I wrote this on a request from my friend. Tochi,thanks for challenging me.

In an alternate universe, this room is a crime scene. You are a detective, you tiptoe over a body, look over,not long enough to get personal but just enough to know what places to touch. You are careful not to tamper with evidence, careful not to disrupt the scene, careful not to leave your fingerprints.

In this universe, I am the body or the crime scene or both. You are another one night stand, you tiptoe over my heart, look over, not long enough to get personal but just enough to know what parts of me to touch. You are careful not to tamper with my memories, careful not to disrupt the memories of my past lovers, careful not to leave a piece of yourself in my memory. 

I wonder how many metaphors until I run out of subtle ways to say I am tired of temporary lovers.




I can swear you love your wife because even here as you lay on my bare breasts, same ones you’ve fondled and held this past hour, your voice has an extra spark when you talk about her. 

Every Tuesday we meet here, this inbetween place for both of us to rest our weary bones. We unfold slowly, you first, making small talk and telling me about your day. You offer your bones to me, fragile and bare, I hold them for awhile wondering if it’s right that I’m here.

Every Tuesday I unfold when you’re done, gently pull off my flesh until all you can see are my soft shiny bones. I offer nothing about my husband but somedays you ask and I always say the same thing “he’s okay”.

Every Tuesday I come here with questions but leave with more questions than answers. You once told me “we are the bad people in our relationships”, I disagreed in my mind but never told you so. My husband has brought the stars down just to show me he adores me, your wife holds you tighter than she ties her gele.  There are no bad people here, our bones are just weary from being loved in all the wrong places. 

We leave holding hands and looking forward to our next Tuesday. 

Letters To August—1

I feel like I’ve been waiting for you for so long. There’s a lot of history between us. What makes you different isn’t my birthday that you bring every year, that is just your party trick,you are a trickster. You taunt me with death daily and as I am about to give up, it’s my birthday and there’s fake support from people that forgot me for a year,people that will forget about me until its my birthday next year. 

Every year as you arrive you bring reinforcements—my anxiety gets worse, most days I can’t get out of bed or eat or sleep, I can’t pretend like I’m happy the way I  have done for 11months before you. 

August, you are a lover that leaves me feeling worse everytime. You leave me wishing I never get to see you again. You come back everytime with a smirk on your face, as if you know I am not strong enough to die. 

August, I wonder if you will be different this year.


Lash! Lash! Lash! 
It’s 2am and I can hear the distant sound the belt makes as it kisses the skin. I turn over, I think I’m dreaming. 

Lash! Lash! Lash! 

Now I hear screams too, I sit up and listen out. I run to my brother’s room, see my father standing over him whipping as hard as he can. Immediately I go into defense mode, turn into a human shield and place myself between the belt and my brother. There’s more screaming and tears until it stops.

I can’t say how many times we’ve been here. They say if you stop to count time,the barriers melt and it all becomes one, time remains the same. 

Father must have awoken at 2am as the first stroke reached him; as far he knows he was beaten to be corrected and so when his son errs, he wakes him at 2am with his belt. 

The barrier melted for his son too,he hits his sister. She spent years being a shield from dad’s belt, now she she shields herself from his fists with the same hands that once held him close. 

How many 2am’s till he is beating his son? Or daughter? Or wife? 

Note-Most abusers are descendants of abusers and come from a place of hurt. Please try every single day to not be a perpetrator of any form of abuse,this only creates a long chain of abusers and broken hearts. 

Finally, I write about things that directly or indirectly affect me, but please do not ask if my posts are about me, thanks for reading. 

Conversations With My Younger Self- The Frogs You’ll Kiss

The first frog you kiss will have a name that is an object of importance to the Catholic church. He’ll be the first reason you learn self consciousness because the day after you tell him you can no longer be his back up plan, you pass his friends on the street and assume their whispers are about you. He’ll also be the first to teach you a boy’s lie; a girl called Fortune.

The second frog you kiss will invade the haven you’ll find in the woods. He’ll sit by your side while you write in your special green book and you’ll convince yourself that you’re okay with him being there until the day his breath begins to burn your skin.

The third frog you kiss, you won’t remember.

The fourth frog you kiss will be a final year pressure,the kiss will be brief and unpleasant and never happen again because once you’re done with school, you’ll avoid him like a plague.

The fifth frog you kiss will be the reason you’ll regret not leaving this place, he’ll coax you into doing things you’ll continually hate about yourself.

The sixth frog you kiss is a decision you’ll regret more than the fifth.

The seventh frog you kiss will be a girl, a beautiful planet. You’ll already be a falling star and you’ll fall to this planet and for awhile she’ll be your new haven but stars are meant to shine brightly in the sky and so the magic you two create on land will end.

The eight frog you kiss will be a weak comparison to the seventh, he’ll crumble in your hands and text you for weeks after the kiss but like dust, he’ll eventually be blown away.

The ninth frog will be a mistake, a chain reaction of mistakes.

My 7 year old self is scared, she looks up wide-eyed and curious, “will I ever have a prince?”

I smile down at her but say nothing.   

A Poem About Poems

After months of postponing this -writing in a blog I created a long time ago, I am finally ready (or I think I am).

Some poems come out easy, their words flow like a river with a steady current. 

Some poems take days, months, years before they come out. They take time to break you open, push you to your limit and then stretch those limits before they emanate. 

Some poems are the soft feeling of peace,others start a war in your being. 

Some poems are blessings, they help you feel better, others are curses, they only leave you feeling worse.