Nothing left for me to give. 

Nothing left for you to take. 

This is no life to live, 

dissonance of my real and my fake. 

Hiding behind a mask,

a less vulnerable place to be. 

Slamming my face with the flask,

until it’s a blur and I am no longer me.  

The truest me lingers in confusion, 

figuring out who to be. 

A comedown from the disillusion, 

unable to break free. 


Blurred Reality 

 The only pill hard to swallow

is one not taken with poison. 

I clench the pill between my teeth, 

wetting my lips with the burning liquid. 

These same lips of which still cannot utter 

his name. 


The intoxicant pushes the pill down my throat.

The same forceful push that landed me on the cold ground of his bedroom floor. 

Down my throat, I feel the pill sliding. 

The same throat that was desperately screaming for help.  

For mercy. 

For sympathy. 

For pity. 

The same throat that grew 

tired, sore, achy, and worn,

Just as my soul has become. 

The bottle says “do not take with alcohol” 

But my mind screams, “escape”. 

My vision of that night becomes blurred as 

the pill runs its course and 

it becomes the best sleep 

I’ve had since I met him. 



I am the dirty rag you use 

to clean up your orgasmic stains.

Desired, when I am useful.

Disgusting, once you are satisfied.


Use me, throw me, stain me, taint me.

I have seen your flaws,

but still choose to cleanse you.

Fix you.


Like the dried up rag under your bed,

you hide me from the world.


I am a reminder of your weaknesses.

Your impulsions, you imperfect being.


No purpose do I longer serve,

so on the floor I reside

until you finally see my worth

after you’ve made love only to yourself


and have left none for me

She Resides in Two Places at Once 

 I long to split my being in two 

I’d give half to him, the other to you. 

Think with my mind? Choose with my heart?                                                     

From both you and him, I cannot part. 

You are good for my future

He is food for my soul 

You were my abuser 

But still, you make me whole. 

I think I am unlovable

My hands ruin souls of those I touch

The love I give is destructible 

Yet, I don’t want to escape your clutch. 

The Silenced Woman Finds Her Voice

Word Press

Your face is etched into my eyes and
Traced on my brain like an unfading tattoo. This permanent reminder of all that I hate was unsolicited and the ink penetrated my skin as you infiltrated my existence.

Your hot breath reeked of poison.
I still feel it on my neck…smell it in the dark…
Face to face with a cultural flaw.
Masculinity as a mask.
These “urges”.

Choking on your name as a remembrance of your sweaty palms around my feeble neck.
Never to tell a soul
the entire truth of horror faced in an instant.
Some things are better left unsaid.

Lather, rinse, repeat.
Trying to wash my skin of your violent grasp
I sit and write in safety…
but will forever be afraid.


Dictator of Personal Peace

One hundred eyes watch as you cannot seem to come to grasp
With those arbitrary obligations from those who do not show you more than a mere passing glance.

You crave, however, to please each pair of those observant one hundred eyes and
find yourself drunk off the illusion of reciprocally being ached for all the same.

Conjectures are formed based off of the capricious expectations from those same watching one hundred eyes.
We presume that those who pretend to be the happiest, are in fact, naturally untroubled.

The saddest soul of all knows, however, that one can never truly become immune to the disease known as Conformity.
And still, one hundred judging eyes will spread their illness until the rest of us find ourselves relentlessly unwell for eternity.

I find myself feverish at the very thought.