Saturday, October 8, 2016


Perhaps poetry is the gods gift to the lonely
A way to bleed out the words to which there is no one to speak
Allowing the soul to bleed its ink in a way that borrows not from next week
Poetry is the empty chair
The accepting ear
The soul’s bloodletting and tears
A place where it’s okay to dump all of one’s fears.

Perhaps poetry is the gods gift to the lonely
A way for one’s heart to hemorrhage onto a page
Without the risk that comes when you spill your pain to a waiting ear.

Perhaps poetry is for the broken
An ode to all of the words left unspoken
The gods little token to those whose hearts have been ripped open
A drink of water in the desert
Of the minds midnight ride through time.
Perhaps poetry is bleeding black onto white
That silently screaming insight
The quiet girl with madness in her eyes
Who knows that no matter how hard she tries
The empty seat will not speak, will not see, will not ever truly be
An ear that actually hears.

Perhaps poetry is sadness and rage and joy and pain
The ink under one’s skin
An intricate invitation to sin
Demons on a page, no longer repressed in their cage
Take them out and teach them to dance
Because life is one manic chance.

Perhaps poetry is the dark light of the soul
The place everyone is afraid to look
Like a banned book, a dangerous hook.
I’ll be your little angel of sin
I am a reflection of your pain, your rage, your own personal version of insane
I am the midnight darkness of your mind,
all that shit you tried so hard to bury inside
the demise of projection and pride.

And so I’ll sit with the empty chair
Send my whispers out into the air
Let it sit back and watch the demons that dance within
Rubbing my mind on the edges of silently smooth wood
Soften them perhaps a bit for a moment
With the words otherwise left unspoken

Perhaps poetry is for the lonely
The ones made up of only dreams and other broken little things
Perhaps poetry is all of the words left unspoken

Expressed simply as the language of the broken.

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

If you Had Asked Me, B, I'd Have Given You My Take On The White Fucking Bitch

Your dream was about me B, so I don't know why you didn't ask me. Maybe because you don't talk to me at all anymore, who knows. But you could have asked me and I would have told.

We may not speak anymore, but even though it pains me greatly, I know you'll still read here, and this place will never again mine like it was. Kind of like him...

But I'll write here honestly again because it's all I have besides that empty fucking chair. And you will remember your promise. And no matter how much you fucking hate me, you'll keep it. Just that one. Out of all of them.

You know how you told him to love me like he wants to love you? Well, he can't because I'm fucking not you.

If you wanted my take on the white fucking bitch, I'd have given it to you. Rest assured, she would have never been lying in front of me in the first place if it wasn't for you. I know that you don't see me the same anymore, and I don't either...I tried really heard for a really long time to be okay with myself, and in a matter of months it all changed. You turned me inside out and upside fucking down. I know that you no longer want me, that you could share me with him, but couldn't share him with me. I know all kinds of things. But it doesn't matter what I know because there's nobody to fucking hear...

If you had asked me, I would have given you my take on that white little bitch...You left me, and you don't get to judge me anymore. But here it is anyways. Enjoy your future reading. Chances are I will spend a very long time trying to remember how to act as if this place is still really mine. Much like him.

We’re good when we’re all coked up, all doped up
Riding the white fucking line, and borrowing from our future time
Use up some ink from next week
It seems like the only time we really meet, just him and me
When we’re walking that white fucking line
Is the only time he’s actually mine.

One or two or three or more times
Never mind the itch of the white little bitch
Never mind the drip as you go along for the trip
Even though you know you’re just waiting for the dip.

No more of the little white whore, he says
As he contemplates my various addictions and their accompanying afflictions
Telling me they’re all going to go.
Sad thing is, if I wasn’t his, on numbness I wouldn’t give in
When all I ever really wanted was to experience and feel.

Feeling hurts
So I like that white fucking bitch
Despite her goddamn itch
Riding her is the only time he doesn’t flinch from it being just me and him
In a moment without her
As soon as the ride fades, she comes washing back in
And me, I’m just their little fucking angel of sin
Everything that everyone wants to hide within.

We’re good when we’re all coked up, all doped up
Never seem to be all roped up
To busy being wrapped up and fucked up
To wake up and really make up.

We used to be all smoked up,
 all hopped up on hope and dreams and love and various beautiful things
for a while we were all coked up, all doped up, a couple of eight balls down
chalk it up to another round
use up some extra ink, borrow some time from next week
ride that white fucking bitch to scratch all those other goddamn itches.

And so we walked the little white line for a moment in time
In that moment he was once again mine
Walk the white little line
Enjoy for a few nights her pretty little lies
That you’re okay inside
and she’s not just a fucking lie borrowing from your future time.
Using up your ink as your soul sinks.

Ride that white line, for a moment pretend that he’s still all mine
Enjoy the lie
While I’m all coked up, all doped up
No longer all fucking hoped up.

Life wins, I fold, little angel of sin that I am within
Fade into silence, drowning in my own inner violence
No more being all coked up, all doped up
Riding that little white bitch, the stupid white chick
No more pretending he’s all mine
Or that I’ll ever be able to step back in time
No more riding the little white line.

I’m here
Stuck in my own time
Lost in my own mind
Alone with nothing left to find.
And so I borrowed some ink from next week
Borrowed some future time to walk that white little line.

Still me. Still my fucking place. And I'll write here again like I did once before.

Monday, September 26, 2016

Yes...I Could Write About...

Yes, there was a post. Yes, it was angsty as fuck. Yes, I took it down. Yes, I censor the shit out of myself here now. And yes, I do remember all of those times I swore that I would never do that. What can I say, shit happens.

Yes, I have a lot that I could write about, but I don't.

I could write about how I have learned that kneeling is a spiritual experience for me, about how I went from managing a million dollar department to working in little back rooms in warehouses and the sides of mountains, how fucking difficult it is to be taken seriously as a woman in this industry.

I could write about losing a night or a week or two to drugs I've never touched, about the overwhelming urge to serve and surrender in ways I never really thought I'd crave, about how I realized that maybe I was right and the world can't break me, but I sure as hell can break myself.

I could write about the inordinate amount of time I sit talking to an empty chair--pouring out my fears, musings, pain happiness and tears. About how drowning all the goddamn shades of grey as someone who sees the world in black and white fucks me up, about desire and need to feed that sometimes overwhelms me. About what it's like to have people you trained, mentored, bled cried and sweated with, tell you they'll work for you anywhere you go if you just say the word--and not have a place for them to go.

I could write about how if you have millions of dollars worth of inventory, I'm the one you want to have the fucking keys, but I'm a woman in a man's industry making better money remaining unseen. About stirring up the mix and getting my fucking fix, about how speaking from my knees in surrender to my demons, his demons, dreams without reason, has become my way of speaking to god. About what it's like being a storm in a world where everyone desires only shelter, about the fact that I'm a fucking whore and I really don't mind anymore, or about a look and sentence I was given regarding shame--a moment I'll carry and be forever grateful for.

I could write about how beautiful music makes my son cry, or about how he's gonna help raise his brother for a couple months while live on the side of a mountain. About feeling and feeding darkness and dancing with dreams and demons. About what it's like to rip your own heart out and look at it from the inside. About being the crazy fucking white girl everyone thinks hates them, when the truth is--I am who I am and maybe I'm just to busy to care to share words. About acceptance as possibly one of the greatest gifts one can give...

Yes, there's a lot I could write about. But for now, poetry goes into a folder on the desktop, and the rest is poured out to an empty chair in a lonely city of half a million people whose thoughts never quiet and which so deeply disturb my silence.

Saturday, September 17, 2016

She Knelt In Broken Glass...

I had dedicated myself to the bottom of a bottle of tequila, so while I was well aware that I was sitting in the center of a pile of broken glass, it took me a minute to realize that she was kneeling in it to kiss me.

She knelt in broken glass just to kiss me...Broken fucking glass...

Tuesday, August 23, 2016


He looks at me and doesn’t see
So caught up in her and what they could or could not be
I walk into a room and he doesn’t even look up at me
Having lost all that he holds dear,
I brought to life my greatest fear.

And he assures me that in a trail of sluts and drugs
I will make my sacrifice and pay the price
Prefaced with an apology for the pain
He looks right through me resting there on my knees
Trembling at his feet and wondering
How it works being hung over the edge by someone who dangles by a thread.

She consumes him with her fire into which he jumps with an overwhelming desire
And I’m being sucked out into the riptide
Drowning in the dark side of darkness
Nowhere to go, nowhere to roam, nowhere left to run to
While he soothes her mind and tries to patch the cracks in her soul
Regretting that he can never make her whole.

I knew there would be a price to pay in some painful way
And so I get to ride the edges of misery
Distantly wondering how he can walk her so kindly through the pain
And not notice that I am going insane.

I’m here. Here on my knees
I will fall off the edge just to please
I have become
A reflection of myself in a window with her standing on the other side
He looks right through me to her all-consuming sight.

I heard a song, and the singer said, “Do you speak to me like you speak to God?”
Oh yes
So many times spent on my knees
Somehow it’s a spiritual thing
Sitting on my heels
Shoulders back
Hands lightly clasped
Surrendering to the dominance of man.

Yet somehow now, I have found shame in what I am 
in the ways I that I feed my soul
in the paths I have walked to make me whole...
Whispering quietly to myself as if there were someone there,
 "Do you speak to me like you speak to God?"
I would have said yes, but I'm a bit of a mess
and maybe my communion, is just some fucked up union
of my broken pieces patched haphazardly together with the pieces of my darkness.

I’m here, sucked out into the riptide
For a while I put up a fight
Let go
Let it suck me under
Forget to wonder
What it’s like on the other side
Just sink and drown in the riptide.

For a moment
I was the moon
And I pulled on the waves
Created the riptide in which my soul dies
I formed the wave, dug my own grave
And made the bed in which I’ll now lie
Tasting the tears which we now cry.

My soul is black and blue
Seeking to drown in you
But you look right on through
So I give in to the riptide
Let it explode through my mind
Losing myself somewhere between space and time
Going under to the sound of our distantly echoing thunder.

Wednesday, August 3, 2016

Sounds Like Him...

I might be a little bitter that I didn't write this one too, since it reads like something that would come out of his mouth instantaneously...

Friday, July 29, 2016

The playground Upon Which Demons Feed and Hidden Desires Dance

I forgot how to write here. I forgot slowly over time, one step away here, another step there...
And I knew what it meant when we showed her this place, that one day I would sit down to write and pause. Because eventually, they will both read every word drawled across these pages.

A lot has happened since the last time I sat here, words pouring from my fingertips. A lot of reality fucking bites. But that's not why I'm here now. In this moment.

There is a natural ebb and flow to ttwd. We gave a lot to that job. We gave our all for a long time. Sacrifices were made, and one of those sacrifices was living in an ebb of D/s the length and depth of which we have never really fallen into before.

She said something that hurt my feelings. I should have gone to her about it, but I didn't. I balled up and shut out. I lost my words and retreated in silence. More than a little lost and confused...

And I once again realized something intricately entwined yet completely unrelated--this place, this slut, this sub, this slave...This is me. I am who I am. He feeds the dark twisted parts of me that crave to be alive, to be explored in the night, all the twisted little kinks and fantasies...The darkness is a part of our bond.

I was kind of pissed off that I didn't write this because I could have. Verbatim. But I love it. And I sent it to him. Because this is a huge part of who him and I are together.
He fed me tequila and took me out.
And there was more tequila.
He mind-fucked me until I couldn't see straight.
Then he did it some more.
He did a number on my mind, that took me a day to come back from. Dunno, maybe I still am three days later.
He turned me upside down and inside fucking out.

She has shown me that there is a space for me that is not subspace. That passion can be gentle and kind and still consuming. Fucking amazing.
Still I know by the look in her eyes when she half whispers about an urge to be violent with me, there is always that in me which desires to feed the beast, to be the playground upon which demons feed and hidden desires dance.

While she has offered very little judgement, there is a discomfort with his ownership of me, and some days I feel a bit bipolar bouncing between them like a ping pong ball. And some days I know that my life is fuller of real living, of really being me, than it has in a very long time.

I am, without a doubt, rather lost. I have payed some fines at a very high cost. I have given all and walked away from a lot this year. I have refused to live on my knees to a corporate entity, and the price of walking away from it is high. But there is only one way in which I desire to live on my knees, and that was not it.

This has been one hell of a year.

I have fallen in love with a woman.
I have helped build a business which would not have existed without me.
I have worked the kind of hours which did not allow me to see the light of day.
I have inspired and cried.
I have refused to be the mouth which expresses only the beliefs of upper management.
I have been demoted for being...Me.
I have made CEO's cry.
I have walked away from the closest thing to a real career that I have ever known
on the basis of where I draw the line as a human being,
how I can sleep with myself at night,
on the basis of who is there to stand up for those who had no other voice to speak for them.
For her.

No longer there, but still here.