You listen to songs
that sound pretty
talking about things
you know nothing about
You think about sex,
the kind
that would make you beg
the kind
that would make you scream
the kind
that would make you believe in God
You think about lovers
that flash before your eyes
all that regret hanging heavy
in the back of your throat
and washed down
with nostalgia
You dance alone
in your room
watching the way
your hips move
so reckless
touching yourself
like your hands
aren’t yours
You lie in the dark
eyes shut
thighs opening
and closing
like a flower in bloom
like the flower he plucked
from the garden between your legs
Who knew loneliness
could feel so empty
and so good
at the same damn time
Who knew you could bury
your longing
for another mouth
to devour your earth.
For nails and teeth
digging into skin.
For whispers
drenched in salt rain.
Hands clenching roots.
in tulips.
But it sinks
so deep:
This want
for flesh
that tastes



We’re kissing
on his bed
in his tiny studio
lips touching,
tongues darting.
I hate his mouth.
I wait for it to get better
like I always do
It doesn’t.
I feel guilty.
He’s so nice.
Cute, smells good.
He’s on top of me,
staring at me in the darkness
I can barely see him
but it’s still hard to look back.
I offer up a smile
A smile to cover up
thoughts swirling around
how to let him down gently
how to say this is not what I want
how to say I don’t think
this can become anything
because he is too much of a stranger
to make this worthwhile
and that’s okay
Isn’t it?
Maybe I leave too often
before the end of the song
Maybe we’ve skipped too many steps
to see this through
This lopsided dance
is nothing new,
I’ve stumbled through
this routine before
Sometimes leading,
other times following
But the disappointment
of the finale
still knocks me off my feet
every time



when did i become a woman.
it was not when blood
fell from my womb
for the first time
the fifth time
the umpteenth time
staining my underwear,
my clothes,
my bed,
the chair,
covering me in shame.
it was not when blood
blossomed bright
on toilet paper
after he was done crashing into me
in the backseat i will come
to think of as a memorial
i want to rip out and set on fire
to desecrate the site
of his hit and run.
it was not when blood
red lipstick became
my new favorite weapon,
carefully applied
to accentuate
teeth that learned to bite.
highlighting a mouth
that would lure you in.
devour you.
and puke out your remains.
i think.
i think
i became a woman
when i found the grace
to fall in love with who i am.
when sorry
began to taste bitter
on my tongue.
when screaming
my pain and joy
was the only
way to heal.
to survive.
to live.
was my becoming



I’ll hit you up, he texts you.
Okay, you text back
even though
you know this usually means
you will never hear from him again.
When did you become so expendable.
Your friends tell you you’re amazing.
You’re too smart for those guys, they say.
Nobody’s good enough for you.
You want to scream and curse,
tell them to shut up
because it’s a version of the truth
that doesn’t ease the ache
for another warm body,
that is harder to swallow
when disappointment and sadness
are your most loyal companions,
the ones who ride with you in cars
and curl up in bed with you at night.
Instead you smile at your friends
and practice gratitude
for their collective,
effortless ability
to look you in the eyes
and let such reckless words
fall from their mouths.
It’s a more loving pain
than the things said to you
by boys.
You have learned
quite brutally
that boys
will have no trouble saying
1) things they don’t mean,
2) things they only mean in the moment
but never again,
and 3) things they do mean
that will unravel you
and leave you sick in the head,
and all of this
is done much more easily
when they never have to face you
when you are reduced to
a string of deletable messages
in their phones
instead of an angry girl
standing before them
demanding to know why.
Why take the time to hurt you IRL
when they can hurt you via SMS?
Apathy is better served
from a distance,
is it not?
That’s all they are.
Their words haunt you.
Their silence keeps you up at night.
You become crazy
and confused,
fall out of love
with yourself.
What do you want?
You are too emotional for sex
and too heartless for love.
What can you want?
You want quiet.
Not the sharp silence
of words left unsaid
or promises you pulled
from half-hearted lines,
so quickly torn to shreds.
You want his pretty face
and warm, wordless body
to come inside.
He never has to say a thing.
You let him in.
Lead the way,
and he follows.
He can watch you with soft eyes,
smile as he pleases,
kiss you as you arch
your back in pleasure.
But nothing should ever come
crawling out of his mouth,
forcing its way into your chest,
choking your heart
into cruelly remembering
that it is more
than just
a sac
of blood



I am too exhausting
for you to open your door
and greet me on a Friday night
with a tongue drenched in red wine.
I am too exhausting
for you to unbutton my shirt
and toss it in some corner
I will eventually be left
scrambling to find.
I am too exhausting
for you to pull down
my crumpled skirt
and the black tights you like
while I wrap my legs
around your waist
and exhale yes
into your ear,
my fingers running
through your cloud of hair
and down the smooth expanse
of your back,
our mouths waging wars
as you carry me
to your bed
and we soak
your sheets
with unbridled lust
until we are
a tired tangle
of limbs
speaking only
in rapid breaths
and eyes
that linger
and smiles
that play coy.
I am too much
for this to happen
You are simply exhausted.
I bring you down
but not to your knees.
You need someone
who lifts you up.
On her back.
With her tongue
and heart
cut out.


A Blueprint of Desire

Kiss the inside of my thighs,
my stomach,
my face.
Press your lips hard each time.
Leave moist imprints on my body.
Do not slobber.
If you are hungry
graze my neck
suckle my breasts
feast on ripe fruit
I laid bare for you to eat.
Don’t just taste me.
Consume me.
Rein in your teeth.
Do not bite too hard.
Invite your fingers
to dance upon
my crown jewel.
If you get lost,
I will show you the way
to hidden treasure.
Keep a steady rhythm.
Learn to multitask.
Kiss me.
I want to know your mouth.
Get acquainted with your tongue.
Speak a nonverbal language of lust
with your lips.
Put your hands
all over my body
not just the places
you were taught to yearn.
Stroke my waist.
Cup my hips.
Grip my thighs.
Do not pull my hair.
Do not touch my head.
Do not choke me.
Every so often,
press your face
against mine
and whisper,
does this feel good?
Make sure I am
damp with longing
not just spit and lube
before you slip inside.
Slow. Steady. Then faster.
Dance to a rhythm
of shared pleasure.
Do not hit the hallway
of an empty home
you cannot move into.
Do not slam into me.
Thrust to make me moan.
Can you make me moan?
This must be
your never-ending goal.
Love my body
the way it deserves
to be loved
and I
will do the same


Skinny Love

I take pills to medicate my skin
so I can look in the mirror
and not hate myself
I slap on makeup
as a survival strategy
because pretty
is its own form
of currency
I let boys desire me
and I laugh
because what they really desire
is a girl who takes up
the bare minimum of space
boys love my body
no, they love my dysfunction
no, they love my disrepair
no, they love my despair
they’re in love
with a body
that doesn’t eat well
that doesn’t eat enough
that just doesn’t
in all the wrong ways
a body that is starving
for attention and care
boys want to touch me
and when their hands slip
underneath my clothes
they don’t know
or maybe
they don’t care
that what they’re feeling
is a product
of privilege.
of hunger.
and slow