Thirteen Magical Words, A work in progress

Once upon a time, in a land far away, plagued by deep, dank bogs, greedy dragons, a misunderstood race of witches, talking rivers, and people who didn’t even know the gross national product of Bangladesh, there lived a fair maiden tormented by loneliness and a wizards curse. The curse of loneliness can only be broken by the use of thirteen magical words.
The darkness plagues her like the memory of a lovers caress when his essence has faded from your presence like a hangover from an empty vodka bottle, sorrows surfaced,never fully are not like your father, who takes vodka in his morning coffee and rants alone to no one. You are not like your father, you tell the empty bed every morning when the dawn rises, destined to be alone. You are not your memories of pain. Thirteen magical words, you whisper to no one in particular. You remember his lips on your neck and his fingers in your hair and his russet eyes like molten pools with hazel spun like stars.

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Crooked Shadow


“I am standing upright but my shadow is crooked.” Anne Sexton

Like Anne Sexton, I stand upright with a crooked shadow

Why do you always seem to alter the position of the sun?

How the sky is weaved of shadows that slip through my fingers

Like your soul so weaved with lies

And yet your fragrance waltzes on the wind

And my fragmented mind like a second-hand jigsaw puzzle

Comprised by a drunken man

Fits the jagged pieces where they do not belong

I smell you in my clothes

Although you have never worn them

My soul trapped in a moment like a broken watch frozen on three

I lay my head upon the grassy earth and hear your heart beat

And long to bash my head into the ground to make it stop

But cannot bring myself to lift my head

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Fractured Soul

My fractured soul like the fragments of the sidewalk

Shift with the moving of the earth

Parallel to the gashes in my wrists

Like its own universe somewhere hazy

A reflection of the sun upon the rain

Half shrouded by the darkness

My own light the emanates between the bursts of light and shadow

Crooked roots of stalks without flowers

Grow through the cracks of stone

So I exist amidst the fracture

Where is my flowered crown you promised?

Left I am only with the thorns

Twist and burn inward more

I have not caught your spirit yet

You evade my bloody grasp

Do not let me catch you

What you feel is love will only turn to hate

For I have seen the shadows from the sun and watched the flowers die in rain

You will drown in your own tears if I do not suffocate you

Like the gnarled rings of a tree

My wrists, the scars to prove it

May they serve as a spiraled map to guide you

Never pass this way again

Remember me only as a fleeting shadow of a dream

That dissipates with morning light

These are not the hands you want to hold forever

Do not hesitate to let them go

No—the blood—I leave no stain

God forbid that you remember

Could I erase myself I would

And mingle in the air as if I belonged there

For here I do not belong

You see, it’s shifting like the moving earth

Crooked roots of stalks without flowers

Where is the promised crown of flowers

Somewhere in the haze, neither here nor there nor now nor later

I have not yet caught your spirit

I am still searching for my own.

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Wondering How the Water Felt

The aroma of blueberry candles, cinnamon, and sweat

Filled the room and the corners of my mind

As I wondered how the water felt as it washed over

Your body on top of hers in the bathtub

The bathtub in which I had often lain strewn with beads of your scent

And petals of your sweat

So I was wondering how the water felt

As you explored her body the way you once explored mine

Wondering if your body felt as beautiful next to hers

Curve for curve breast for breast

There was nowhere to move but up

And slide along you like the dolphins ride the waves

To watch you glisten like tears from the Queen of Heaven

Holds my body so full it’s like Christmas on Halloween

I wondered how the water felt imprisoned with my soul

Because it is my deepest fear

Sliding like dolphins you consume my soul

As I steal your reflection

And the reflection she casts from the corners of my mind

Explodes like Christmas on Halloween

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I run my fingers through the earth, along with the blades of grass above where they buried her. And so she abandoned me in more ways than one, around the time when the storm winds came to a head and put the sail at full tilt, so as to throw me among the currents, where I wish I could have drowned.  I never expected there to be anyone to save me, but more desolation has accompanied the death of my grandmother than I thought possible in a two-year period. It is here I ache to be this dirt, to feel close and useful and comforted. It is here I long to be these blades of grass, to be cared for as the Lillies of the field if only I still believed in such things. But I don’t, and like Rodger , Zelazny says,  “I know, too, that death is the only God who comes when you call.”

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Black Roses and Frozen Baby’s Breath

Black Roses and Frozen Baby’s Breath

Turbid memory, flowing deep

Running long and wide—

Seeping through the silence of my soul

Among these candles lit by remnants of sleep

In this mist of blood and fire

Hollow, save the darkness

Like the cloak of thoughts that weave themselves into a crown of thorns

To hang around my head

In a sea of black roses and frozen baby’s breath

Golden flames and stifling breaths—

To breathe alone and independent of my hollowness—

Darkness and its cold, wet touch—

That send me plunging into nightmare’s neverending waltz of several masks

Twirling in the clutches of phantoms

In this mist of blood and fire;

Kyrie eleison

The dawn rises on instinct,

The flames glow blue and soft

Blown by the breath that sings a fading lullaby

Whose catalyst remains these broken pills and bloody razor blades

Lull to sleep, calm my memory flowing deep

In a sea of black roses and frozen baby’s breath.

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Between the Haze and the Fire

Between the haze and the fire

I walk between the haze and the fire

Beneath the taunting stars

I feel my blood begin to boil

And crave for it to flow

And mingle in the shattered glass

I long to bathe in, cake myself in blood

That it may override the torment of his face, his voice

Uncoil my soul and watch it rise high above me

Beyond the entanglement of his presence

As it lingers like a hangover from a long empty vodka bottle

Dusty with sorrows surfaced

Never fully drowned

You are here now in his place

Yet I cannot see you

I see death beckoning in its familiar form

Come dance with me among the other bloody skeletons

We’ve missed you in our codependant way

As only codependent can

My darling, my bleeding baby,

Come join me, waltz in this acid with me

Mamma never really left you

Cuz she was never really there

Do you expect the Blessed Virgin to come down and save you?

Bless her and watch her turn her face

Come waltz in this acid with me, my darling bleeding baby

Mamma never really left you cuz she was never really there

St Joan my anorexic darling

Go home before these bastards burn you at the stake

Dies ire dies illa solvet sanctum in favilla

How long can you wallow in the darkness before it learns your name?


Please forgive any mistakes in my Latin.

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And How the Snow


And how the snow did fall

As the ice upon her soul reverberated its never ending chime—

Heart so full of sorrow

May you find a graveyard for your demons

Mark each tombstone with the blood they have provoked

You, yourself, you have provoked the scarlet

And the sanguine in which you bathe will not wash away your sin;

I martyr my soul for my Sisters Misguided

By amber eyes, silk words, and searing touch

Church sanctioned suicide

Holy Queen of Heaven

The only thing you taught us to do was inwardly die

Your self denial becomes our own physical ruin

After the void cannot be filled with caresses.

You deny me the womyn I love

To give me the bastards who spread their seed like tumbleweed along the mountainside

I will name them in DARKNESS

For only two belong in moonlight

Shown in all my glory for what I would bestow.

Darkness owns the rest, as he often reminds me.

Darkness owns the rest of me

Womyn of the Night

I would rather be Womyn of the Moonlight

Where diamonds of desire adorn my existentiality

Here I am not tarnished

Here I am not taken

Here I am given for what I am

Goddess and Ruler of the Night

Ruler and Vanquisher rather than Victim

Enveloped in the moonlight in place of Their scent—

Different creatures, yet all one aroma.

One scent, one scream, one secret

If only trees could talk then so could walls

Talking walls for voiceless children

Talking trees to whisper, “do not go this way, I do not trust his eye.”

Hail Holy Queen, Eternal Virgin

What help is a virgin who cannot conceive our pain?

Perfect and blameless with masculinity close to your heart—

You say, “My burden was my Messiah; my burden was to watch Him die.”

Watch Him die with masculinity close to your heart.

My burden, my Messiah is a man

My burden, what the cover of darkness does not reveal

What science erodes in 24 hours

But decades will never erase

Heart so full of sorrow

May you find a graveyard for your demons

Mark each tombstone with the blood they have provoked



You have provoked the scarlet

And the sanguine in which you bathe will not wash away your sin

My Misguided Sisters

I martyr my soul for amber eyes, silk words, and searing touch

Church sanctioned suicide.

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Alternate Begining, A Work in Progress

“Turn your card over,” she whispered with the glittering sound in her voice that the old ones used when becoming known, “turn your card over and the secrets of your universe will be revealed.”

“Turn your card over, my love. See what lies before us. Cease looking behind and look beyond. Let your mind expand and your soul soar. Roar with joy at this new awakening. Awaken, love. Awaken love. Ask for what you are afraid to ask for. Be who you are afraid to be. Go, live. Be known.”

I once had a job writing the mumbo jumbo laced with truth for online horoscopes. It’s almost the same as the mumbo jumbo I spouted as a behavioral therapist. Maybe everything is a pre-written embellished truth. Maybe my marriage was an embellished lie. Here is my account of that lie, spun across six lifetimes. Turn the page at your peril.

Early in the fog of morning, where the air is wet and moves around on kitten feet that dance across your face to awaken you, and the mountains are covered with an impenetrable fog that floats to the ground with the ease of dandelion fluff on a spring breeze , the earth exudes a longing for companionship that is in every human being and creature, known and unknown. It is this way with memory. You feel memory the way the damp in the air; you see it as you see the fog cover the mountains. And then, suddenly and without permission, it alights on you, around you, through you, as simple as dandelion fluff. This is how my story is told: as a walk through the mountains in a fog where there is barely any sun.

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Personal Essay, Work in Progress

Some people collect antique spoons they’ll never eat from or dolls too beautiful to play with. I collect moments that bleed into each other like a set of dollar store watercolor paints when a child adds too much water. I fell in love this way, you see—over a thousand intimacies strung as a set of pearls across eight Decembers. Intimacies are not always misplaced caresses or kisses in the rain. They can be the most detrimental of memories, and so was the time I tried to kill myself the spring that I was 22.

Across the darkness spun the scent of tar and oil as the woman standing at the gas station waiting on a drug deal began to scream because I was lying in the street waiting for a car to hit me. She was like background music set against dialogue. Only if I shut out everything else could I understand what she was saying; only if I shut out the hypersensitivity to the smell of the tar and the little pieces of glass that embedded themselves into my wrists.

Like the series of moments in my consciousness, there is no clear-cut transition between the moment I was pulled from the street and when I swallowed a bottle of 100 Excedrin Migraine tablets. I only smelled him as he fed me milk and I threw up all over his bedroom floor. The aroma of cinnamon and laundry detergent that wafted off his skin had always been my refuge. When I could no longer stand he lifted me as if I weighed nothing and carried me to the bathroom the way you carry a small child; like the color blue washing into red and becoming purple he washed the vomit from my hair. As orange was created I was soon wearing his exercise clothes because mine were soiled beyond wearing. With his body he held me down when the seizures began, frightened out of his wits and repeating something over and over about ambulances; but seizures and I are not strangers, and at some point, I was able to tell him that ambulances weren’t necessary.

Stronger than his arms, my soul drowned in the little specs of hazel spun like stars around his russet eyes. This is my soul’s collection: the curves of his face, eyes like constellations, the smell of his shampoo in my hair, the mahogany of his arms against mine of alabaster. I fell in love this way, you see. And the only color in which I can find myself, is hazel spun like stars around his russet eyes.

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