20 November 2018


Swollen brain, pulsing to be
everything I hate,
that you have a monopoly
on mental illness.
candy floss hair;
biggest eyes,
milk chocolate
and over-sweetened--
grasp at the thought,
sprinkled and dazzling,
but you won't
forgive me.
The core of me
gave every piece of advice
I could muster,
small cookies
hot and sugary.
I gave you the last one
when you decided
it wasn't ample for you.
If only I loved you enough
to give you everything,
every morsel of myself.
My swollen brain cracks
into a big white bowl,
sits on the counter,
sulphurous and cursed.

11 September 2018


Your helpful idiot, 
your side character,
has been losing sleep.
The food pantry was closed.
No more pasta.
No more torn shirts pulled over
sweaty sports bras,
rushing to get some place 
cinder block building
of my dreams,
cool concrete
for my tired body.
I'm tired of being angry
but I'm tired of explaining,
of explaining a wet face
that you've spit upon.
Your helpful idiot
is going
back to bed.

23 April 2018


That feel when
you have
so much
air and water
in your chart
that you do not know
if you'll sink or swim
or float
like an aimless cloud
carried by mistakes

16 January 2018


maybe this year
my bed will become
less inviting.
there are curves,
but no muscle,
without letting go.
maybe this year
I'll add
a few more pills
to my diet,
crunch down on chalk
that adds balance
but no nourishment.
friends have cozier
finish this degree,
lose this bellyfat,
get a new job,
but my resolution
leaves me feeling
less than resolute.
less than.
I want fewer days in bed.