Fat Bottom Girl Said What

When my ass talks, people listen.

Ischemic Colitis

You kept quiet about it
stuffed it
so deep down inside of you
it threatened to strangle your innards
ischemic colitis
years of shit you’ve swallowed
backed up
twisted
pieces of you dying
as you struggle to keep living
be a good girl
keep quiet
don’t draw any attention to yourself
with what you wear
or say
or drink
or think
they’re stronger than you
they know better than you
they have more money and power than you
so you shrink
and keep shrinking
now so afraid to stand and speak your truth
all you can manage
is to curl into a ball in the corner
and they kick you when you’re down
add insult to injury
why do you dare to be who you are
and live life on your own terms
Susan B and Elizabeth C
rolling over in their graves
because your body is still not your own
and some men still want to govern it
by wielding their dicks over you like a sword
letting you know
you’re still a second class citizen
who needs to bow down
and shut the fuck up
and remain in your corner

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The Things We Carry

one day you just stop caring
because it’s easier that way
and it’s not like anyone notices anyway
except for those of us
with hearts like swiss cheese
battle wounded by love
carrying around the PTSD
like a rucksack on your back
nick nack paddywhack
give the bitch a bone
because some men think you want it
even when you say no
screaming it in your head
though it struggles to escape your mouth
because who are you
but a drunk girl looking for attention
and affection from filthy hands
and you always know
you always remember when they didn’t listen
because the next day
and the day after that
your churning gut reminds you
you can’t look at yourself in the mirror
without wanting to scrape your fingernails
down your face to erase the ugly emanating from inside
and even now
thirty years later
you still don’t like what you see
and think you still deserve only the things
no one else wants

Hell On Earth

They said they’d pray for you

they’re all sending thoughts and prayers

as if spoken or silent words to non-existent deities
could get the blood out from under your fingernails
or the coppery stench of it from your nose

Pray motherfucker pray

while people continue to die
in the name of all that is holy
in the name of psychosis
in the name of wars fought in minds you know nothing about

while you read your book of fairy tales
and give peace to the asshole sitting by you
who will go home and beat his wife after Sunday dinner
because the roast was too dry

Your prayers fall on deaf ears

if there is a god

he’s ignoring you and the entire flock
as everyone here begs for an end to the madness
and destruction and devastation
in this hell on earth

Luck

She doubted the existence of luck, but was acutely aware if it was somewhere out there in the universe, she never got any of it.

Especially when it came to men. Her ex-husband had cheated on her with one of her best friends when she was pregnant with their son, and every man she’d been with since had cheated on her too.

She wanted love, but she didn’t know how to get it. She thought love had more to do with luck than anything else, and considering her track record, she often wondered if she was meant to be alone the rest of her life.

Paper Heart, Gossamer Skin

Like a butterfly

wings laden with rain

I’ve forgotten how to fly

My paper heart

no longer sings

the tune of the hopeful

My skin gossamer

a study in contradictions

longs for touch but fears the pain of fingertips

The siren song of eternal sleep

tries to seduce my broken body

but my autonomic nervous system

refuses to heed the call

(pump, breathe, digest)

an endless cycle which bores me

“Is this all there is?”

I scream into the void

A Husk

Necrosis has set in

my vena cava

collapsed

is no longer superior

my aorta a husk

left empty

as all tributaries to my heart

have run dry

Smoke blocks out the sunlight

food has no flavor

my words mere echoes

nothing holds joy

Blessings in disguise

for the end comes swiftly

and painless

Fortune Teller

I’m the girl with kaleidoscope eyes

and tornadoes in my brain

Moths beat their powdery wings

within my ribcage

My skin has become vellum

tomes of poetry incarcerated in my heart

The keys to my kingdom dangle

just out of my reach

My life remains a delicious torture

as foretold by the gypsy in the ragged carnival tent

Where is the man in boots she spoke of

He remains forever hidden in the shadows

of my melancholy

Stolen Moments

Do you remember

when we’d fuck wherever we could

and stolen moments were all we had

and neither of us ever spoke of love

except to know it wasn’t meant for us

even though we both felt it

Soul Funerals

You knock on my door

but I know you don’t really want in

so I press my lips to the crack

and speak to you of the skeletons in my closet

trying to frighten you away

but you’re not deterred

and I hear the rap of your knuckles again

I admire persistence

so against my better judgement

I let down my guard and invite you in

the cloying aroma of dying flowers hanging in the air

doesn’t seem to phase you as you cross the threshold

but you give me a quizzical glance

when I ask you to sign the guestbook

as if you don’t understand 

what once lived in me has long since died

there’s nothing here to resurrect

and if there were

it can’t be done with words 

Ghosts of Prose

The words I thought 

lost

not committed to paper

were tactile in my dreams

they carried the scent of you

the timbre of your voice

your breath upon my neck

the feel of your hands upon my hips

But I woke with a word hangover

ghosts of prose haunting my mind

with no proof they ever existed at all

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