Waiting Is My Hell

I can measure love

in the smile that hides my fear.

Terrified that you will decide

that I shouldn’t be here…with you. 

After opening up my heart to the hope of us,

despite what I knew to be true and the warnings you gave.

Now, your happy self

doesn’t clue me in.

You say wait…and while we wait,

Let’s pretend.

Partners and friends;

Lovers but always just a guest.

Hang your clothes in my closet

and save the words that linger on your lips 

for drunken nights

when the gin is courage fire.

Making sure you don’t have to burden

your sober self with

I love you’s and relationships.

Waking in the morning,

I act as if it’s not everything I wish to hear from sober lips.

And I’m left with so much to desire

Waiting for forever to begin,

existing in Hell as I smile through the fear

of my heart breaking.


Ode to Mr. Neruda

Pablo Neruda wrote,

“Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.”

“Tonight I can write the saddest lines.”

He must have shared my disposition.

Reading that verse my whole Being said,

“Yes, me too. I can write the saddest of lines.”

I suffer in love,

each day waking up to not enough.

Never tasting authenticity without pain. 

Smelling a flower

while bleeding all over its thorns.

He must have known those nights

where the tears are fire in the chest,

the sobs in disheveled breaths.

Death so close and yet so far.

Living just to die.

Dying because I loved for love’s sake

and yet never finding safety 

for longer than a moment. 

Torn from the arms of forever

by falsehoods and my stupid expectations. 

Laughter hollowed out by the memories of broken promises.

He must have known,

that sometimes living has to be done for others

just to get yourself through a Monday. 

I may wear the rope forever, 

but I do not climb the chair to hang it. 

Instead I write the saddest of lines,

hoping that my cup will never overspill 

if I just empty my heart now and again

in verses.

Mirror Mirror

Every single poem is about

being alone

I’m in my feelings

Fat and ugly

Home doesn’t even feel like home

I’m tired and hangry

even when I’m full

I can sit all day hoping

but my nights are always cold

I wake up feeling weary

knowing each day to just drag on

I can’t even rhyme 

my poem into a lovely song

I’ll choke before I lie

just as I’ll cry before I dance

I hate this fucking place

and all of the reflective glass

Pathetic On Paper

Hope lives where courage is found wanting.

For me it dwells in the moments 

I leave empty 

instead of filling the quiet

with thoughts I should speak on.

I allow for hope as long as I don’t ask

you for your honesty.

Knowing your answer will be 

the wet fingers that staunch the flame on our match.

Raging against the hurt in privacy

I settle for inbetween

in place of the commitment that I need.

I settle for “not tonight” 

in place of dates and consistency.

I settle for “wyd” at late hours

in place of the word “us” being said with a tone of normalcy.

The thought of being alone

less likely to scare me 

than alone forever….

Less likely to hurt me 

than knowing I wasn’t enough. 

Never a cheap date 

but always free for your company or phone call.

Rejection: everything that kills my voice

when courage seems to draw in a breath.

I will choke on my words 

before they leave me 

left wanting of your bed. 

A Promise Kept

I welcome the days of forever

Where I will not wait for a text

Sunflower fields and daffodils

No more love me not petals spent

My children lifted by the sunshine

Their feet pitter patter on the oak wood floors

An echo of promise 

Carried in the breeze, to my home

Which whispered that God has plans

Even for me, who was alone.

I will be given the fields of flowers

Where songbirds and bees love to grow

Here among the company of genuine souls

As God saw that I was something

The world could not know

He heard me cry in pain

When my heart shattered so.

Leaving me not to die of promises broke,

He led me where I could sleep among the trees

With the beasts that, like me, will die alone.

A pitch of steam from the teapot,

Parchment paper to write my woes

I welcome the days of forever

Where I will watch my children grow. 

Fuckboys Pay Child Support

Dearest Fuckboy,

Where do I begin

when addressing a middle aged man

with his dick forever in his hands?

We all know what you like:

Fuck me once, fuck me twice

but get limp dick when my feelings get precise.

Not ready? Working on yourself, you say?

Been out drinking every week

since before the legal drinking age.

Not a day in church since

you chased the tail of a different babe.

Can’t handle honest feedback in any sorta way.

Get offended when my patience runs out,

act like working on things isn’t getting real

about the gap between your actions and what you actually say.

Climbing the latter at work is also out.

Put a baby inside of me though just as well,

Then act like you’re shocked at how things work.

(Insert dick, spray, now baby is on the way).

Say you’ll be there and then don’t,

Want me to act surprised but I won’t.

Got Friend of the Court’s number saved.

Go ahead and start referring to me as Bae.


You Leave The Door Open For Another

If you call me only when you think of me,

do you think of me only after you’ve been with another?

Or when you’ve hit a dry spell

that seems easily fixed by dialing my number?

If you think of me when you do not call,

does it cross your mind that I am not one

who appreciates lonely wednesday nights

and unspoken truths?

Can you tell that I am sick of you

after only a couple hours?

Annoyance at your lack of luster towards me

when you sit buried in your phone,

no doubt for girls that will fake smile for you

while I make myself at home.

You lie to me like the weather man,

finding it so easy to say things that 

really shouldn’t have been said to a woman

who lives by literal text.

I can hope for sunny weather

but my umbrella stays unpacked

next to the bottle of red that helps me

sleep through reckless anger.

Honey tastes like the way you look me in the eyes

and apologize for not being there…

A star twinkles in answer

when my heart hears you say 

“I can do better.”

Fire is my soul when you gift wrap your lies

in empty promise wrapper.

I want to remind you of a truth 

that sits on the elephant’s shoulder.

If you are not there (literally)…

If you do not celebrate me,

Then you leave the door open for another

to say goodnight and goodmorning

to both your child and I 

while you comfort yourself in excuses and lies.

The War I Wage

I’m lost in oily skin

and unkempt hair.

No visitors and dirty dishes

a reminder that I’ve retreated.

I’m found in the energy

of a hot shower

and blowdryed ends.

I’m lost in my living room,

without a book, or even a friend,

pajamas from two days ago

slung over my tired figure.

I’m found in the sunlight… 

in the wind.

At the beach, sand on my skin.

Laughter of my son

the joy expressed

at water’s cleanse.

I’m lost in worry,

night time trails

my mind frequents.

Pissed off at empty spaces of clutter

and the all consuming darkness,

Broken record of things

I should and shouldn’t have started.

I’m found in the morning,

jasmine tea hot 

next to my tasteless plate. 

In the fight for happy

that comes every single day. 

Single Mom Pregnancy Woes

I am tired

of headaches,

of living between 

not being able to take a shit

and needing a bathroom right now! 

I’m tired of 4am wide awake

burping up last night’s dinner

while my baby does the best it can

to kick my pelvis outward.

Of backaches and nobody to press their hands

into my sore spots.

Of crying those gut wrenching cries

that sound like a soul is dying

at anything remotely sad.

I’m tired of the chaffing of my thighs

in my flowing dresses

and the way my waddle reminds

me of my growing ass…my double chin.

I’m tired of a man that says he will be there…

And isn’t.

The one that leaves every opportunity 

to be there,

in his place empty promises.

I am tired of being reminded

that every place I’ve gotten to

has been where my own feet have wandered.

That my choice in men is destructive,

guaranteeing my babies will only

ever have me without question.

Fearing the future 

before it is written 

simply because the past and present 

cannot be forgiven.

But mostly I’m tired of waiting

to hold my baby in my arms

And whisper in my little one’s ears,

“you were made with a piece of my heart

and my love you will never have to fear”.

I Am A Matchbox Stick

I can barely breathe.

My chest has been heavy

for weeks upon weeks,

years upon years.

The future weighing

down my optimism.

My patience suffocated

by the need to be real.

Can’t swallow one more

fake time happy pill,

won’t smile for a crowd

of hating fools.

Only person that pulls me back

is my son

  • He’s so damn beautiful.

Reminding me

not to give a fuck

about anybody

that’s not present in my circle.

Quieting the rage

I feel when questioned

by fools that play the game.

Like why do they

expect me to be graceful

when they question

my need to be real?!

Only for my child

does this deep breath

come natural.

For him,

I’ll take an extra minute

to contemplate my reaction

and not give in

to what feels 

like a rage that I was born with.

Natural as the fire

at the end 

of a matchbox stick

when it meets friction.

A feeling of never fitting in,

never drinking the koolaide

laced with bulshit.

Societal expectations

of happiness.

A pill I can’t swallow

because society

along with her fake ass smile

is poison

and my throat won’t open up

for even one drop of water

to help wash down

the games I gotta play

to sit at that table.

All I know is,

the only thing that’s real

is when I hold him. 

Through a thousand 

thoughts of pain

while my mind 

fights every moment of fake,

my son’s laughter

breaks through,

shattering my misery

like cheap glass.

Clearing a space

for me

that just is.

I’m still a matchbox stick

but with him

there’s no friction.

The ropes around my neck

will always be my affliction

but being his mother

saves me from astriction.