You touch me like I matter
I wish you weren’t deceived
With every single stroke or kiss
I wish that you would flee.

Tragic for always, a Nymphette gone wrong
Impossible colors and rose water dreams
Sticky-sweet fingers and stockings with seams
Playing the siren mishearing the song.


you said ‘always’

and it tasted like 

a curse


it is 10:10pm and I crave cliffsides.

I bought a new sketchbook but nothing is your knife anymore

and ink won’t save me

Vomit Youth

if i was able, i would say
but hands [around] throat
make things hard.
when you are at a certain age
when innocence is ripped
childhood eschewed
in favor of lipstick
tasting of berries
in favor of magazines with that
tickly “s” word emblazoned
when they ask you
“who taught you how to kiss?”
how can you answer that you didn’t have a choice?
sticky fondlings in stairwells,
places you have no right to be,
places that are tainted by that action now.
you can’t walk alone without glancing over your shoulder.
things are different now, tar-shadow-flowers
bloom in these places that used to be good,
untouched by flame and rot.
they’re all rotted now,
and your mistbones,
for a moment
turn to lead.
You are poisonous.


I am dividing my dinner.

One two three four—
I lose count. I shred it.
Rice grains are individual battles.
Chewing pains my teeth.
Makes my jaw ache.
Too much effort.
Too much consumed time.
Too much.
Too much.


I hurry and skid into the tiny, wood paneled room, draw the door behind me, lock it as best as my fumbling, fear-slick fingers will allow. The four foot wide room shifts subtly, bringing me underground, safe from the ravening hoard. Safe. Until it jams. 

Wood and leather slip around me, walls sliding closer. Deep oxblood silk pads the panels closest to me. 

"What’s going on? What’s happening?!"

A voice out of nowhere, sibilant, feminine, smooth as poisoned chocolate…

"Why, we’re making your coffin, dear. You didn’t think you could escape so easily?"

And then I woke up.


They’re sitting at the edge of the bed. Slender and pale as their cigarette, sometimes black hair, sometimes green, sometimes shades defying both gender and infinity. They haunt me with the scents of comfort and tobacco, white ghosts so alike I suspect doppelgangers. Sometimes I feel them sit beside me, tousling my hair as I try to sleep, trying to pass it off for the fan. But I know. I know.

i ‘m always hiding

behind everything

under each word 

slipped somewhere


subtext and


is my plea

i went through my bags today

shuffling through clothing and books and

craft supplies

until i found the shirt i wore when

you took me to see your family for 

the first time.

i washed it immediately but i

still can’t quite get the

scent of you off of it.

it feels like your lips

like the bone-peak of your hips against

mine and i can’t



i need more bleach.