So Much

I don’t want to be a
sad girl/sharp girl/broken glass girl/cockroach girl/empty bottles girl
I want my bones
to stop dripping lead into the hungry maw
of exhaustion.
I want my want
to stop claiming so much heart. I’m so much mouth.
I’m not enough woman.

Better Things

I wanted to set something on fire tonight
but couldn’t find anything to burn,
save my own fingertips on my own tongue.
Someone gave me a matryoshka doll and I’ve put it on my table
to remind myself not to be so full of myself.
I’ve too much of my own mythology stuck in my teeth these days,
too many rituals to banish my frantic heart beat.
It finds me
lying in bed,
putting my hands over my hips to grind myself down.
Stay rooted into reality, into the mattress.
I spent too much time packing bags,
not enough time crossing doorways and between all these rituals,
I couldn’t find one to stop my hands shaking over the keys.
Tonight my gift to myself will be to spit out the calm and bite down on rage’s pulse point.
I’ll find something to set on fire to keep my smile warm;
I’ll rest my fingertips on cooler things.
I swear,
by my nails
I will claw myself towards better things


I create Gods when I’m bored,
just yesterday I found a God in the bargain bin at work.
I named him Enticement and set him loose.
He’s back to beg at my desk today.
I have a pantheon between my ribs,
they bang their hands on the cage.
A religion of half made promises by my feet,
they drag my heels.
And every time we talk,
Imminence rears her head from my hollow tooth and demands sacrifice.
Of course it’s me.
The rock, the knife, the holy books,
the faith,
the blasphemy

Motherly Advice

My mother said:
‘All cats are gray in the dark.’
When I said maybe I was too young to settle down,
at sixteen.
Perhaps what she meant to say was:
‘All cats will sooner or later
bite the hand that reaches out to it.’
Perhaps what she meant to say was:
‘your father was a tom cat, ship cat,
and I’ve given birth to an alley cat,
perhaps you’ll have the courage to bite first.’
Perhaps what she meant to say was:
‘All the love I’ve known have had teeth,
I don’t know how to tell you to seek something
that doesn’t draw blood.‘

Snake Song

Sweet Sister Solitude sing us stories of sunsets surrendering to darkness’ embrace.
I want to slumber safe in your vastness.
Let’s shed this awakeness like skin, please,
I tasted his smile and found it bitter.
My sweet celestial men with saccharine voices and secrets under their tongues.
Sweet Sister Sinful you find me stung softly again.
let’s not ask for answers from liars,
instead let’s swear our tongues simmer in truths stronger than men.
So spin us stories like our cousin spider spins webs and her shadows plays hide and seeks in our beds,
sing of the old cities and all the cinder memories still smouldering in your eyes.
Here’s the old song of serpentine cats with tails around the world seas, swallowing stars and sailors.
Sweet Sister Steel Heart, night comes quickly, stealthy but sure and cocky like our lovers of past serenity.
sing us a story of streams shaking their way home,
and us asleep by their shores,
our mouths full of second chances.

Pigeon Princess

The old house I lived in had pigeons in the wall.
It was both soothing and unsettling.
To wake up to the cooing of hungry things in the night,
breathe into the walls, the soft vibration of,
to me,
alien vocal cords strumming through my head.
It was the year I started building more and more elaborate nests,
it was the year I envied them their feathers, but not their broken bones.
We eat scraps of this city, we crawl up against the wall and coo ourselves asleep.


I belonged to the ocean but now
I don’t
call my family and they never call me.
I leave voice mails for the ocean in old beer bottles and drop them in the gutter,
we tell each other of bygones.
‘Remember when I carved in you?’
remember when I did the same?’
The land I come from bleed us dry one small cut at a time.
Fishers come and put their hooks in the ocean lip,
the ocean puts it’s hook in our belly.
We heave in the catch and put it over a fire.
A bargain unspoken,
ancient contracts signed by the roots of our family trees so far buried
We smell sulfur when we think of them.
The ocean remembers, the small children come with hooks and worms, gently stumbling on untrained feet to bleed for the first time,
the ocean open a vein.
We are all so hungry
and willing to bleed.
I’ve bled out all my saltwater, and I don’t call anymore.
But the ocean remembers and holds on to a small rusted hook from when we bled together the first time,
and the seagulls scream ‘blasphemer’ at me when they fly above