glitter chain

mama's love 

pink champage 

rainbow muffin 

reggae suede 

spandex tuxedo 

purple rain 

best friends 

boy friends 

no regrets



eighteen plus 

fake ids 

sprayed tans 

bruised knees

hot summer 

number one 

pick your posison 

now its fun

wild choices 

looks that steal 

vomit bodies 

never real

truth serum

never done 

made your bed 

time to run 

tree house party 

cocaine dream

mystery daddy

'the other team'

leave the next 

too drunk to call 

always naughty 

toilet stall 

get your things 

time to party 


love somebody 

Boop. your mama still don't call 



The Breakup

"I'm not feeling this anymore. It was fun but now it's done. Good vibes." 

I have 99 problems and they're all my fault

You can't see yourself if you're a clown

maybe she's born with it. 

maybe it's PTSD. 

Scone Poem

i saw the most beautiful human today 

in line for coffee and rolls 

tall, thin with sun-dipped skin reminscent of 1970s polaroids

southern california 

in a grey and black checkered button up 

chuck taylor high tops

as we inched closer to the counter 

i prayed our skin would brush

they ordered before me: 

"3 rolls and a vanilla latte with almond milk" 

almond milk. 

almond milk. 

i'm on my knees. 


the two of us in a cabin in the woods 

or driving in my car with the windows down 

with no particular place in mind

i order a large coffee to go 

no rolls for me 

i don't do the eggs or the dairy

and the vegan scone option is dotted with

not chocolate chips





one of god's many mind fucks. 

second only to beautiful women 

who love other women

it was mothers day last week. 

i don't know how to slow the roll 

because the highs are so high 

and the lows are so low 

and i've fallen in love with the idea of the

self imploding artist 

so many times that

maybe its manifestation or 

maybe its maybeline 

or ptsd 

or anxiety 

or that my ma told me not to smile with crooked teeth

or that everyone i've ever loved always seems to leave me 


when your mama was mad and slapped you across the mouth 

and the smile ran away too

you hid in your room drowning your sorrows in the accumulate a booze of a fourteen-year old alchoholic in training because you learned from the best.

how to hide your drinks in a coffee mug. 


can you see me now, now that i'm gone?


can you hear me now, now that i'm gone? 

did you leave me or did i leave you? 

did you cut the cord? or did I see the truth? 

you say its me, but its only what i learned from you. same tried shit that you'd always do. 

am i becoming the woman you never wanted to see? 

Someone less like you and more like me? 

when you lay your head down on that pillow, who do you think of, baby? 

do you moan my name in the stillness of night?

do you whisper the prayers i've dreamt to know? 

i've longed to be the mirror in your hands.

smash it.

burn it.

set it free. 

can you let the waters of my eyes trickle down your restless mind? 

Did you just puke into that soup?

Wine best enjoyed out of floral mugs 

for stoop dwelling misfits and latchkey serrenaders 

puzzling kleptos who somehow found a way with the weirdos and the broken hearted 

the lampshade hearts and the stuff of your nightmares that you secretly wish for in muffled moans at 3 am reaching for 5 sips of flat pamplemouse "La Cwah" because you should always be well hydrated 

and no one really knows you until one day you up and leave 

the door painting project because everything stopped making sense 

and you ran to your car and cried into your tea 

because love is all you've ever wanted and your hearts looking rough these days from all the time spent on your sleeve. 

but its all or nothing with you and there can't be middle or maybe or okay

love me or leave me 

but you won't stay. 

Art is all garbage and so are we 

but i'll keep creating and your apathy will inspire me 

or maybe i'll finally leave you in the past lumped together with the rest


when i waved to you on the street and you turned to hug me and she shot you that look and you kept on your way like i was just another sad soul searching for nothingness in arrogant conversation void of the salty passion you gave me the same. 

hardly a glance and years just swept under the rug with a slight of hand 

I miss your mom

do you miss the post it notes left at the front door 

and messy muffled kisses falling over and down with sweet sighs 

because im always late and you're always asleep

and i want to be a night owl but the excitement of a good 8 hours gets in the way and as soon as a movie begins to play i run away into the world of fluttering dreams of what isnt 

and i see that you're doing well these days as evident by your fillippant smile riidng top down in a convertible with your aviators and good hair. 


I miss your mom. 

an elderly man crossing the  street in a shirt that says "fetish"

breathe sweet little disaster 

the worlds not as bad as you make it out to be 

let go and know its mainly in your head 

beauty abounds even in dumpster fires 

and the new third reich wears red baseball caps 

which is a more palatable look 

tiny and terrible

you don't see the world like the rest

in circles and triangles and squares, diamonds, roses and rainbows 

is it black or white? 

no. soft pastels. 

for my love: 

playing in the dark

drinking champage out the bottle just wanting to be held and reasured at nauseum. 

still acting reckless and fourteen. 

"you are a splendid butterfly" 

that night you played me the beruit record as we laid naked on your floor sharing a blunt and all of our secrets as light snow fell illuminated by the soft orage glow of the street lights and love newly formed. 

I bathe in romantisicsed ideals of champagne 

rose petals 



warm bodies 

1970s polaroids 

and love worth fighting for. 

that person 

or personS

or thing 

or feeling 

or feelingS

that drives one to drop everything and run

live in a van?

live in a "tiny house"?

take it down to the courthouse

bottles of red wine spilled on wood and books strewn across the floor and paint and paper and canvas and a lava lamp 

turned on 

a story left where bodies once lay



drunk in love 

wrapped in sweetness that few have really 



in so much as the fact that i THINK i am well adjucted and open,

I am

(as you)

just as fucked up as the street guy who asked to draw my portrait

and i being the manic creative with the throbbing heart on my sleeve for any sweet fool with a canvas obliged to the A-symmetrical, nearly insulting sketch of a child rat queen consortium of poor choices and schizophrenic day dreams gold spray paint nipple twists my arm and take me back. 

do you ever stop and think that this is it?