I miss poetry

I miss poetry 
In the way I miss cheez-its with salsa and melted cheese
Something so gross its pleasurable like the 
Feeling of the Queen’s crop upon my ass as I beg for more. 
I miss the way it moves in my mouth, 
Poems of Poe, Frost, Whitman, Shakespeare, Cummings, and Angelo
Setting of a mental orgasm that leaves me quaking and trembling unable 
To form any word other than fuck because my mind has been blow
To the fifth circle of Niverna, the way a good joint and 
Vinyls of AC/DC leave you boneless during long Indian Summers 
As you think, life can not get better than this. 

I miss poetry
I miss it in the way I miss church
A place of comfort, a home, a place were words were 
Unjudged and scripted as they flew off the tongue to 
Hang in the air swaying back and forth like a hung man 
Condemned to always stay there. 

I miss poetry
In the way I miss my ex friends
Recalling the better times that we had only to be torn 
Apart by stupidity and hormones. 

But most of all, 
I miss poetry because its something I can’t
Ever let go off. 



I do not belong.
The bright colors of laughter taunt me
As I shuffle through the day, tones of gray
Clouding vision and mind, leaving a mono-shaded world
That I trudge through.

I have never belonged.
Always on the outside, watching as people
Dashing by, weaving connections into a warm blanket
Leaving me to shiver in loneliness

Outsider, outcast,
Unsure how to belong,
Unsure if I truly wish to belong,
The inner me, hidden like a changing caterpillar
Always covered in masks and costumes,

Ever changing always hiding,
Outcast, through and through,
I wonder if I’ll truly belong.

Hand fasting

I shouldn’t be investing this much. It’s only been six months but its felt longer with her. Somehow I feel as though time has stood still allowing us to exist in a world thats bigger on the inside than how small it looks from the outside. She’s been my friend for 9 months, been with me through an abusive ex and in my corner ( allowing me to realize during those three months of friendship I had fallen in love before freaking out because I was with the ex, trying to make it work. Another blog entry/story for another day). Violently I push the thoughts away as fingers fly.

Over, under, over the log, under the log, my brain tells me as wings of blue, green, and gold flutter through my fingers. We’re talking of a trip to visit each other as I consider our love. We’ve never met in person. The majority of our communication comes through texts and Skype, with few video chats and many phone calls with care packages.  Many of my friends ask me what the point is. If I can not touch and taste the fruits of desires, why am I committing myself? Why do I wear the necklace she wears along with the claugdah ring she bought me?

Because I love her. And she loves me. Despite what some authors of the lesbian community believe about the fact that a ldr online only relationship can’t work.  I think it can. I know it can. I’ve had friends in long distrance relationships that have lasted for more than 2 years and are engaged. For her and I, we talk of moving to NYC with four furry babies, two kittens, a Husky and a Corgi puppy in an apartment with  the idea of our own little ones later on.  I smile at these thoughts letting the satin of the ribbon brushes against my hand while I imagine our future.

Never before have I ever imagined a life with anyone. It was always vague flashes that were muddier than an image in a scrying mirror but with her, it’s like someone has sharpened the photo fine tuning the details. I keep weaving the ribbons into a braid before finally stopping for the night. The first braid is done along with the second having five inches braided.

I’m crafting her hand fasting cords for our year anniversary, where we plan to met up and take a vacation together. I want to do a commitment ceremony   with her. A promise that no matter what may come our way I want to commit to her, to make this last. These cords will take months to finish, just like it’ll take time for us to meet in person (I’m a college student who makes 600 bucks a month [which is a good month] and put 500 of it towards bills/taking care of my own needs. Money is hard to come by)

But I know that this will be worth it. Braids of gold, blue, and green wrapped around our hands as I promise to be her mate and stay by her side. I can only pray as I finish the first braid that this will last as long as our relationship will. To the point of forever and beyond


“I love you”
Words that are celebrated fill me with dread
I wonder if she really means it
If this is just a game,
Another round of target practice for those
Wondering how easy it’ll be to add another crack.

She senses fear, gently coaxing my hands into hers
Grounding me in this storm of doubt that batters my soul,
Gentle words and touches soothe the abused wolf within
Beginning to trust the beautiful woman who loves me with all her heart.

As she repairs my soul, I whisper the words back to her gently
Binding my heart to hers with the bound of mate.
“I love you” I whisper, full of trust tempered by pain,
” I love you.” I promise to try to be the woman she needs with these words

Because I love her.
As much as she loves me.

In the middle

Somehow this happens when I’m trying to work on me. I’m trying to be a good student, to do what needs to be done for me and my life when life throws as much shit as it can at me.  I feel like I’m a pledge in life’s sorority constantly getting the paddle or being sent straight into the shit hole to prove some sort of loyalty to it.  It’s 10:30 and I have an essay to write. The tv is finally mine after a week of my brother living down stairs from tearing his ACL during a wrestling meet.My shows are stacking up in the DVR  much like the endless responsibilities threatening to destroy what little sanity I have left. Trying to muster enough give a damn to focus on both her and this paper I somehow manage to do so.

Soon enough, she’s commanding  my full attention with her life. She’s started dating a mutual friend of ours over winter break. In short It’s been about a month since they got together and for her, I’m the other lesbian who is A) closeted &  B)in a ldr (long distance relationship) so I am the advice giver. The conversation we have leaves  me angry.

“I’m not in love with her. I’m in love with a man who I’ve always been in love with. He makes me glow when I’m around him.But I’m still wanting to sleep with women.” By the end of it I’m in no mood to listen to the special snowflake problems she is having. She laments her inability to pick between being straight or gay, that her  life would be easier for it.

And while I am normally sympathetic  to my friends problems. I wish to scream at her as many profanities as I can. Does she not understand that this will not only effect their lives, but ours as well. I don’t want  to choose sides because I’ll choose the ex over her. Because I know what it is like to be the ex. Because she should have waited till she knew herself before getting in a relationship like this.

For now I straddle the middle hoping to weather the storm this will bring.

The things that define us.

In California you are a child of cities unlike many others that people live in and are vastly different than the cities I’ve found myself visiting. Growing up where the Sun sets and stars rise only to fall at the flash of a camera, no one ever truly seems to be normal. We are a hodge podge of conventional and unconventional, both modern and classical, akin to the Steampunk cosplayers I see every now and again.  It’s rare for us to be normal. (Although Normality is far from normal) It’s also rare to live in the same area most of your life but yet I have.I live in the same town that I grew up in. It’s not famous for anything other than Johnny Cash sang about it’s prison.  The town itself is a footnotes on maps and in the pages of history.

It’s something people define me with. When they ask where I am from I see their eyes glaze over a little as if imagining a fancy house with Daddy giving me a BMW on my 16th birthday.  My experiences aren’t what define me to these people. It’s where I’m from, the label of the town I’ve grown up in.  In school it was the same way, labeled for wanting to sit in the back, hiding from the world with Hamlet or the Art of War creating a great wall around me that none could scale.

At home, labels where lobbied like hand grenades set to shatter self esteem and teach my brother and I to be better people. I can remember being 8 years old trying to read a book to my father and being unable to sound out the word because ( At the time no one knew that I was dyslexic) yelling at me for being stupid. It was the only the first of many labels, lazy, liar, worthless, slob,etc.

I hoped that at my church it’d be different. After all Jesus commanded  “Love thy neighbor as yourself” . Sadly I learned early on that the words said upon Sunday mornings and in the circles of Bible studies do nothing to protect you from the judgement of others. I was labeled as weird, secretly whispered to be a lesbian for how I clung tightly to the few female friends I had. I rebelled against that label, tried to wear the label of straight.

But yet, pieces of the unwanted label still stuck. Parts of the me who knew what I was underneath all the labels and masks I wore would shine out. My love for literature, the love of beautiful and brainy women, crime shows and other things would slip out in some of the most crazy ways.

Finally after years of hiding and trying, the woman who’s been trapped away in darkness, hidden from the light starting to come to the surface. She’s allowing herself to be loved by a beautiful woman, slowly understanding that someone’s sexual nature is not a thing of sin but something that we are born with. But yet, as she and I stare at each other in the mirror, we wonder what to do with ourselves?

Who are we? Am I her? The girl who is proud to declare herself lesbian? Who wants to scream her lover’s name from the highest roof tops. Or is it me? The scared girl who hides behind all these lies and masks, trying to reconcile the faith I’ve claimed for years as my shield with the woman I find myself becoming.

What labels do I chose to define me? Which ones do I allow to seep under my skin and create my worth for me? Maybe I am asking the wrong questions I think as I look back at the two of us in the mirror.

Perhaps the question I should ask, isn’t of which labels do I chose to define me.  Perhaps it should be, how can I use my labels to connect with others along with not letting my labels own me. For so many years, I’ve let them dictate my inner monologues, my life, my actions.  I know that so many things I’ve let slip me by because I’ve believed the labels that others have given me. Or even the ones I’ve given myself.

For now, I think its time to learn to let my labels connect me to others but not to own me. It’s time to learn how to be me and not let the fact I’m dyslexic, lesbian, a writer, a poet, a lover, dark haired, etc, control my life.




I’m unsure how long this panic will last. I can not sleep. Can not think or speak the words I need to free myself from this monster that has a hold of me. This is my nightmare. My father’s words meant as a joke  “She’s her girlfriend”  sent waves of terror intent on drowning my soul. I find myself staring at an essay prompt that needs to be done, the idea of censorship is something that needs to be fought. That knowledge is something to be desired to make us better human beings. But, I wonder as I stare at the clock, if ignorance is truly bliss and things are best kept hidden.  I can recall the time I tried to see if my parents had knowledge on what would happen to me if I declared my love for the female gender. 

Hellfire and brimstone, labelled sick by my mother, and pretending to be normal while my secrets begged to be bleed out through my wrists. I can’t give into that demon again.  I promised that I wouldn’t let my demon control me like that again. She waits though, holding a razor blade wanting to slice my skin open again. Instead her brother just sits by me fueling my panic as he whispers everything negative that I have ever thought or heard about me. 

It is almost 2 am and I try to tune them out. Try to keep myself busy .I wonder if it’s better for me to leave my girl now. To run away and never look back, to keep her safe from me, from my family. The family that is so shattered we don’t know how to be together. I lay awake wondering how mad she’ll be if I text her, telling her to have a good trip to NYC that one day  it’ll be us there. I don’t tell her that the nightmares keep me awake. The thoughts that don’t ever stop. The ones that tell me she deserves someone better, someone open and stable. 

Not me. Not the shattered girl who has no idea how to put herself back together again as fingers struggle to catch the shards of my once unbroken facade. The girl who struggles with depression and doubts, who wonders if she’ll wake up the next morning, if her life truly matters, and maybe, if fading away is the best option for all.  

I’m unsure if I’ll survive this life. If I’ll make it through this attack and be able to be strong enough to still love my girlfriend. I’m unsure if she wants to spend a life with me. But its 2am and she’s coaxing me through texts  to rest my head. So I’ll close my eyes unsure if I’ll be okay but I’ll try to sleep unsure if I’ll truly be able to rest.