Wednesday, November 18, 2009


Lips like a Cheshire cat’s
I gawked
while you ugly-fucked your guitar
which was always my favorite.

Through a nearsighted lens
we were envied.
We were sharing a beer.
We were laughing together.
And then the show would end.

With your guitar packed up,
our fingers locked in
you pulled me close, like a faulty zipper
just to carefully slide us apart.

Sunday, October 4, 2009


I stopped loving you 30 seconds ago, but now 
I found a small cinnamon candlebought from Misty Mountain Shop.
Remember making love
to the scent of cinnamon and bonfires?
I remember your skin by firelight.
I'm sorry I told you that you weren't perfect.
I wish loving you was enough.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Written in Richmond

Here's one I wrote back in April of 2006 during my freshman year of college. I know the wine references are a bit excessive. Write drunk, edit sober (except I always get too lazy for that second part).

It's 85 Degrees Outside. That's Too Hot.

I'll wear my pajamas all day if I want
and I'll walk barefoot to class
and then Put on my shoes when I get there.
A poor choice with glass in the streets, but
sometimes a plan is better in my head.

I'll have a glass of Zin if I want to,
or two, And then I'll slur like Fyodor
if I please. Because sometimes it's nice
to give my mind a break
and To sing loudly with foreign accents.

So long as it's only sometimes.

A friend asked if I plot out scenerios With friends and strangers
Stories that haven't happened yet.
She has a bookworm's mind, and anyhow she's
determined She'd fund my abortion
with her parents money.

I think she's a good friend.
She thinks I hate her.
My little boy's teasing attempts at flirting
hit her sensitive spot And not the one
I mean to hit.

I should squeeze out of that small
slit of a space My window won't open all the way,
but If I folded a few ribs I could fit through the slit
I could climb on the rooftop and Hang out
with the construction workers Crumpling their cans
stepping on cigarettes that litter my dormroom penthouse view
of the smutty streets below.

What could it hurt? They have already seen me naked.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

To Chambourcin

I hope one day I'll swallow this
She'll taste like someone else's kiss
or it could be I'll find another wine to haunt.
But until then?
Every sip just makes me think of her
and when I drink, I can't stop thinking that
she's everything
I want.

Friday, August 7, 2009

Today I Am an Emotional Wreck

I went for a run to calm my mind, but I was running to beat the sunset, to avoid getting blinded by high beams as drivers flipped their lights up to be sure they didn't hit me- not realizing they were making everything invisible and thus increasing the chance of me tripping on something/myself and falling into their path.

I was running faster than usual. It hurt. It felt good. I felt strong, my thighs taking in the hills at a steady pace, my legs stretching to stride out when the road turned flat, my mind going over the day's events and approaching life with a powerful yet somber state of realism.

With the air so thick and the sky so grey, the grass looked like gravel and the trees looked dead. My feet hit on the pavement like a drum. I was drenched from sweat and fog, listening to a scratchy NPR in my headphones. The news had been traded for some exhaustingly sappy string quartet. Pretty, really, but my mood and the matching atmosphere seemed to leak their dismal into song.

Breathe easy, I remembered, closing my eyes for a short moment on a carless stretch and opening my chest.

There are no streetlights for the next half mile or so, and it was getting darker. I ran harder, feeling tears behind my eyes and the scream that had been mounting in my stomach nearing my throat. I hit the final hill and let my thighs burn, running to beat my own breakdown, to avoid getting blinded as vivid memories of making love to you hit me like high beams in the dark.

I was home. I paced in my driveway, my hands on my head, breathing, sweating. I stretched my shoulders. My eyes were calm. My throat relaxed. A tiny bit of sun still prevented the black from taking over. I smiled, walking inside with a resolute composure and pride in my speed.

I won.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Still Naked

Sleepy eyed and still naked,
I stand on my tiptoes on my desk
pulling the blinds to blink sunlight into the room.
As I step an awkwardly long step down to the floor
you turn over in my bed, and I feel your eyes on my skin.
The warmth of your gaze releases my usual morning energy in the form of a soft sigh.
You smile.
You smile with those pretty lips of yours, and I'm dancing around the room
trying to be interested in something else
trying to get ready, to go to class, to do something responsible, but instead I find myself getting back into bed, wrapping my arms around your waist from behind, kissing your neck and shoulders, and enjoying what will surely be the best part of my day.

And why not? You don't seem to mind.
My professor doesn't mind, as I stroll in late to class. My tell-tale glow makes me invincible.

Or at least I think I am.
Maybe I'm despised, but the energy still coarsing through me makes it hard to care.

Eggs and Milk

She was a ginger thing. Weak wrists, I noted. And flighty eyes. The sort that could turn a fork about in a bowl of eggs while bringing herself to a fit of laughter over a tale in her head and somehow fail to break a single yolk.

You know the type.

She told me she was healing. She had healed, in fact, she said. And she would heal me.

Flip, flip.
Yolk twist.
Gentle wrist.
The yellow still in balls.

I'm a cynic, but I'll soak up her smile and drink her tea anyway. Especially if she'll pass the bowl and let me give those eggs a stab.

...Some day I'll write poetry without the weight of love or innuendo. But not today.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

straight girl haikus

high off of drugs and
attention, she's laughing at
my sober craving.

from the first time she
ran her fingernails across
my back, i was hers.


"i will be king, and you will be queen... i don't think a woman is really a woman unless she's a blonde." -gia


I'm starting off by posting things I've already written in times past. They won't be chronological, because they're all in a mess thrown about my computer in odd places. But here's one I wrote a couple years ago.


Apparently now's the time,
Now, when I have an hour to cram work in before it's due
Now, when I'm sitting in class, twiddling my thumbs
Now, when my friends are impatiently waiting for me to straighten my hair and get the fuck out the door
Now's the time to think of you.
Those lips...
Those soft, full, beautiful lips that part to form the brightest smile
Or the silliest, most unsexy smirk.
Why, in days apart, does my every inch crave the way you treat it, my hands and mouth trembling sometimes, dreaming of making your fingers curl up in my sheets or
those same fingers
gently pushing between
my own
in a sweet, secret embrace
underneath the movie seats.

It will pass, I know, as all things do.
Soon I'll look into those big brown eyes and the flash behind them will have disappeared, that hint of do-me-later, that bit of you're-mine-only that sometimes flies from your eyes to mine across a room of unsuspecting strangers.
Soon your lips will be as any other lips, just there for opening wide to stuff in a big sandwich and for closing tight when you've spoken too much.
Soon your skin will be to hold all the other stuff inside,
and your hands will be for picking up pencils that drop on the floor, and your voice will be for communicating only.
But for now! every bit of you lingers in slow-to-fade visions of the sweet and the sexy, visions that dance on the inside of my eyelids, there to taunt me not only in sleeping, but with every.

Feeling inspired

I write often of women. Even when I mean not to show the lesbian in me, my writing tends to take a feminine form. I see beauty itself as having curves- the hips of the hillsides, the breasts of the mountains, the floral smells of the trees (and her hair) all in one swirling windy embrace of feminine beauty.

Everything I love and hate can be personified as a woman, and thus my writing often lends itself this way.

Which means, as my world doesn't allow such a public love of women... that these words are often self-censored.

Here, I dedicate a spot to those words I wouldn't publish elsewhere. For love of women.