breaking up

Knives in my eyes

You said there were knives

In my eyes

And my tongue split into a fork

You said there were lies

On my lips

And the lines off my hips

Formed sways of sins

But I tell you this now

You never really knew me

And if you want to kill me baby

Then take the knives from my eyes

If you want to taste me

Take the fork from my tongue

But I tell you this now

You never really knew me

At all 


Untitled at the moment…

He tells me one more time

to come home

he has something to say

it’s important

I picture the way his fingers caressed the cold  metal

just last night

Don’t look at the guns, look me in the eye

I am sick, what do you still want from me?

I have nothing left to give


He tells me to sit down

this isn’t easy for him to say

It isn’t easy for me to listen to

I want to run away

I know what I must do. 


The weight of all of this

is crushing down on me

The coffee in my cup is bitter

soured by all the cruel words


and unspoken

I’d rather drink my wine

and tell my jokes

as if all of this was forgotten


He says to pack my things

the house is no longer mine

So I take all the photographs

out of their frames

and put them in boxes

That’s as far as I’ve gotten

For the weight of all of this

is crushing down on me. 

Sentimental demons

In all the liars webs

and all the lovers tangles

you would have thought

I ran in octagons

and talked in triangles

For you see

I tried to be romantic and sweet

But my tongue was in my cheek

And my cheek seems to be made

for the palm of your hand

For all the secrets I could never tell you

the dark places you’d never wander

 and never understand

You couldn’t see 

My demons were just sentimental clowns

Inspite of their weary red eyes

and their razerblade frowns

You called me odd

and proclaimed that I was strange

You had a list of all the things

I needed to change

but I was already the girl

I was meant to be

I just wasn’t for you

And you weren’t for me. 

Perhaps you never knew me

And time may try to steal

these memories away

Fade them into bitter dust

But I will never forget 

the way he caught my eye

that stormy night

Or the painful sparkle of sun in the morning

rising on Tampa Bay.

He says I am heartless and cold

and so pleased to just throw it all away

And I think with a terrible dismay

Perhaps he never knew me

at all. 

Upon being dumped while in the hospital

I found a book of my old poetry when I was cleaning out my closet. Most of my old stuff I’m too embarrassed to share but this one is kind of funny. When I was 18 I got in a really bad car accident. Flipped a car end over end three times down a cliff. I kid you not. I remember looking down and seeing bone and tenon and that parts of me looked like raw hamburger. I must have been in shock because I remember having this debate whether it was necessary to go to the hospital or not. (The person in the car behind me dragged me back up the hill and forced me to go) Then when I got to the hospital I asked the nurse if I would need stitches. (She laughed)

All in all I was pretty lucky, I did need one surgery to repair a tendon, and I still have some problems with parts of my right hand going numb, a few scars on my hand and upper thigh and that’s about it. I was stuck in the hospital for some time though because I had a blood infection that was resistant to antibiotics. Eventually something did work. It was kind of a sucky time in my life because I lost my graphic arts job (which I loved) and wasn’t going to be able to go to graphic arts school (which was being paid for by my job) On top of that my boyfriend sent his cousin (who was and still is a good friend of mine) to the hospital to tell me it was over. He told me with a big shit eating grin it was because I was weird. We were so wrong for each other and we both knew it. But at the time it really sucked.

So this was the poem I wrote for him.

He asks ‘what gets to you girl?’

Nothing, I lie

But you’ll know when you wake up

With scorpions between your sheets

I’d skin that boy in the kitchen skin

And store his penis in the freezer

For later.

Everyone has one damn good reason to feel sorry for themselves

Like the time I said I love you

And now I can’t take it back

I’ll twist your screws a little tighter

Make you scream, make you dream

You’re a little lesser than god

A little lower than me

A little blacker than dirt.

And your bones are crushing under my feet


Give me my sponge bath and my shot of morphine

And bring that boy back to me alive.

Writers and the poor saps that love them.

I imagine dating a writer is hard when you are a non-writer. We are often withdrawn, moody, and apathetic to real world issues. When we are deep into a project you often have to compete for attention with characters who are likely wittier, more interesting and even better looking than you. Besides the fact they may also have super powers, and you are just a lowly human.

You’ll also have someone constantly pointing on when you are using a double negative or a word out of context.

I dated a writer once. We fought with poetry. Whoever could come up with the sickest, most insulting, vile, vulgar thing, and yet do it in a unique creative way won the argument. No matter who was right. I rather enjoyed it. But I tend to like unusual things.

Writing is a lot like masturbation or pooping. During that time you don’t want to be bothered. You won’t be answering the door or returning phone calls. You don’t want anyone peeping over your shoulder and asking you what you’re doing or how much longer you’ll be. Even if the cat explodes – fine – you’ll deal with it when you’re finished. And when you are finally done you’ll either be somewhat satisfied, or terribly frustrated, all depending on if the end result was what you were hoping for.

High five to all you non-writers willing to date a writer. You’re in for a roller coaster of neglect and misery.