once in my life, i want to be adored.

i want someone to see me in the grocery store, picking out vegetables, and be enchanted by me. i want someone to feel like i’ve walked out of a dream.

i want someone to spend months courting me, not fucking me, not even trying to touch me, just trying to be near me and absorb all of me before i let them inside.

i want someone to stare at me in awe as if i were some ethereal creature while i’m curled up in their bed.


i feel so alone. i know i’ve done this, i know i don’t go out with friends on purpose because my only friends are other women and it’s not good enough. it’s not what i need. i need a man to hold me. i need a man to encircle me in his arms and take me in and tell me that he loves me and things are going to be okay and i’m worth something and i’m beautiful and we’ll get through this together. no one knows me, all of me, every side of my personality. not anymore. i have compartmentalized because i have learned that all of me is too much. i have so much inside that i never share. i feel trapped in my head with no outlet, no one to hear me and know i need help. i really do need help, but i won’t ask for it. no one wants or needs to be dumped on and i have a lot to dump. i’m too broke for mental health other than taking care of externals so i’m at least presentable. makeup, hair, clothes. things to mitigate the ugliness. but even those things don’t do much because having to be made up and have hair fixed is unattractive. no one wants a girl who wears too much makeup, who has fake hair, whatever.

i hate myself, but we’re together all the time.

there is nothing redeemable about me. i am a seething mass of self-loathing on the inside and on the outside i’m painted false. i try to trick people. i try to trick myself. i leave makeup on til right before bed, i try not to be naked anywhere but the shower. it’s not working. i know what’s underneath and inside. i know how little i’m worth.

i can’t blame anyone else but myself and i’m the only one around so that makes me loathe myself even more and makes spending time with myself unbearable. yet i long to be by myself when i’m in public so i can just cry at will. because everything is so overwhelming and everything reminds me of how i don’t measure up to anything. i had real love, i had it and it left and i don’t think i’ll ever see it again. my externals aren’t good enough and internally i’m just so fucked i can’t fake it well enough to get anyone past the externals anymore. what happened to me? where did i go? i’m so tired of fighting. i want to let go. i don’t want to be here anymore.

he left and now she has him and his support and love and i have nothing and i don’t know why except maybe i don’t deserve anything. maybe everyone was right. there must be something about me that everyone has picked up on since i was a child, there must be something deeply flawed about me. the only men who ever loved me unconditionally are either dead or have conditions now. it’s not worth it. this isn’t worth it.

i don’t have the money for the massive amounts of plastic surgery it would take to get me looking close to desirable. i don’t have the money for the massive amount of therapy it would take to get me to believe i am desirable. why was i put here? what purpose do i have but to be tortured inside and useless? none of the things i did to cope work anymore, they just cause more problems and angst. i have no way out, other than the only way out. and i don’t even have the energy to see that through. but i don’t want to be here. my mind spends all day looping thoughts of self-hatred. i look down at my uneven breasts like every 5 minutes. i can feel them. i can feel all the ugly. i don’t know what to do. there’s nothing i can do at this point but be dragged under.

i’ve taken to talking to God again. desperation and hope. because there isn’t anything left in myself to deal with this, i need higher help, i do. i just want to be held. i just want to know what it’s like to be loved again. i want to be folded into a man’s arms and i want to exhale.


i keep thinking of all the times my life could have been turned around. if someone had known what was going on inside, things might have been different. at age 2, at age 6, at age 8, at age 14. even at age 30. all even years. even years have always been bad for me.

i keep thinking about how all those events led me to destroy myself. if i had been able to express what was going on inside, instead of acting out a script written in my childhood, things might have been different. at age 15, at age 19, at age 31. odd years haven’t always been that great either. odd years are often when the consequences of the even years’ events come to bear.

i keep thinking that if i had fought, he would be here. if i had been able to speak up instead of rolling over and trusting in the power of silently loving him, things might be different now. i made the wrong judgment call, and i have to live with this broken heart. it’s supposed to take you half the length of the relationship to get over it. i have 3 years left. some days i don’t know if i can make it. some days his absence is so profound i physically ache.

some days i want to be held and not fucked but just held and looked at like i’m the only girl in the world. and i feel like i’ll never have that again. it kills me.

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i won’t tell you

“i figured that would happen eventually”

is not snarky enough. it’s not mean enough. for the first time since you broke up with me, i want to hurt you. i want to make you feel small. i want to eviscerate you with my words. i want to draw blood. i want you to believe that you really are a horrible human being, despite all my past reassurances to the contrary.

i hate loving you. i hate you for making me me think it was safe to love you. i hate you for pretending you could handle me loving you, for writing poems about me, for treating me well, for waiting to have sex with me instead of just fucking me on the first date and then rejecting me. it would have been easier. i want you to be in deep psychic pain over me. i want you to feel like you fucked up the best thing that ever happened to you.

but you won’t. because you don’t know the difference between loving me and lusting after me. at least you didn’t until you saw the way i loved you & realized what love looks like. what my love looks like. & you realized you could never love me as hard as i love you.

you are in a hellish situation of your own making, but that’s not enough. i want you to feel how excruciating it is to love you. i want you to cry for weeks. i want you to worry about me every day and never know if i’m still alive, and i want that to torture you. i want you to spend every day wishing you had never met me & longing to see me again.

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love once lost

i miss writing.

i miss writing on loose leaf notebook paper. i miss writing in journals with pound puppies on the cover.  i miss writing on my dad’s apple IIe. i miss writing in wordperfect for DOS.  i miss writing during class, after class, after school, alone in near darkness, to pass time, for fun, for catharsis, writing for the sake of writing. i miss writing before the internet. i miss writing before diarist.net and pitas and diaryland and livejournal and blogger. i miss writing being my solace & my comfort, my journal being the person i ran to when i was hurting, my zine being the project i worked on when i needed to scream because nothing else mattered and i wanted to die. you would think my life falling apart would drive me to write, but it has driven me away. it’s become a chore, something i do because i need to write a post since it’s been months since i wrote one, or something i feel guilty about not doing. i am not me here. i care so much about how what i write affects other people that i have forgotten how writing affects me, how i need to write because that’s really all i have left. all i’ve ever had. that was me. & i have lost myself completely.

i don’t know who i am anymore. i know that i am not a relationship expert. i know that i am not a social media personality, or a blogger, or an authority on fatness or blackness or being sexy or being anything but confused and fucked up and broken. i want to delete everything i have ever written off the face of the internet because on days like today it’s all false. i am not well-adjusted. i am a girl who has been in denial, or a girl who has tried to ignore herself falling apart, or a girl who thought she was doing a good thing and helping people but who could not ever help herself. all the advice i’ve written, i’ve never taken. i am wracked with grief and tormented by self doubt almost every hour of every day.  & i so deeply want to write but i stop myself because i don’t have any great things to say about sex or fat or whatever and i have locked myself in a box that only holds certain topics, certain acceptable subjects that i can write about. i run from creativity because it is vulnerable and i know i said vulnerability is strength at some point, and i know it is but my heart stays curled up, protecting itself like a roly-poly. i need writing again. i need to take it back.

i used to spill my guts out onto the screen. before commenting and social media and “likes” on facebook and +1s on google, i was brave. & now all i think is THEY’RE GOING TO LAUGH AT ME.

maybe it’s good for me if they laugh. maybe if i destroy the images of myself i’ve worked so hard to curate, i can rebuild into something authentic. at least i could try to figure out who i am now, after these years of drifting, burying the pain of loss, pursuing pleasure and ignoring the needs of my spirit. because i need my best friend back. i need to be wide-eyed and believe in creativity and expression and all that sappy shit i used to believe that i hid away in favor of snark and callouts. maybe i need to expose my underbelly and let the dregs of the internet poke at it until my guts spill out onto the screen again.

i use the excuse “well, my hand hurts” to avoid writing on paper and when i finally sit at the computer and begin to type the delete button beckons over and over. i could probably cobble together several novels with all the words I’ve written that were eaten by backspacing. oops, i did it again.

before i figured out that you were supposed to be something in life, i was a writer. after i figured out that you were supposed to be something in life, i took it back. i still ask myself daily, “am i really a writer?” if i say i am, i say it with qualifiers, or with sarcasm, or air quotes or eye rolls. does it matter if i am or not? does it matter if all i write one day is a paragraph in a cheap notebook? do i need high quality acid-free paper to write on or my words are worthless?

i have seriously not written things because the notebook wasn’t good enough.

i am a perfectionist with a self-sabotaging commitment to not writing things unless they are going to be good. & if i do write something good, i spend months agonizing, telling myself i can’t live up to the last thing i wrote, so why bother. these are not pulitzer prize winning novels. they are semi-popular articles. they are not the pinnacle of everything i’ve ever written. but this logic escapes my lizard brain.

funny enough, in the past 12 years i’ve written more about not being able to write than i’ve written about anything else.

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time marches on

every day i try to claw my way back to the past, & every day i try to push the future away.

i do not exist in the present. my mind is either focused on what was, or it is focused on what might be.

i know that at some point prior to now, things were better. & i know that things are likely to get worse.

things are getting worse, now.

i am realizing i have sacrificed health for perceived beauty, and it has brought me nothing.

more regret, more things to wish could be done over.

if i could simply opt out of my life at this point, i would.

all i feel is a cosmic microwave background of depression.

i stay up late to try to prevent tomorrow from coming.

i get up late to try to avoid starting today.

Posted in random


white flag

every night, i give up.

i concede defeat to loneliness. i settle into the reality that i will probably not love deeply again. my ability to feel anything but unrequited love seems to have left me. i can’t feel love for family, for friends. i don’t know any other emotion but intense longing. nothing is good enough, nothing is the same as it was before and all i want is for things to be the same. i can’t see past the storm so i hold on to what i once had, what i know worked, somewhat. maybe i wasn’t happy then either, but it seems so much more than today.

i have lost my faith in hope.



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when the sun rises

most mornings my stomach is in knots before i realize i’m awake.

my brain quickly reloads all the things i was upset about the day before, prior to the pills kicking in and my mind being cleared for sleep. i can feel it rushing back.

all the fear. all the anger. all the loneliness and heartache and melancholy. i never get a chance for a fresh start with the dawn.

my brain shouts: “remember this? remember how upset you were about this yesterday? let’s revisit that, shall we?” & my mind is too weak and tired to protest. it sags under the weight.

i differentiate between my brain & my mind. i have little control over the nature of my brain, how my brain is wired–for depression and anxiety and doom and gloom. my mind is me, my mind is what tries to fight against nature. my mind is the nurture, & it is very malnourished.

most of the time i feel like i’m pushing a boulder up a very steep hill. when i stop to rest, i’m almost crushed. when i have times during the day that are not filled with distraction, my brain fills the void with reminders of what’s wrong. it is exhausting. i could have slept for 10 hours the night before, but i still feel as if i only slept 2. or less.

yet i can’t nap during the day, because that is quiet time, and it requires my brain to attempt to shut off without the benefit of the pills. i half-sleep; the static of anxiety is still in the background & i’m partially conscious of it although for all intents and purposes, i’m not actually conscious at all.

i yearn for restorative sleep, for a morning when i wake up ready to seize the day & make it bend to my will. a morning when i feel confident i can create my own reality and it will be okay.

one morning, i want to not immediately regret that i woke up.

Posted in random


when the sun sets

when the sun begins to go down the demons are stirred up inside me.

maybe it’s that i’m realizing i spent another day alone, in this big house, empty except for the ghosts of dreams that died here.

maybe it’s because i feel like all hope is lost for this day being something positive, that with the setting of the sun it’s confirmed that this is one more day that amounted to nothing.

maybe i didn’t spend the day alone, but spent it having fun, with others, enjoying life until i realized that it will all end when i return home or they leave, when i’m alone again and my thoughts overcome me.

as the sun sets, i feel the anxiety washing over my body. the sadness. the tears burning hot welling up in my eyes, hesitant to leave knowing they will disturb my painted face. a face painted on to mask the ugly feelings beneath the surface, encased in my skull, rattling around in my brain.

the sun sets & when it finally disappears beneath the horizon i become ignorant to the pain i felt that day, numb, counting the hours until i can swallow pills and escape my life to 7 hours of nothingness. i don’t dream anymore, not when i’m awake & not when i’m asleep.

when the sun begins to go down the day is held accountable.

i know the next day like i know this day. i can predict how tomorrow will play out, make a bet on it. if i could wager on my predictions, i would be a wealthy woman.

because each day, internally, is like the last. i don’t know what i’m waiting for, or why i’m waiting. i don’t know why i just continue on this path that doesn’t deviate, even though i want so desperately to not know what the next day will be like, to have legitimate hope that things will be different. not even better, i couldn’t imagine that. just different. something.

for most people, sunsets are beautiful. for me, they are dangerous.

Posted in random



you were inside my head
when i found you
your solar wind breached
my heart’s magnetic field
you knew me
flesh and bone
& i loved you
ether and impulse

you were inside my head
your whispers sharp like
needles ink and tattoos
my hopeful kiss
laid upon poison laced lips
you promised salvation
& delivered apocalypse

moving on to your next victim
new keeper of heart and happiness
while i am still bound to you
your baby in my womb
you turn away
as blood spills from between my thighs
love’s child birthed premature
stains my hands trying to stem the flow
& i die alone

years of darkness pass
& hatred resurrects me
i rise as a howling phoenix
charm you with my illusive song
of unearned absolution
i return your latent poison kiss
& your heart ceases to beat

i am no longer your concubine
mindlessly entranced by you
i am the goddess of retribution
come to pay you your dues

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