Fat Bottom Girl Said What

When my ass talks, people listen.

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 

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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

Biding Time

I feel ugly 

so I cut my hair short

shorter

I try to forget I am a sexual being

because no one desires a woman with shorn locks

And as a woman in my 40’s

I would make a great spy or a serial killer

because I have ceased to be relevant

and no one notices me in crowds

or wants to hear my stories

about the men who did me wrong

So I move in the shadows

because darkness suits me

and I silence my voice

because words seem pointless

and I lie down and wait for the sound

of dirt hitting pine

Clipped Wings

I am the crow

who waits in the parking lot

for the crumbs you dispense as you see fit

Relying on your menu

of falsehearted affection confections

has left me unable to forage for myself

Ruined by fabricated kindness

I am no longer the majestic creature 

I once was

and have taken to dumpster diving to satiate me

because a little something 

is better than nothing at all

Mankind always finds a way

to ruin that which is good

and clip the wings of creatures

having the moxy to fly

Curtain Call

I offered you a handwritten letter

but you had no interest in words penned for posterity

My love for you was an embarrassment

something relegated to the shadows

not shared with the world

Everyone knows anything not given regular sunlight

withers and dies

but that never concerned you

Unbeknownst to me you were an agent

auditioning a whole chorus of girls for your ego show

and I hadn’t made the cut

Neon Signs

I wander

from one room to another

and back again

looking for you as if you were actually ever here

But it’s just my heart

longing for something which life

has decided I don’t deserve

When I was born

the universe whispered and said

“You will know heartache and longing and disloyalty because you are a truth teller and are born to lose”

So I wear this pre-destination

like a scarlet letter

or an old motel sign

neon lighting the way for every

narcissist

abuser

alcoholic

loser

to find their way to my doorstep

and desperate to sate my loneliness

I open the door and let them in

I lay down with dogs

and rise up with leprosy

because foolishly I’ve always thought

the love of a good woman

could fix a man

But I’m the one who has been broken by them

and no man ever knocks on the door

offering his love to heal me

Platitudes

You said
“God doesn’t make garbage”
as if somehow forgetting the murderers and child rapists
and also the fact I don’t believe in your god

But you wouldn’t know that
because you haven’t really known me since 1987
when I was still giving men my body
in the hopes they would love my soul
and now no man wants my body because it was used by too many
men who came before them

And you married your high school sweetheart
while my husband was fucking one of my best friends from high school
and your parents just celebrated 50 years of marriage
and I can still remember the sick feeling I got in my stomach when my mom told me she was divorcing my dad

So do me a favor and save your platitudes and pep talks
for someone who actually believes you give a shit about them
because I’m sick to fucking death of people pretending like they care
only when it suits them and when the world is watching

Cicada Exuviae

you have chosen to withhold the light
and darkness has descended

I feel hollow
like a cicada exuviae
with paper thin skin
which might disintegrate if touched by humans

foolishly
I imagined I had something to offer you
but you easily saw I am a husk
and the more vibrant part of me
has left for destinations unknown

Saints and Sinners

The church bells ring on Sunday morning

reminding you of sins committed on Saturday night

You like to pretend you’re a good Catholic boy

so you wash the memory of me away with holy water

I don’t believe in fairytale gods or threats of perdition

but I also cleanse what we do with cheap wine

When we’re touching each other our worlds blend

and we no longer know or care who’s sinner or saint 

We only know we’ve found some other sort of religion

in each other

Black Sleep

I wash the handful of pills down with some boxed wine
because I’m not fancy
and even if I was
I’m past the point of caring
because everyone else is past the point of caring about me
It’s all become too much
the loneliness
the pain
the memories
I’m determined to finish what I started at the age of 14
when my mother’s medicine cabinet didn’t wield the proper combination of the black sleep I was seeking
I can count on a few fingers the number of people who will miss me
everyone else will just find me pathetic
as pathetic as they found me in life
but still be surprised that I ended it all
because I always seemed so strong
But those same people will pretend to care
after I am ashes
because they think it’s the proper thing to do
if they really cared they would have shown it
in life
and not just in death

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