her lack of manners morphs her mousey thin hair and thin frame into an acid trip. One eye is dilated slightly more than the other, her nose bulges and then drips off of her face, and her teeth project out of her mouth like calcified tentacles. It takes careful concentration to notice the tangles in the strands, the dim stains on the threads, and the dirt under the nails. That defiant disregard for careful. She’s sticky.  

They get pulled into her syrupy skin, like fruit flies on fermenting peaches. The tiny bugs getting drunk and stuck. They are her pets. Sinking in her aggression, hypnotized with her manipulations, devoting themselves to her body to survive the ungraceful sporadic bursts of movement. She loves her pets only temporarily, and she quickly falls ill of their cling and is desperate to shed them. She's itchy. Violently ripping them off of her arms and legs in a fit of madness. She doesn’t even leave them whole. Their homeless parts remain twitching in her gum. And she laughs that contagious, soulless laugh at the pathetic crawls, admiring the aesthetic of lewdness. And you find yourself in admiration too. Giggling in a drug induced vacuum for the warped. 


He could always find a new rift to lodge himself in the small of her back. Waiting, sleeping, awaking, and watching. He would slide up onto its edge, strike-slipping the lumbar and inducing every vertebrae in tremor. Bone by bone he would push the pads of his fingers up her spine, permanently stamping his print into her back, until she could feel his long, cold fingers wrap around the front of her neck. That familiar warmth. That nauseating tenderness. She imagines embracing those hands with her own. Tiny and grey. Clammy and lifeless. She imagines giving in, sinking back into his chest. Feeling small again, but feeling something. With every shaky exhale his fingers tighten. The translucency of her skin succombs to the blood that steadily travels up her neck and to her cheeks. People are staring at us. She freezes with the burn, suffocating with his heavy breath, helpless in the ratio of their bodies. This is the only affection he knows. That all consuming terrible, terrible love. And there is no one that knows her this well. No one else with the recipe to devour her whole. She can feel his indignation eating at her viscera, sucking at her lungs. Leave me alone. Leave me the fuck alone. And he leaves.

Revealing the white stripes on her skin, she quickly fills in the void with her own red. Abandoned and weak. People are staring at me. Her skin starts growing over the rift in her back and she returns to a delicate state of safety but never shaking free of his whispers. I will see you again.