Sweet Girl, Don’t Take It Personal


Sweet Girl,

It wasn’t that he didn’t want you,

believe me when I say he doesn’t

understand how grateful he should

be. You could have chosen someone

else. Don’t take it personal. He hasn’t

figured out his own worth so how can

you expect him to recognize yours?

The Small Things

The Small Things


Let’s talk loudly about it all.

Stop whispering and crawling

Around our secrets.

Let’s be real.

Open yourself wide.

Bend toward this truth.

The small things.

The small truths.

The smaller lies.


I know now  that you don’t have it in you.

Your mother encouraged your rage.

Unloved and unkept,


The poison paralyzes the small rooms

Where you pretended not to see her

Wildly forgetting to be your mother.


For women, your rage blossomed.

A woman,

The wild empress of poison

Crowned you Prince of Unforgiveness

Because you kissed her hand

Drawing her disgust

Your lips lie with smiles.


Love for you is an act of treason.

You don’t trust it.

You don’t share it.

The poison is all you have

And want to give.


But the small things.

The small things badger

Those vile nights.

Those when you came

Only to conquer,

To take more

Than you are willing to give.


Appreciate the small things.


The small things suffocate.

The smell of your wild skin,

Blue under the television’s light.

Strong hands, demanding, pulling, stroking.

Your bold lying voice


 my name.

Bitch before we climbed into bed

Where you forget

The anger until it’s over again.


These are your small things.

All that you have to offer.

Spread between the many faces

Of wild women you’ve fooled.

The small things.


Fuck the small things.

I’m taking me back.


June 2012

Untitled. (July 3 2012)

Language is soft on those nights.

The ones when I’ve sat empty, waiting.

The words come as whispers,

Tiny and illicit.


I hope for a way into the Dream.

But hoping isn’t action.

That’s when she comes.

The Black Angel.


You know her

The one who sits

on your shoulder

giving soft courage

 in the hard doubt.


Her eyes  are closed.

She hums. She spears the

Critical voice with her warrior knife.

The one that she won.

She is a fighter, that angel.

She is.


Her wings drip with little words

That only she can read.

It’s the ancient language

Of dreamers.


I am a dreamer.

My language is soft.


July 3