My Mother’s Pain

We are our mothers. I am my mother.
I thought I understood your pain before. I did not.
I am not just holding the fringes. Mother,
I have your pain wrapped around my neck.
It is mine.

I understand, momma, I get it. Love cannot be
described in words that you make up yourself, like
trying to describe every ocean in the world with
a handful of words that should only be used
to describe one shitty pond.

Possession owns the gateway leading to the trap
of his hands and the heart of a woman, my heart,
is the prison. I know, mom, I have spent years wading
through my flesh and the flesh of others. How many times
have I confused the flesh of man for the flesh
of his heart, I can’t count.

When I was trying to make up my words, I saw
my reflection and saw my mother with the torment
over her head, reminding me of the definition
of a filthy woman being teased with the possibilities
of redemption and being clean again. We were
never born clean, mother. Faulty humans who
lie and steal out of desperation that life might
mean something beyond the fight against
being dragged again and again.

What’s coming up for me, mom? Children that I leave
because I don’t want to expose them to the terrible
person I might become when my heart decides that
it will explode if I can’t run, the quiet slip into
domestication where I become fused with cleaning
products and a mop. I know you don’t know.
You knew what I know, nothing about how
to save yourself. Everyone else goes first,
Mother, we are too kind for escape plans.

Internalized: queen of clowns (unedited)

He will never love you, you know that version of him would be destroyed, temptation changes men like water can make you clean or, at least, wash the dirt off.

You always do this, you always do this.  It’s not real, nothing is real. This is why you hoard the light, the good men. But none of them are good after you, not one.

I don’t know what to do with you – can’t you let this one go? Don’t take the bait, don’t lay traps of your own. Why is it like this? There’s no reason to read ahead – stop.

STOP: Turning men into monsters, bloodying your fingernails shuffling hexes.

Men are monsters, men are mirrors.

The best, the worst – the reflections never match in this game of hunting and stealing, of turning everything inside out onto the floor, up to the sky.

There’s this man and he is pure, his scars sitting prettily over his damage.  He doesn’t love me but his damage reaches for me with graceful fingers, in my dreams and right before sleep.

But they’re monsters.

I want their souls.

I’m just a witch, a whore, my hand pulling them into early graves. I can’t stop.

It is not my heart. My heart is quiet.  My heart thinks nothing.  It is my soul, her teeth, her lack of control.

What is it that God forgot to give me to turn this thing off?

put me to bed

“I could flip this bitch, easy.”  He wasn’t talking about the car,

he was talking about me.

My baby died inside of me, I haven’t suffered enough.

I tried to kill myself, I haven’t suffered enough.

I cut off my hair, burned my fingers and toes, and gave up sex,

I haven’t suffered enough.

The devil isn’t real, the devil isn’t horns and a mess of red flesh.

The devil is in the act of




feelings that are like fire in a dry forest, things that cannot be controlled.

The devil is a scorned woman; she is the one that pushes me from God,

not him.  He was just the doorway out, the primer, the guardian troll

at the bridge, at the palace gate in my head.

Fuck you, I don’t want to fuck you.

worms are gross

May 2015. Not posted on Fictionaut.

Metal is bending because I am telling it to bend.
And I’m telling you to move, and you won’t fucking move.

When the little worms pretend they have cancer
to try and find a place in my heart, to die
and rot in, I need a heart that is made
of metal that I can move, that worms
can’t squiggle into again.

I ain’t your princess,
don’t call me baby when you
tell me I’m not dying. You
make me wish I was. I don’t want
to share a planet with you, or air
or pain or love. Go away, worm.