Oxytocin Abuser

I slide my hand into the crease

between your thighs.

This space is steaming and blistered,

but my hand is made of dry ice. How

you shiver when I touch you.


My lips are lined with thick honey.

How often do you think of them? Often

enough for fixation. My pretty pink tongue

plays with the margins of my jaw,

reaching for the warm inside of yours.


Can you feel the pull from my open chest?

My breasts stare you in the eye. They tease

you and I let slip a breathy giggle. My ribs

are overwhelmingly touchable. You visualize

running your fingertips across them.


I do not love you. Can I kiss you

while you weep? Can you dig your

fingers deep in my flesh? Jerk me back

to when I felt forgiving. You will

because they all do. You are not special

A Broken Cutting Board

Her throat hurls in-cohesive howls.
She embodies death metal music: Rose
red cheeks dripping cold sweat like
a scene of a movie. She screams like
jackrabbits fight. Her memory stems,
feeding her body poisonous mushrooms.
She froths from the mouth and makes
thunder with her fists. The cutting board
snaps loud. Like a glass plate against
a wall.

Those thoughts are a parasite, making her
soul into their snack. She chants "He's here,"
in a hollow voice. The handcuffs a python
tightening for the kill. A siren song is the
backdrop as she resists, resists, resists.
Bury her memories with pills like you
bury an enemy in the ground. She
can never forget.

Her skin is acupunctured with doubts.
Her breath is stolen with the perpetrator at large.
Her hands are filled with electricity.
Her mind a movie theatre playing her own flashbacks.
Her sweat is a letter with no return address.
Her ribs are thin ice on a well-used lake.
Her eyes are a flood destroying her own family.
Her body is a ruin where no one visits.


The unexplainable bleeding of the soul, begging of the heart. Come back to us and see. We are painted pretty, hiding from the sympathy, with your stains underneath. Come back to us and clean them. Seeing them burn into our skin, we scream your name. You are deaf to our voice now. It echo's off our skulls, bruising our thoughts. The pictures we burned can always be remade. The cuts are too deep to sew. Your name is tattooed on our ribs. Come back to us and touch us. Feel the sandpaper tongues, count the bones you broke, glue our hearts together. Come back to us.

Empathy is a Pool

that drowns us in love,

and we become another.

You are all.

Big blue tears, loud laughter.

Imagine it and you are it.

You Can Scream

You. Stamped fragile,
shattered into a thousand shards.
Lipstick left on the collarbone
looked too much like blood.
Ribs wrapped in silk,
suffocated the lungs beneath.

I bleed when you breathe!

Creeping in the night,
forever in suspension.
Padlocks over your cunt.
Men with bolt cutters.

A stolen breath... Excitement?
No, more like fear.

Milk colored cheeks,
the blood is somewhere else.
Stuck stagnant in the heart.
You taste sour…
Your own, or is it his?
Uncertainty chokes.
Dirt fills in your ribs.
Your chest rising too quickly;
Your voice stuck there.

Emptiness escapes in moans,
but there is too much to purge.
Maybe, maybe, maybe with
eyes sauntered shut, you can
escape. There are dried streams staining
your cheek. What is your purpose?

Tonight's Show

All the houses are blue,
even the screaming yellow ones.
Bloody noses behind wreathed 
doors. Prim roses rim prison
gates. The thorns creep
onto the sidewalk, barking at
neighbors dressed in white.

Domestic bliss?

Sun shines through windows,
but dark figures wrap themselves
around every corner
waiting for a young heart
to feast on.

Blonde pigtails drape over
Wild, wet eyes, her toes glide
soundlessly, just like her mourning,
across rolling cherry wood.
She stifles her giggles as the
monsters cross the threshold.
Perfumed clothes sway,
whispering to her "Do not to listen!"
to things she does not want to hear.

She'll go through puberty with fingers
in her ears, or maybe
down her throat.
A statistic with pitch black
eyes that match her mind.
Watching has proven to have
the same outcome as experiencing.
"What a shame..."

The closet is a shield,
which will soon be lined with skeletons.
For now,
It is an auditorium.
Her face is pressed up against the door
Like a child outside of a toy store.
Curiosity is morbid.
Tonight's show:
A mother's scream, a father's fist,
She watches behind glittered bangs,
Careful not to make a sound

Between the slits,
Window light glares.
What hides in the shadows?

A Lesson on Lessons

You were five years old
when your mother removed
the closet door. Unstuffed
animals left nail marks on
the inner workings of the
small room. Where are the
daisy dresses and glitter glue
sandals? Mother must
have left them in storage
alongside your baby teeth.

You pushed past the piles of
crab apple seeds and found your
bathing suit. Moths had eaten
a fabric hole in the shape of a human
heart across your ribs. Mother awoke
from her newspaper mattress, and
you drove together to the lagoon.

Naked feet sunk into the mud.
A man with no teeth was
howling bible verses and your
mother fell to her knees.
You think of how he could use
a cup of honey tea. Obscurity
swallows your mother hole.
With her peach flavored lip gloss,
she presents to you a book
before leaving on a puffing, 
charcoal caterpillar never to return.

I spoke to the willows,
who had similar stories, but they
just laughed. After tattooing
each line of the book on my stomach,
I learned to let go of things that don't
want to stay. There is no love here.