to all the lovers that will never love me and friends who stopped talking to me.

maybe it was just bad timing

or you were 

there

and 

i was

here.

i don't have much to offer

except some pennies i picked off the ground

jangling around in my pocket

along with a lighter,

a pack of smokes,

some scraps of papers,

old faded receipts for 99 cent cans of iced tea,

pepper spray,

car keys,

and a pocket knife.

i suture my mouth shut whenever

i had an important heartfelt message

or statement to say.

and you can't save me

when i can't save myself

or even know who the fuck i am

so how will we ever get to know each other?
how will we become friends?
go on adventures?
reminiscence about unforgettable days or nights spent together? 

or fall in love?

have sex?

make plans for the future?

make it through a job interview without having a full blown panic attack?

get a well paying job?

buy a house?

have a family?
reunite with people from the past at back yard barbecues,
talking about the days gone by as our kids do cannonballs
off the diving board into our in-ground pool, or have pretend wars on rafts
with water balloons and squirt guns, before drying them off, putting them to bed,
and talking about our current lives over beers in the flickering lights of citronella candles?
growing old together?
going to each other's funerals shedding tears while giving eulogies?
finally dying in peace life fulfilled?

i'm sorry.

i have problems,

and the answer is we won't.
i won't.

i am just a burden to the people i care about,

and the people that care about me.

it's only a matter of time before i go past the edge of your event horizon.
it's only a matter of time before i become a hole in your memory
and disappear forever without a trace.

i'll never get better after all, and i guess that's just part of life.

skin thin slices.
peel with a pairing knife
bought off an infomercial
discard into a compost heap.
and watch it grow nothing.
where is the epicenter?
the inner knowledge?
what makes it function?
what causes it to move?
what causes it to live?
what makes it want to live?
why live?
questions
that have answers,
which turn into more
questions.
after falling on snow that turned
to ice looking up
at the starless sky
with a pizza
and two chocolate lava cakes
strewn around you,
you realize you are just a manipulation,
and as much as you don't want to be,
this world
is real
and
it does exist,
and
yes you are a part of it.
and
criticisms always seem
more important than compliments.
but i have to stop here.
i need to get a fast food hoagie
and got work in less than a half an hour.
i got a free gift card and haven't eaten
an actual meal in 4 days.

underwear project: orange boxers/black lace thong, black push up bra

confusion.

that is the word my neural impulses have etched into my brain since i became conscious of what the world was.

who am i?

in the morning i wake up, i am a bad ass who's occupation is a bounty hunter like in the days of the wild west, body covered in scars from bullet wounds and slashes where i've been previously stabbed and slashed in the line of duty, covered in a navy blue suit jacket with matching trousers, in yellow button down shirt, with two leather holsters draped off my shoulders holding two 9mm glocks. quiet and cool. sitting at a bar drinking glasses of bourbon on ice, smoking cigarettes without ever showing any signs of being intoxicated.

just suave and sophisticated. confident. able to take care of myself. courageous and confident with the ability to pick up the mysterious woman in the black dress at the end of the bar without any trepidation or self consciousness. she sips a vodka tonic, hiding her complicated life with down turned hazle eyes that stare into her half full glass, and through her ability to turn down drunk assholes in gelled spiked hair, tight designer brand t-shirts, and drenched in a mixture of axe body spray and $50 cologne bought at some department store in some mall in some town in america with a sharp tongue and carefully poignant words that flow out her mouth effortlessly.

and if these men can't take no for an answer, and get violent i step in and handle the situation with a numerous amount of martial art kicks and punches. laying them out before we both escape in a taxi cab, while the cops are on there way. making out in the back seat, before sleeping together all night, and telling our life stories to each other in the intervals in between with our clothes strewn across the bedroom floor of the hotel room we held up in for the night. falling in love, in a single night, with each of us knowing due to one reason or another if will never last, because she's pregnant with her second child, her husband's in jail, and getting out soon, but until then, on top of her day job, she now has to work as a stripper at night just to support her three year old son, and soon to be newborn daughter. so we both move on never forgetting about each other, and this night for the rest of our lives. hoping maybe fate can intervene but knowing it won't. so we move on. we deal with it. and live out the rest of our lives in our own separate ways.

then the next morning i wake up. i am an anxious woman, who classifies myself as less of a woman and more of a mixed up girl. who looks in my bathroom mirror in the morning ashamed of who i am because of how other people defined me when i was growing up. No one ever taught me how to do my make-up when i was younger, or what color goes with this or that. or any female fashion sense. so i did my best to figure it out on my own by experimenting with this and that, and yeah sometimes it would come out horrendous, looking like some hideous clown slut, but other times i actually felt cute, beautiful. sexy. but, even then, i never had the courage to go out in public because i was too scared about what they would think: the few people i knew, my handful of "friends," coworkers, family, and even for some stupid reason strangers. the only time i felt confident was behind closed doors. the only time i felt happy was behind closed doors. when i would slip my black lace thong on with matching bra, curly brunette wig, tight black dress, strappy high heels, black stalkings over shaved legs, and choker around my neck, after my only friend did my make up in a way that actually accentuated my features and made me feel sexy, for the first time i felt like a woman, not a mixed up girl. ready to go out in public without apprehension. ready to have fun.

the next morning i wake up...

who am i?

who the fuck am i?

know my name and all my hideous mistakes

(art by: elly dallas)

i complain.
late at night to no one.
in the dark alone.
"why don't you know my name?"
tomorrow something else will.
come up.
even though i
haven't dealt with what happened today.
time has no breaks/brakes.
so i curl up on the driver's seat
with a black denim jacket over my head.
waiting.
for what?
i don't know.
just something.
to pull me up.
to shake me awake.
to kickstart my lungs
into breathing.
it's so quiet
when you spend
most of your life trying
not to make a sound.
and no,
i don't trust you.
and no,
i will never believe a word you say.
and no,
i will never understand people who are happy.
but maybe there's a cure.
every night before bed,
under my breath,
i rejoice
and simultaneously
curse your name.
it's quiet.
and
i'm tired.

2/25/17

on her own time.

she couldn't think of anything better to do, after drowning herself in a heroin bath, so she just did the first thing that popped into her mind.

after shooting up in a porno store parking lot, wishing she had the means to take care of a stray cat or dog (she doesn't have a place; she doesn't even have personal space), wanting a friend, she smelled a scent that she never knew.

it cut through the stench of piss and shit that stains her body and this city.

it cut through her short sighted dreams and her loneliness.

it cut.

it cut deep into her senses.

her anatomy.

carving her up until she was single minded without any future plans or purpose.

he reminded her of someone she used to know with more direction, moral fiber, and a will to live.

he walked by. she chased. she caught him. and explored his naked body with a rusty crooked switchblade plunging it into all of the places she felt pain in her own body. drinking it in. that scent. that aroma.

she slept with him for nights, not even noticing the hours roll by, lost inside his dreams. lapping it up, while looking deep into his sunken eyes. knowing nothing in life is permanent except a beginning, a middle, and ending. as the scent that made her feel something nice dissipates. knowing it can't be preserved. she takes a pair of scissors, snips his tongue out and sews it to hers because she's tired of the sound of her own voice. she gouges his eye out with an ice cream scooper, and replaces her eye with his because she wants to see what he saw. she chops her hand off with a cleaver, than his, and sutures it to the bloody stump on her arm with a needle and thread so she can feel what he felt. and with a pair of pliers plucks the fingernails off her remaining hand, then does the same to his, gluing hers to his and his to hers so she will understand how he used to scratch the napes of his former lovers necks, just like she used to do to her own.

she forgot to take her medicine today, which makes her think of all the lovers that never loved her.

she looks up.

the sky is starless tonight, and the hum of television sets projecting late night talk shows to people sitting alone in their apartments creates a soothing lullaby that is putting her to sleep.

it's two am on a tuesday night.

it's last call.

with her head down.

she has switched off safely.

both are still there and won't be discovered for a couple of days.

before the service before the papers. the interpretations by other people.

you can check it out for yourself if you want,  but for now let's leave it alone.

it's time to rest.