the form


i have never known myself.
a stranger lying in wait within
my scrambling flesh. when
it sings, sinks in the singe of
match burns and quiet lies,
calling out – like to like,
sinew and muscle vibrato,
the skeleton hums in climaxing
stasis, the never-ever-getter
getting something in the end,
the finality of crying
in a quiet bed.

it is not enough.
it will never be right or
good or whole enough for you,
take and take and do not
give a shit or second
thought – you seam up the hole
but leave the inside bleeding.

shadow of the counter-part;
everything in this mouth tastes
like cardboard, bile, some latex
foreign object – square
hole, round peg. and in
the middle of this tandem mess…
the form, the screaming words
caught in shirtsleeves, bedspreads.

straining ears catch no pentameter.
words wrap like thistles round
my thighs, mouth soundless and
torn as a stuffed doll. trip and stop.

i have
no idea what i’m doing anymore.




if you’re here from twitch, you’re wondering about my current goal. (if you’re not from twitch, thanks for being here! this post will make no sense to you!)

2019 is just around the corner, and i’ve realized that i just can’t have my life continue the way that it has. i need to be more proactive about getting help and getting better. i have spent the day talking to my psychiatrist and also my GP’s office about steps to take with my health from here. i won’t lie – it’s not an easy road and it’s going to take a lot of my time and effort, and of course, money. that’s why i am writing out what my current goal is in a little more clarity than i usually do, because if people wish to donate, i want them to know what it’s going to. i have had people accuse me of using the funds for other purposes in the past so i feel like i have to be clear about it, even if it feels a bit invasive personally. here’s the breakdown of what the goal includes:

– 3 visits to a local IOP regarding my anxiety and specific phobia
– 2 therapy sessions with a recommended psychologist
– a visit to my psychiatrist to discuss different medications
– bill paid to my GP for past visit so i can see him again for an in-depth physical and medication options (though he is willing to try a few meds just from a phone consultation, i can’t get the full benefit of a prescription list of new meds until i see him)
– an ultrasound and visit at my gastroenterologist (this is the big one)
– a trial of a new medication for appetite
– self-help books recommended by my psychiatrist/GP
and lastly
– a haircut.
yeah, i know, you’re thinking “what the fuck is that doing there in all of this medical shit?” but i need to make some changes in my life and my hair is something that quite literally has been weighing on me for the last couple months. i just want to have a clean and healthy haircut for my own self esteem. this will be an optional goal if the rest of the goals can be met.

This is an “if” goal, as are all my goals on twitch. i never expect any donations, and your viewership is more than enough. please only donate if you truly have the means to and wish to help me medically overcome some serious obstacles i am facing. thank you for reading.

(this post will be deleted if the goal is met, to keep the blog more uniform in tone)



the moon hangs, lazy,
softly, over the snow caps
and your breath makes mist.

cool vapor changes
into harsher words; frostbite
full of vitriol.

rip the rib cage, force
it open like an icebox-
icicles of red.

ruby-coated grief,
veiled soft by lips
that smile trenchant.

what hangs between us?
hands that never meet, gestures
devoid of substance.

courage slips through like
water in a broken cup;
drip, drop-drip-drop. stop.

you do not see me.
what am i to your cold eyes?

it drives me crazy.



what’s a bloodstream but a map;
roads connecting a person
to themselves, suburbs of arteries
forever circling back to the
cardiac metropolis.

there are routes that dead-end,
streets that fork and split
when you stick the knife in –
flooding engines with puddles
of standing red.

it is not so easy to maneuver here.
the brake line is cut, the wipers
stutter and smear dirt, all of
this shithole heap running on fumes
and false hope.

there is nothing for it but to crash.
bits of burning wreckage amassing
along the street signs, cacophony
of flaming garbage and metal whining.
do not enter.

there have been times…times i wished
it would work, click back into a picture
of health. spark plugs snapping at
attention when the key turns over.
the happy growl.

lately i wish it would go off
to rust in a silent wood, battery dead.
shuddering throttle as it comes to
rest between two shady trees.
a peaceful vanishing.

i don’t know. i don’t care.
it can be the cessation or the impact,
the streets caving in on themselves.
heart, chart, compass ruined;

the geography’s fucked.

untitled, 1


i might be an open book. that’s a fair assessment. but not everyone reads between those lines, the handwriting petering out with an ever-dying pen. not everyone sees the notes at the bottom of the page, the cross-outs and the things that never made it to the finished copy. some people don’t even read at all.

“it’s hard.” i want to shout that sometimes at people that i feel a spark just speaking to, who ad nauseaum let chances for something amazing fly by. do you not see? “it’s hard, it’s hard, it’s hard!” – to make that genuine connection, not everyone is an exception but then, there shouldn’t be a rule. and i empathize, i understand, the want for love but the wariness of the affection – is it true? will it last? will it simply suffocate with memories of past sparks, flames that engulf, or will it withstand and make a showering firework, or will it go off in your hands? what can you do in this age when it’s easy to forget someone behind a veil? a pixel screen is the fail-safe for these things, you can break it open but no one is there. touch the static electricity. the optics are clear, and if not you can shade to simplicity so easily. we are harmless but still you fail to see the contrivances you’ve put in the middle, red tape of shades darker than i can passably cut underneath.

what do you have to lose in sharing yourself fully? i am not some monster lurking beneath your bed. i have not come with promises to fill a head with nonsense, but there’s something. does that mean nothing, now? i need a place to put my hands. the keyboard does the trick but it sticks like my voice when you won’t even talk, even try for a thing that stands a tiny chance of hurting. pain, huh, new concept, will it ruin you? straining to hear the voice of another above the work work work you have to do. i know, we’re all busy, but do you want to look back in a year and have regrets? i do not want to play a game. i prefer good conversation, and i will always know where i stand. i am still an open book, and you may have a story to tell. pick up the pen and write in me, and you may be surprised that you find it is as familiar and welcome as the one inside your head. i am the journal you never knew you could keep and you can consider yourself well read.

tiny cuts


snowdrops dancing on wind
whipped like custard, floating
down ever-spiraling to
frozen earth.
don’t worry, it melts
in your palms, your hair,
the tip of your nose as you
wait for the bus.
warm hands in pockets. headphones
tangled up and ugly,
cold-tinted windows and fog breath.

pages of dense subtext loose
long breaths of satisfaction
under the microscope. a papercut
quietly draws a single drop
of smearing red.
sublimation has come.
under examination, these tiny
cuts show themselves;
a million scars to match your own.
fissures already existing
to join skin in strange patterns
unique, but unwholesomely so.

knowledge and love, and mistakes.
new slices into the husk of me
sent off to meathouses
you no longer eat at.
i see you – changing like a tide
when there’s no moon to turn it.
now a thing you swore you hate.

i am to become a body grotesque.
trying to remain subsurface
proves only the incompetence
of the procedure
and the subject;
change was imminent and immense.
it did not matter in the slightest.

in this small space i find myself
glad you are well, glad for anything
that no longer involves me
feeling, no vitriol spat
against my tearing flesh.
if any fault was yours i’ve
long ago forgot it.

a snap is probably the way to do it.
when we dead wake it is
with a mourning manipulation
and several broken capillaries
around the eyes and mouth.
it could be gutted out yet;
wounds reopened and bled anew
because i’d still apologize, forgive,
love with this sinewy corpse –
but as i am terra-formed forgettable
you were richness removed and
myself the eluvium.

snow still spins downward
coating me in blameless white,
some devil’s flames come
to freeze me over,
palms of sawdust and
hair growing snakelike,
tip of my nose forever
brushing some feathered interior.
hands embrace the ruptured
scars. headphones splayed
across my desk,
no needless window, no breath.

your words


“how could you” –
cat viper forked tongue
raking over the coals.
how does your bitterness taste?

i packed a box. it was requested,
and how it came to be yours i do
not understand, nor will i ask.
it is enough to know it is not my business.

why then, is it yours to berate?
there will be no response in kind;
i hold no judge’s gavel, matted powder
wig, it is not my duty.

neither is it yours.

you would presume to know me,
to say that i am not unique,
that my experiences
are not allowed to shape me.

that now, taking a close look,
i am not approved to examine
myself in the way i see fit.
am i not granted rights to feel

distressed and bipolar,
pitiful, petty, hurting, sad,
anxious and furious
and mostly with myself.

there is righteousness, perhaps,
the protection of one so dear,
distaste on their behalf.
there is none in a fury that
does not belong to you.

i am not the first person who “could”, who “hurt”
another human being; it is in our
ever-evolving nature that we fuck up.
i will not be the last person, either.

a better do-over with knowledge of myself –
somehow that was lost in years
of trying to calm, to fit, fight, grin
and bear complacency choke-holds.

apologies are fruitless to a person
who is “100% done”
and cares not whether i draw breath.
those were your words, not mine

and despite the claims of hardship
i hear everything is fine.

words fall out of this mouth to the page
only of those that will to see and listen.
nothing of mine reaches those
who have no reason to look for it.

therefore, the only advice i can offer,
though i scarcely believe it needed;
stop glaring this way in hatred
(i have none for you, even as this is)
and look elsewhere with a happier heart.

joy can easily be exchanged
and shrouded in sorrow and pain.
you cannot see sunrise through rain clouds and fog
….i mean, how could you?

all off me


all of me fits
in a nike box, dumped off
return to sender –
meanwhile my 20×12 room remains
a testament to you.
memento mori tears
the pit in my stomach builds
acid-refluxing towers, and i hope
that the New Me, the one
who you will love for all time
(in sickness and health, through
good times and bad, et cetera)
will love you back as much as i do
(in depression and serenity, through
bliss and fuckups, et cetera)
broken as i am.

73 pounds of failure
for sale at the butcher’s block
going for nothing
yet with no interested buyers.
i can see why you walked away.
i can see it all – ribcage like
jailor’s bars, shriveled breasts
and thigh-gap legs that won’t fill
clothes. palms forever open
in surrender, pleading for one…
one more talk, one more kiss, please
don’t say goodbye like this.

don’t let the end be a post-it
about four hundred bucks
and when you love her now, new fresh
sparkling relationship of promise
i hope that the stain
washes all off me.



these grey walls
are ashen prison blocks
but the windows are open,
and it feels bearable.
simple, to let go
and not be conscious
ignoring the gnawing gut,
the empty voices, the
goodbye words.

it is easy to be
alone when you turn
the brain off,
don’t feel the cold
anymore, it’s just
another piece of
the nothing-void.
shuffles pass by
the bedroom door
there is -no entry-
why would there be?
no one is here.
sleep time comes
and it goes, like a
wave crushing down
the sand pebbles.
stronger just because.
the moon comes up
the sun goes down
the stars are bats
flying picking
bugs from the air.
music used to matter
in this space
and so did books
and projects
and smiles that split
lips. now there are
only tiny bones
on the bed, small
bruises and headaches.
skin a see-through blouse.

paper little girl
cutting up other
little paper things
and wishing them
into real life.
this isn’t playtime
and you will have
nothing at the end –
money holds no weight
in a wallet that
doesn’t exist.
i’m sorry –
it all sounded good
written down.

reel it in


haiku sets, tiny
fissures in a jaded heart –
but it wasn’t me.

i wear socks to bed
now – i picked it up from you,
a wayward habit.

can i ask what you
took from me? my legs, my lungs?
brain function in prose?

i am on this page,
and as the wind blows i see
you are not with me.

do not be afraid
of the words. do not worry
about my mistakes.

you will be just fine.
i am learning quite fast now
how to reel it in.