Scattered.

Writers are forgetful...
but they remember everything.

They forget appointments and anniversaries,
but remember what you wore and how you smelled.

Every single day...
they remember every story you’ve ever told them, but forget what you’ve just said.

They don’t remember to water the plants or take out the trash,
but they don’t forget how to make you laugh.

Writers are forgetful because they’re busy remembering the important things.

So please, forgive me if I forget.

I was late

I’m sorry I was late. I was pulled over by a cop
for driving blindfolded
with a raspberry-scented candle
flickering in my mouth.

I’m sorry I was late.
I was on my way when I felt
a plot thickening in my arm.

I have a fear of heights.

Luckily the Earth is on the second floor of the universe.

I am not the egg. I am the owl
who just witnessed another tree fall over
in the forest of your life.

I am your mother shaking her head at the thought of you.
I am her words dissolving in your mind like footprints in a rainstorm.

I am a long-legged martini.
I am feeding olives to the bull raging inside you.
I am decorating your labyrinth,
tacking up snapshots of all the people who’ve gotten lost
in your corridors.

vicinage

warm January mornings.

chapped lips.

yelling mistakes and untold secrets

through the collars of shirts.

this train is running local.

allow yourself multidimensionality.

 

Brush strokes

The doctor tells me to sit down on his table,
and asks me to stick out my tongue, so I do.

I ask him if he sees the paintings I carry in the back of my throat.
He laughs, as if I’m telling a joke. I’m not.

I tell him that I’ve got Da Vinci, Monet, Van Gogh, and Picasso,
and when I laugh, I taste brushstrokes.

I ask him to stick out his tongue,
so I can see what he has trapped inside of him.

He hesitates...

Then he does, and I see a man who struggles for acceptance
and chokes on the word love.

I don't conform.

As a writer, it’s easy for people to criticize my creativeness

when someone thinks my work is offensive, 
specifically, that it offended them.

It doesn't matter.

I don’t censor myself. I won't censor myself.

I write what I want to say, how I see it.

It may be fiction. It may be non-fiction.

-And the point of view will always be different.

It doesn't mean that I don't live in reality.

I write from all points of view.
Covering every perspective.

It means I am inspired by all humanity,
and I see the beauty in everything, from every angle.

People will have opinions and I respect that.

And someone will always be offended. That's a given.

If you don't appreciate it- don't read it.

But I will never hold back what I want to write 
because of fear someone might be offended by it. 

When it comes to writing, people are going to love it or hate it,

and people are going to judge it -just like everything else in life.

It's said "Conformity is the jailer of freedom." 
-I don't conform, I am free.

we are nobodies

Death has no rhyme or reason. It does not discriminate.

Death doesn't give one fuck about
how old, how young, or how beautiful you are,
how rotten, how rich or what a saint you are.

Death is motherfucker. 

We are nobodies.

We are small.

We are vulnerable.

you already know

You want to get to know me, but what you don’t realize
is that you already know exactly who and what I am…

I’m the scissors you were warned not to run with.

The stranger you were told not to talk to.

I’m the bass beat in the sub-woofer that disrupts your heart’s rhythm.

I’m the 1% threatening your health, that your hand sanitizer refuses to eliminate.

I’m the anticipation that comes after the lightning
just before the thunder lets you know how close the storm is. 

I’m the cyanide in your apple seeds.
And the gravity when you fall.

I’m the devil on your left shoulder and the angel on your right,

reminding you that, either way darling,
I will always, always have my way with you.

Escapes

I don’t know if I am really a writer or if I just have a lot of shit to say. Someone once told me I just liked the sound of my own voice.

I just know how good it feels when something from inside of me escapes into the hands of someone outside and it returns to me with fingerprints and more stories to tell...

That makes me happy.

superficial

Her life was black coffee
,

with extra cream,

and three spoons of sugar on top.




On the surface
,
everything appeared sweet and innocent,

but the base always remained 
dark...

Encore.

I swear I'm nice, I can promise you that.

But bite me baby, and I'll for sure bite back.

Like that lone actress on the Broadway stage,

I honestly don’t give a fuck, the show will go on.

Break a leg bitch, and good luck.

qualified

Your hand between my thighs,
my lips on your neck,
a gun behind your skull,
a knife behind my back.
If we make one wrong move,
we’ll both end up dead...
-trust is everything.

The artist

He laid out his paints on the table,

kissed the soft skin on my neck,

and asked me if I wanted to be
the 
paintbrush, or the palette.

Softly tracing his lips with my finger,
I whispered, "I want to be 
the painting."

insolence.

I live darkly,
but passionately,
through inspiration,
through love and hate.

So mock the fury I spit,
with venomous fuel,

close my fucking coffin
and I will still create
with a black arrogance
that will tinge your soul

so deep with sadness,
that it will drive you straight into

the depths of hell.

toxicity

You begged me to love you.

I looked at you with soft eyes
as my mouth whispered into your neck,

“Darling, a girl like me would destroy you. You don’t want this poison.”

You grabbed my hand, pulled me towards the bed,
and whispered into my ear...

"Baby, I walk around everyday, always high in a daze,
sniffing toxic fumes of you, breathing all of you in,
as I carelessly let you kill me,one breath at a time,
I. want. this. poison..."