Cord Cutting

I've not been able to stop. These thoughts, sentences, feelings. Not even for minutes. Even when I haven't been able to jot down every living, breathing, writhing word, they all wriggle freely in my head, against another, with another, becoming another. I try and fail to make any of it come to some sort of sense. 

In the odd quiet, I notice the quick clicks and clacks upon my keyboard.

After midnight in the city on a Friday. No sirens. No yelling. No squealing of tires echoing on the streets. Nothingness of sound.

I wish I was as void as that.

Somewhere, not so long ago, in a dream, I pressed myself against you, a soft but firm embrace and you did the same to me. Together, we fell into the waking sleep of souls connecting and the electricity of the event brought us front and center, face to face - rather, face in face, body in body, and it was the palpable just short of physical melding of something so far beyond our scope for rationale and reasoning. 

I know this was a dream because it is fading fast as the light of what used to be Us. There is no longer a We, only a Me and a You.

I am drowning in the madness of missing you. But is it that? Or is it that have I lost a part of myself and this is why my stomach turns, my head pounds, my hands shake...I am going into shock because there is an integral piece of what Keeps Me Partially Whole not in place. I would like it back, please. Pack it up, wrap it gently - or not, leave it in a paper sack or store it in a gift shop box, I could care less how it finds its way home to me. I will happily and immediately give yours to you because I aim to cut any and all cords which bind. I was not made to carry you like this, alone and without solid promise for reunion. 

I don't fool myself into believing that you are suffering the same. You have your way to escape and hide from any and all things unpleasant.

I do not. 

I have the eerie stillness of a Friday night in the city, the clock ticking, the branches outside my window rustling tip-toe soft as to not disturb the quiet, my fingers tapping away at this rant which you will never see. I have myself, my resolve, and what's left of what I thought was Real.

And I have the strength to walk away.


"We can't help that we are pretty."
"You have known this all your pretty self."
"You have been granted leniency in life because you look the way you do."

i am pretty?

i would think
i would have known this
were it the case

in fairy tales
in movies
in life
is saved
is revered
is respected

i am not 
nor have I ever been

pretty has leniency.

the old mans
shriveled fingertips
nicotine stained
rough and peeling
pretending a game
up my timid
and frightened
5 year old thighs
i should say no
but this is only a game 
and i want to be a good girl


the friend
of an uncle
who is "family"
beer breath against my neck
scratchy scruff scraping
my cheek
in a whisper...

and my 13 yo self
wants to kick him
in his gross hairy
and run away

i want to be a good girl


the entitled groping
ass slaps
tit grabs
against unwilling flesh
play dead
nerves flinching
muscles contracting
an anxious 
stifled spasm
of my soul

i want this to end
i am not


pretty has leniency

i am the malformed monster
seeking refuge
in the dark

little by little

the wheels 
have been put
into motion

as the night goes long
and my fingers fidget
i laugh

i've no ring to pawn
pass on
tuck away in a small box
pushed to the back of a drawer
to be forgotten
until it is remembered
during sad
sauvignon nights

contemplation continues

there was never 
a proposal
the 'big rock" moment
joyous tears
speech impeding shock
the announcement
and following picture
to the circle of friends
oohing and aahing
the phone call
to parents
sharing the same 


just an obligatory acceptance
of wedding
the mother
of his 

i would like to think 
he loved me
i would like to believe
i was more than a
live-in maid
personal assistant
i would like to hope
that it wasn't all for 


i don't
i can't
i won't

i will keep 
churning the crank
operating the 
and tired 
rickety yet
integral to
and capable of
the shackles
which once
bound me
to him

yet again

one would think
I'd have given up by now
the hopes
of a union
where I was a person
not property
to be treated
the way 
I treat them
with compassion
to be loved
the way I love
with acceptance

but bumps 
do not deter me

the flaws and follies
of others
are not my responsibility
the coldness
and underlying
do not phase me
as I've dealt 
with far worse

I will simply
keep going
as I always have
I've a lot to accomplish
in so little time
and if another
stumbles onto my path
choosing to walk
along side me

I'll let them

until they, too
find issue with the direction 
I'm heading
the fact that I'm still walking
and not hailing
a cab
and when they start to pick away
at how I can be
getting to where I'm going
much more efficiently
(to them)
I'll listen

and continue my journey
the way I see fit
whether they 
choose to be a part of it
or decide to disengage
is not
a concern

I'll not be pushed
to alter my course
or mode of transport
I'll arrive
when and where I need to
with or without
a companion


i see
the glitter
a glimpse into the eyes

they are live

shimmery specks
of splendiferous 
fuzzing about
the periphery
of the pupils

joyous crackles
crinkling the

pure and present
pouring abundantly

in a tiny

to be sighted 
and swallowed
through such 
an ecstatic lens

the pulse

i am dizzy
brought to 
much needed

Don’t Forget

"Don’t forget where you came from"
I haven’t
I won’t.
Every time my boys cry
I remember
My little brother 
Not even 7 
Quickly wiping away tears
Because he was being called a faggot
A sissy boy.
A “little girl”
Those last two words hurled with a sneer
Because we all knew, having feelings was relegated to the card carrying vagina members
And that was shameful
Uncles and his own mother
MY mother
Drug addled and bitter
Insults as poisonous darts
Piercing my gentle younger sibling’s soul.
I don’t forget where I came from
When I call them to me
My weeping children
Feelings are everything and sometimes can only be expressed through tears.
I hold them close. 
I ask them to use their words.
Sometimes I am just as frustrated as they are.
But I’ll not shame them.

"Don’t forget where you came from."
I fucking remember.
I learned how to swallow the torrents of pain which threatened to
Break through the dam of my lids
I’m tough
I’m untouchable
Crying is for the weak
You’ll never break me.
I am Stronger Than All Of You.
When my mother called me a whore after I had been raped at 12.
When my grandmother told me I “shouldn’t have been out that late” after being assaulted and almost gang raped at 16.
When anyone I had ever put trust in proved to be unworthy of that privilege.
Yes. I remember where I came from.

I came from The Vicious Cycle.
I came from the Women Who Accepted The Very Least And Counted It As The Best,
I came from the Long Line of Toxic Masculinity Disguised As The Norm
I came from the Over and Over and Over 
And Over AGAIN
Because That’s JUST HOW IT IS.

I remember where I came from.
My great-grandmother doing her best to shield me from the Bad Touch Uncles. Failing. Begging me to not anger my grandmother because she could not stand to hear her beat me. Shamed because it was a mirror of her past behaviors.
My grandmother crying in silence when she got the news her mother had passed. Becoming stoic in less than a second of being noticed. After all, she had to be “strong”. More guilt than grief for she hadn’t been kind to her ailing mother. 
My mother nursing wounds in private which occurred decades ago because trust wasn’t her strong suit. Self-medicating in the worst way; escapism was easier than the thorny shit reality left to face. Homeless, drug addict, write off.

I remember where I came from.
I came from a great great grandmother who was married to a 27 year old man at the age of 12. A woman who had her first living child of a dozen at the age of 14. A woman married to a man who liked his little girls a little too much, which did not exclude his own daughters. A woman who never knew an easy day the way we know easy days.
I came from a great grandmother who took her 3 little girls, left her husband and the boxcar they were living in to search for something better. A woman who started fresh in Chicago, working several jobs, never taking a husband until her girls had married on their own for fear of what they would suffer at the hands of a strange man. A woman who worked hard her entire life to leave something of substance for her girls. A woman who failed at being kind to her daughters, whose love and desire to protect became unyielding suffocation and unnecessarily harsh discipline.
I came from a grandmother dedicated to never being as cruel in punishment as her own mother was, yet failing because she unfortunately had her mother's temper. A woman who decided that after all the heartbreak, she would rather spend the rest of her days alone. No one could hurt her if she didn't allow them into her life. A woman who raised her grandchildren in hopes to fix the past mistakes she made with her own. A woman who was sorry, but had not any inkling on how to apologize.
I came from a mother with a heart so huge and compassionate, you’d never see it past her stony exterior. A woman with enough demons to stock a second hell. A woman who has not yet forgiven herself for things everyone else has already forgotten. A woman who could have been a good mother, had anyone ever given her the chance and  belief. 

"Don’t Forget Where You Came From."
People toss that around like it means money. Stature. Material Bullshit.
I remember where I came from.
A long line of women
Who could have been 
Were they not women.
Who were weak when they should have been strong, mistaking what it was to be either.
Who loved and were never loved back
Who woke up every day… wondering… Is This Fucking It.
Women who tried. 
Who stopped trying because it just didn't seem worth it.
Women fierce and soft
kind and cruel
quiet and loud
Women who have taught me
albeit inadvertently
just how important it is
to live life with
compassion and forgiveness.
How important it is
to know my worth.

I carry a piece of each
In random memories of their grimaces, frown lines creasing foreheads.
Black & white photos of forced smiles.
Candid polaroids of true joy.
Spontaneous thoughts and ideas of how to be better.
Song lyrics out of the blue which they would hum during the 
few moments when they were happy
(a character trait of which I am happy has been passed down through the generations)

I'll never forget.
I am well aware 
Who I am.
Where I came from.


The ones I loved
The ones I wanted
The ones I lusted

All could give a
flying fig
for me

a history of

chasing men
who had been
nothing but
back alley
beggar boys
sneakily dressed
in much
fancier clothing
(faintly squint)
a tiny bit
too large
for their

all whilst
my woman’s heart,
had remained
far more feeling,
and ravenous

And like dominoes

I kept queuing
them up

Each had
forming that tenuous line
of repeated
fowls and

the fickleness
of the foolish

a test of my

Until I
came to realize
this was
far more trouble
than it
was worth

weary sigh
head tilted
my finger gave
the smallest
to the very first


The quiet rhythmic


of each
falling into the


a flawless
a pile
of ivory rectangles
with no
discernible match

with care
and reverence

I placed each tenderly
within the case

This was a game
I no longer
cared to play.

The Crone and The Adulteress

Beaten down, nearly naked,
eyes blurred
the whites stained pinkish
from far too many tears
mouth parched from wailing
cries no one would ever hear
she arrived and knocked at the crone’s door

the little lady stood
short, wiry, strong
aged yet
masked in
youthful mischief
Her braided hair gray
up in its kerchief
she took in the sorry sight
and noted soon what was wrong

she sighed
a quick “tut tut” at the girl’s chest
and the elder of the two
concern on her face
wasted no time
set about to making a place
for the woman
with the emblazened A upon her breast.

Just happy for some kindness
the younger didn’t speak
The elder took her things
set them aside
Poked at the hearth to get
the fire going inside
Prepared her a plate of food
and insisted “Eat.”

She nibbled a bit
no hunger for the food
As the crone applied salve
by the light of the moon
to the still bleeding lashes
and seared-in-skin wound
“Ah now, I promise.
You’ll soon be back to good.

I know it’s hard
minding the young alone
while the man is off
earning the keep
leaving the missus
many nights to sleep
just herself,
in an empty home.

I’ve been there,
Where you are now.
We are expected to be content
nary a complaint
Keep the fire burning
food on the plate
Like a bought at auction
complacent cow.

It’s not easy, though is it?
A woman needing more
Than a man’s roof and boots at the bed
A feathered pillow to rest your head
So now,
here you are. The Whore.”

The younger gasped at the word.
How it stung.
More than the cuts
More than the coming scars
She missed her children
They were now kept so far
Would they notice?
They were still yet so young.

But before her the crone
gently came to kneel
She unbuttoned her blouse
scarred but now faint
Her own A from long ago
“Yes, I too, had taint.
And soon yours will fade as well.
Now, please. Eat your meal.”

The punishment she had endured
none was worse than her own.
But the days passed
though they felt like weeks
Wounds began to heal
the color came back to her cheeks
All this
while under the watchful eye of the crone.

The crone never varied.
Each day the same as the last.
Reminding the younger
that no one was pure
while she wasn’t innocent
Neither were those before
Things were difficult
But all would soon pass.

Together they lived,
quietly though rumors swirled –
(The crone was a witch
And she had a new student!
Well, she is getting old,
she’s just being prudent.)
But no one knew the truth
The honesty of their world.

They were both women who had
no one but each other
Everyone holding themselves
to be judge and jury
They kept themselves from
the indignant fury
They knew their own hearts
and couldn’t be bothered

Soon enough, the younger’s scar
began to fade
Still there, a reminder of her failings.
Her faults.
But she carried on her new life
in that crone’s house.
For when it was her turn to take care
of another woman gone astray.

And they stayed together, the two of them. Breasts scarred with A’s.


She is graying.
She is flawless.
Her mouth is a soft peach of a grin
her laughter is used sparingly
sprinkling her audience
and would be mates
Like rain
on droughted dirt
so they know they are
they are drawn near
for another


I love her sex magic
The way she moves
A gliding grace
A sultry shadow
Which they chase
trying to grasp
at her wisps
with desperate wanting
and lust
But their
can’t touch

I like watching the younger girls
Watching her
out of the corners
of their
judging yet
undeniably appreciative

What does she have?
Witchcraft? Sorcery?
Why do I not
have it?

Oh, but you do, loves.
It is in the
way you enter
a room
Head held high
Of your womanhood
The control you have
of yourself
your mind
your body
Mischief which
twinkles slightly
in your eyes
as you offer
the slyest
of smiles
Because you know secrets
They never will
And they’ll fall at your feet
Trying to find out
You are the Eden
The Paradise
The Promised Land
And only you have
the Power
to allow entrance
To Those You Deem
Never forget that.
She hasn’t.
She is a Lesson
Learn Well

You were born with this magic.
Own it.