drawing the curtain in confession with a handgun

I know I’m not by myself when I’m writing to you. Almost in a sense, a desperate set of epithets hooked onto your name which breathed slowly I can just imagine your response.

I read a review recently from someone who claimed they always hated poetry. I’m of the belief they’d never read it. Not a word from you or I that was honest or villainous or parked in the hours between rigor mortis and placid flaccidity.  We could bounce off of those two walls for eons. I think the last time I left a little skull.

The human experience is fucking treacherous; so what if we’re all not happy to be here until we find each other? If [if] if we find each other. My last little flicker of optimism says that’s not out of the question.

So why does it already feel too late?


Shamefully yours,

WordPress, you’re my fucking nightmare.
    Or maybe I am really my own,

    Despite being displeased with duplicity
           I am an acronym for self loathing
     my talent is my curse
        these words are my salve
                                        & splinter

            My relationship with language
                     is domestically violent
                             fucking poisonous
         I inflict pain until it oozes blood
             then smile when it screams

          I AM FINE.



The child is doomed
there’s attempt to breathe the words
& pinpoint the Perpetrator(s)
but the Fear chokes

&it leaves behind
bruises/ golf ball sized
Handprints alike scalding burns
when the sun rises & sets there
is starvation

A buzzard on the horizon
but wide eyes gaze from cages
& shudder


(Authors Note: child abuse is abhorrent in every form/ the depths where it can go is too deep and dark to stifle/ children need to be protected!)

Ribs and Hips

I returned revived hearing my name
repeated again and again,
my heart strained// racing to the end
You have to eat, she chided, do you know
What damage you do to yourself if you

Somehow at the time that was fine
This budding sickness of mine
& [I had no idea what was next. . .]
It sneaks up over a cruel comment
Sometimes “family” isn’t family at all

I know you don’t meet your maker
In a pageant line
People don’t gaze at bones
And smile
Except you, perhaps
who matter so little
who’s involved so little
who perhaps wants
Sadistically, the end of me


(Authors Note: xxx)

Trigger Warning

Wear your mask and take my hand,
I want to hear all about you and
I heard it’s much easier to tell the truth
When no one can see who’s who.

You’re of great interest to me &
Undeniably precious to somebody
Special, their face may just come to mind;
I just hope it’s not mine.

I’m the type of predator you weren’t expecting to find but found you:
I’m the type of fiend who told you lies while your naive heart told the truth.

The devil who convinced you not to kill yourself a thousand miles away,
Just to confine you in his motel room;
Trade your prescription for a carpool,
Airplane mode is always useful.

Abuse has happened to us all and trust me/I’m in that group, I’ve been raped too,
So when I take advantage of you, Dissociation should be easy to slip into.

(Authors Note: Written from the presumed perspective of the man who assaulted me. Very difficult to scrape off my chest. Hence the title.)