Wishful thinking

Where do heavy hearts go?

They slip in between the cracks

And underneath covers

And wrists and lips of half assed lovers

And they bath and seethe

In loneliness and despair

Unless a rose is given.

Then their cheeks are beet red

And their eyes blurry from waterfalls

Slinking out of their eyes

And they forget what is was like

To slip so quickly into quicksand

And bury their hearts in an untouched treasure trove.

Where do heavy hearts go?

Some stay rotten like the corpse of a dead fish

Others become golden, forgetting thorns and settle for

Blooming free.

I like to think you are the latter.

I always like to think you bloom relentlessly.



There’s a cloud over my heart.
A fog in my head.
Greyscale lenses cover my eyes, and I can’t tell where I’m headed.
My life is missing from my present. My purpose missing from my future.
Yet my past is the only thing overflowing, directing the destiny of both.
You were my compass; my color. The wind that drove away the fog.
You held my hand to your heart and taught me how to live.
I don’t know why I do the things I do, or how much longer I can continue to do them.
But without sails, there isn’t much hope once the hurricane hits and I’m hundreds of miles from land.
I am missing you, and it is costing me everything.


The eggplant NSFW

So it really is *THAT* big.

As long as you and I have known one another and teased one another for years. It finally happened.

But I am bigger too.

My chest is so big I’ve not really looked down at them at that angle in some time. I started laughing, bc Jesus; I could smother you with them.

No, you can’t push, I can honestly say, and I’m not kidding, that it hurt me when you did. Thank you for letting me on top. I can straddle a strut over you forever. You prefer that any way that I don’t stop and I don’t get bored.

I’ll have to get over what my chest looks like.

Oh. You don’t have to kiss me on the mouth the way you kiss me between my legs; less is more.
That is if the new-normal-of-COVID allows us to do this again.

Unconscienable Grief

Mom, I need some distance for a while. Unfortunately,
when you call, I am filled with anxiety, and I have
a meltdown over it. I’m calling friends and strategizing
how I am going to talk to you. I am having a hard
time forgiving what happened last year. I’m not
sure that I can forgive it, as much as I try. In part
because of the failure to recognize everything I
already did for my Dad’s memorial and then
marginalized and maligned against advocating
for him while everyone to see him open his eye again.

You chose to listen to the least informed person
in the room, who was distracted with her own
marital discord, making perfunctory displays
and lecturing me about something she
knew nothing about.

Defending myself at my Dad’s deathbed
was an excruciating betrayal as are the
alternative reasons that are offered for why I fled.
I didn’t leave bc it was so hard for me to see him pass;
I left because of what you said and what she did.
I was being attacked, and it wasn’t safe for me to grieve with you,
and later, not safe for me to drive back.

When I did return, I was being punished,
and the last gift I made for my Dad has an alternative
version by someone who didn’t know him. I haven’t
had a chance to really grieve losing him, bc
I’ve replayed this useless drama surrounding it.
I’m going to block your number for a while for my
own peace of mind. When I am able to contact you
again, I will. I hope you understand.


During my late teens/ early twenties when I was dabbling in pharma culture with my metal singer/ former navy badboy boyfriend I had a lot of night terrors where I would wake up screaming. The dreams would very often be about rape or being chased, sometimes I’d wake up in a lucid state and see spiders on the wall.

In my desire to shift my focus to different spaces I latched on to mythology and folklore as an outside anchor. While I was working at Shiki’s the japanese restaurant in Cody Wyoming, I put my previous cultural knowledge to work by getting into my own artistic representation of the Jurogumo ( a spider woman that would feast on handsome young men).

Recently I revisited this theme, playing with a sketch to see how my skillset took to the task so many years later. I haven’t touched it in a few weeks but my husband was telling me how he woke up the other night swearing he was seeing spiders pouring out of the ceiling.

Anyway, it got me to thinking about….


Listen as the wind blows
From across the great divide
Voices trapped in yearning
Memories trapped in time
The night is my companion
And solitude my guide
Would I spend forever here
And not be satisfied
And I would be the one
To hold you down
Kiss you so hard
I’ll take your breath away
And after I’d, wipe away the tears
Just close your eyes dear
Through this world I’ve stumbled
So many times betrayed
Trying to find an honest word
To find the truth enslaved
Oh you speak to me in riddles and
You speak to me in rhymes
My body aches to breathe your breath
Your words keep me alive
And I would be the one
To hold you down
Kiss you so hard
I’ll take your breath away
And after I’d, wipe away the tears
Just close your eyes, dear
Into this night I wander
It’s morning that I dread
Another day of knowing of
The path I fear to tread
Oh, into the sea of waking dreams
I follow without pride
Nothing stands between us here
And I won’t be denied
And I would be the one
To hold you down
Kiss you so hard
I’ll take your breath away
And after I’d, wipe away the tears
Just close your eyes dear
I’ll hold you down
Kiss you so hard
I’ll take your breath away
And after I’d wipe away the tears
Just close your eyes

-Sarah McLachlan

Missed Window

There is no easy way for me to make sense of this. I can neither quantify nor justify the way that I feel, only that somehow I still do.

I should be fine. I should be happy. I got my life partner back. Kids are happy. Finances are coming together. Job sucks, but nothing is perfect. And yet, the depression and the anger and resentment continue to burrow even deeper beneath my skin, tattooed to the fabric of my soul.

You see, what you put me through — it broke me. You allowed alcohol to take over your life; nearly claim it, and it took months just to figure out even what to do. You cried suicide, more for attention than anything, and eventually agreed to rehab, but it was like pulling teeth just to get that far. All the lying and the yelling and accusing just wore me down to a stub, but eventually, while laying in a hospital bed, you finally agreed to go.

Win for us, right? Were it so easy…. You fought, you cried, you threw a tantrum, over and over again. You made it clear you didn’t want to be there, away from your family. How many times did you threaten or demand to leave throughout the months? You left me alone, to make some fucking hard and uncomfortable decisions to best care of our family so you can get sober, and your entitled ass didn’t want to put in the work to become somebody we wanted to come back. Yet, somehow, you managed to stay put while I struggled with the day to day life of single parenting, thanks in large part to my mom, who is the only reason I’m still here.

But you see, it got so much worse for me. For months, I struggled so heavily with everything: our relationship, my own worth and value, how to take care of the kids so they don’t feel the strain I was feeling. I did everything I could for you out of love. Wrote letters frequently, took every phone call you were allowed. Came to see you with the kids at every opportunity to hopefully give you the motivation you needed to see this thing through, and yet the fighting and the pushback continued. For months, you continued to fight where you were and resent me for what I was trying to do without you.

I never told you this, and likely never will, but I was heavily suicidal the entire time this ordeal was going on. Every. Single. Day I had to find something just to keep me here because of how low you have brought me. All the lying, manipulation, accusing, etc. was just more than I could mentally and emotionally take, considering that none of this shit was even my fault. I had a lot of talks with my mom. I had a lot of talks with a couple mentors and friends just trying to figure out how to get through it all. As the months dragged on, I needed to physically distance myself from you just so I could hear myself think, because my thoughts were drowned out by your condescending voice.

Although it was a slow process, I began to find peace of a sort as I weighed exactly what moving forward needed to look like. Clearly, we were incompatible still. You continued to rebel against the system, convinced you were “cured” and there was no point in remaining in the program, despite all the red flags and guidance from your counselor. As broken as I was without you, I realized I had to start looking at what life might be apart from you, permanently. I had to process multiple scenarios that involved our separation and be willing to take care of myself and our kids in the wake of your inevitable failure to remain sober or, at the very least, sober but divorced. It practically took the very last ounce of my mental strength to accept this as the correct course of action, and even then it still took a while to come to terms with that decision. Yet when I did, I finally began to find peace. I reconciled my inner self with the thought of leaving you and, if you happened to maintain your sobriety, remain amicable for the sake of the kids, and if not, prepared to fight for them, for their sake. It was the first time since this nightmare began that I actually found peace in all of this, and the more I thought and planned for that eventually, the more peaceful my spirit became. You had begun to prove to me that we were incompatible. I had every reason from the beginning to leave, but still chose to stay for your sake and the kids, holding on to a feeble hope that you would have a change of heart, but it never came. I grew so tired and weak from fighting with you, that I finally realized it was time to let go and move on, however that would look like.

But you see, life has a tendency to fuck me over. I never got an opportunity to act on this new-found peace and begin that process of letting go. Because, as though you knew exactly what I was thinking and about to do, that “change of heart” came. It had been 7 months of fighting, but finally you submitted just as I found my peace with letting you go. You agreed that your time there was necessary, and you’d stay as long as needed. You found your own peace in God, displayed remorse, and wanted to finally work towards fixing things.

Wonderful news, right? Wrong, I was shattered…. I had no idea how to react or what to feel, other than my whole world crumbling around me. See, I had a plan. I knew what I had to do, and now you took that from me. I just couldn’t. I was obligated to give you a chance and see how long this “change of heart” would last, as I was sure it was just another manipulative ploy, but it held up.

Before I knew it, you graduated and were allowed to come home while simultaneously given a paying job at the rehab center, forcing me to pull out my fake smile and façade once again for the benefit of all. And although there were obvious changes and improvements in your mental well-being and outlook on life, I still continued to feel left out and unimportant. My depression sank its teeth even deeper into my soul and has yet to let go, nearly one year later.

You found your sobriety: great. You found Jesus: wonderful. We saved the house, despite accumulating immense debt in the absence of your paycheck: awesome. But while you were basically given a months-long vacation to work on yourself, most of which you whined and bitched through, I was entirely broken and shattered by everything that took place and the burdens forced upon my back. You’re the one that fucked up and caused the whole mess, but I’m the one that had to bear all the consequences. And then you get to come home happily and move on with life as though it never happened?

While you may have discovered a deep and meaningful relationship with God in the last couple months of your recovery, I completely lost what little that I had. I have lost all purpose and motivation for my future, and I just feel trapped, perpetually drowning in my own hopelessness. If only you knew exactly how close to the point of no return I truly was, maybe you’d think twice about forcing me to suppress my own demons in order to help you handle yours almost every, fucking, day. I don’t get to have bad days or show how much I am struggling, because they cause you to have bad days and so I have to suck it up to take care of you.

We may be married, but I have never felt so alone and unappreciated. I’ve fallen back into the depths of suicidal thinking and I really see no way out. It would be far easier than trying to face any sort of confrontation or conflict. I missed my window and I have yet to forgive myself for it. I have no friends here. No support. I am as isolated as ever in my endeavor to continue sacrificing myself for the well-being of others.

But it’s okay. I love you. You’re my favorite.

May I have this Dance?

“Have you thought about taking a nice girl to Prom next week?’, my Mom asked as I grabbed my lunch and backpack and turned to the car. “No, I don’t think I wanna go.” “Well, that’s ok sweetie but if theres a girl you like you should ask her!” “I’m just a sophomore, I still have two years to go. Can we change the subject”. “Sure thing”, my mom said as she started the car and drove me to school on that momentous day.

Well, there actually was someone I had a crush on: you. I sat behind you in math second period. We’d never really talked before. I had lent you a pencil a few weeks before during a test when yours broke, but I doubt you remember that. Still, something just kinda drew me to you. I sat behind you all year, quietly admiring. Sometimes, you’d just move your hair or cross your legs just so, and I couldn’t say why, but it really did something to me.

Now, as I got out of Mom’s car, I had a couple hours to figure out if, and how I should ask you if you wanted to go to Prom with me. I’d seen in a million movies how girls really like big, elaborate displays, but I wasn’t going to have time for that. Maybe I could just send you a Facebook message in math, like ‘Hey, look behind you, its your Prom date!’. No, no that would be weird. We weren’t even fb friends. While our teacher droned on and on about some nonsense algebra or whatever I racked my brain about what to do. Agonizing, as I saw the minute hand of the clock march closer and closer to the end of the period. Then the bell rang, jolting me back into reality. Now or never big boy. I shot out of my chair before you could pack you backpack, nearly stumbling when I caught my foot on the back of your chair. “Hi. Do you wanna go to Prom with me?” You cracked a wry little smile. “Maybe, if you tell me what your name is.” I let out a nervous little laugh and introduced myself. I couldn’t stop smiling the rest of the day. I couldn’t believe you said yes!

As my Mom drove me to your house, my mind raced a million miles per hour. What would your parents be like? Could I execute a perfect corsage pinning in the moment of truth? Should I ask you to dance? Lol, that’s definitely a no. Were you expecting me to kiss you at the end of the night? Do I need condoms? Whats a magnum? How do you use condoms? The car stopped and Mom told me it was time. I was greeted at the door by your Mom. “Hi Mrs….” “You bring her home by 11, got it?” “Yes ma’am.” And then everything slowed down, almost like slow motion you walked into the hallway. For what seemed like a lifetime, I slowly, and gluttonously drank you in: the way your heels defined your shapely legs, the accentuation of your lovely curves, the way your pretty pink dress matched your pretty pink mouth and would make me adjust myself frequently throughout the night. I picked my jaw up off the floor to tell you how beautiful you looked. It was a little embarrassing when your mom had to help me with the corsage after I pricked you a little (Sorry!), but otherwise the night was off to a great start.

When we arrived at the dance, we took our seats at a table in the corner of the room. You had some friends there that stopped by to say hi and how good you looked, while most of my friends didn’t go. Most of the night we just talked and actually got to know each other. We talked about places we wanted to go and books we enjoyed, dreams for the future and fears of the present. It was so crazy how quickly we clicked when we’d been sitting 3 feet away from each other all year without exchanging a single word. Throughout the night, I noticed every once in a while you’d take a glimpse of your friends dancing. When a slower song came on later in the night I abruptly stood up rather formally extending my arm and asking in the worst British accent ever “Madam, may I have this dance?”. You giggled a little and took my arm. I never intended to dance at all that night, but just being with you put me at ease and gave me a newfound confidence. With my arms around your waist and your head against my chest, we slowly swayed the night away….

And I got you home on time too, your Mom was very impressed.