adds infection

to wound

letting go

roughs up soft



what goes unexplained



It’s a better story if i talk about

Finding flowers in open wounds

If i say it’s alright

If i tell you that i’m better now

That i can see the different

shades of morning again

Like i used to

Or if i talk about the spinning head demons

Running circles but there isnt really anything

Poetic about this pain

I cant make this a pretty ending.

red escape

Head spinning

Out of control.

Eyes, gone.

The hallways

Are empty but

no pace

To be.


On an endless


The infection


All through my


The sickness

It leaves me cold.

The t r e m b l i n g

Shudder comes

With a heavy fall.

Not a hallucination

Or even a nightmare.

This is the worst

Of reality.

Hands covered

With crimson

Red of my own


There is no

Sting, only the slick


Straight line of

Shame knots in


familiar strangers

This room is sanitized with

psychiatrists and nurse therapists

Sad teenagers and their

parents sit like broken glass dolls.

Opening binders

flipping pages and greeting one another

with a friendly smile, with a

how are you

with uncomfortable small talk

There is Purple and blue silence

packed in the bags under my eyes

I let the tears on my cheek dry as you

push the box of kleenex across the table

toxic instinct

Photo taken in Europe.
Photo taken in Europe

addiction looks

like the

knife gleaming

in his hand

preparing the

dinner we

used to have every

night as a family. 

every lonely night that

reminded me

that addiction

is another kind of kill.

another kind

of destruction

stitched into

pretty lies of

my demise.

all the brown

eyes looking

down to the filled

plate that shame

told me not to eat.

Each chopping

motion, fast

in a hurry.

i cant remember what

i am talking about

the meal preparation


my skin?

the freshly

cleaned carrots

or my arms

or my thighs.


pressing pause


fast forward

rewind or repeat.

only now the

ghosts resemble

faults or futures

weighing down

like hammocks

beneath my

heavy eyes.


Letter to my dog


you’ve been barring your bones

in the stones in the driveway

while you chase the mail man,

the boy on the bicycle

the kids who play hopscotch out back,

every moving thing that catches your

ocean blue eyes.

strangers better be warned to

never put their hand out to you

as innocence turns into a flaming demon

captured in your growl.

the old man

throws baseballs and

tennis balls into the

backyard for you to play with

and i know, it makes me wonder too

has he taken his

daily medications today?

and i’m sorry for spraying water on you

for laughing at your fear having a heart attack.

for laughing when you hide

under the bed when i vacuum my room.

no one has ever known what we’ve been through

together, that you’ve kissed my wrists

after they were kissed by a metal blade.

confessions of the hospital bed

Ruptured joints 
Deep in black ink.
Flimsy fingers 
Marvel the meaning
Congested with 
Words that run 
Off the cherry tongue.
The mouth 
Of a girl is a briefcase 
Of secret documents 
Known only by
The doctor’s eye.
The protocol of
and emergency 
Response always is
Eleven hour wait,
Rotting of 
cathedral walls,
It is the sound
Of small bodies shutting
Beside me in leather chairs.
Shreds of soft 
Stiffened skin in spring.
I close my eyes and 
Allow them
to be sewed shut.
New and old 
The sounds I
have never known
Seem familiar like 
The hazy vision
Of my body hanging
From a noose.