The girl in the attic

When I was little, I was made to be small.

My voice was taken, shaken, and broken.

I was told murderous lies

that forced silence

locked me away floating

above my body

in the dark corner

witnessing the streetlight

that bled my windowsill orange

while he crushed breath from my lungs

with the sour smell of stale beer,

spicy sour pine,

and putrified cigarettes

I was confused why they screamed

but I was forced to not make a sound

no matter how much it hurt

no matter if I couldn’t feel my body

no matter if I got lost in the night.

I prayed, one day,

that I’d be small enough,


to disappear altogether.

Today vs 355 Days Ago

Today I watched an emergency vehicle roar

followed by a chorus of five more

the hymn they sang was not for me

but I found myself unable to breathe

I started to panic, filled with fear

as if they were suddenly going to stop here

I wear her shirts and her ashes

as if those would conjure her

breathe, ironically, life back to her

to us

to the moment in time where we were

all of we, together, being happily.

It was a feeling of holy

a feeling of communion

as we broke bread together

The laughter we shared

reciting our ancient tales

filled us faster than food

She just at fifty, me at 49

We’d spent a love-time of life

but never enough time

The chaplain at the hospital said,

on the day Bean really died,

Maybe you were the face of God

she had to see before she could

finally be at peace.”

It was the most comforting words

because I often think of them.

I often think of Bean’s face in that same way,

the face I needed see before she went home

Devoted Spirit

I know you.

I know you are here.

I honor that I am blessed with you.

You feel every beat of your life belonging within me,

with me,

surrounding me

I know that your loving breath is my purpose for being

That your tears are my grief because we are one

That your smile is my laughter so loud it leaks from my eyes

That your silence is the peace I have only known with you

What you can hold, I am but weak

What you can give, I am ever poor

What you esteem, I am earthly bound

Yet you shower me with treasures untold

You cherish my heart and my spirit

You renew me despite each stumbling,


crumbling error

Restoring me to the finest temple where together we abide

For this boon,

my heart is ever yours

to fill and guide as you will.,

A Polaroid

He lounged on the end of the tea house sofa with a glass of wine in his hand

He smiled a shy smile, looking up from under his hooded eyes that sparkled with pride.

He spoke of love for the sweaty hippie girl that plodded a hill

Probably wearing braids.

He knew he wanted to embrace love,

He knew she would: be love, mother love, personify home.

When he speaks of his longing, it’s not of home, but for her.

He blesses her with words that only poets understand.

He begs for belief in his worthiness of her wonder, her coffee brown home.

I imagine her smiling at him, shaking her head with wisdom.

She knows. She understands. She sees. She loves this man.

I see the words he thinks of her, and I know he “gets it.”

He believes in her, trusts in her, and prays she understands.

I know she does. That he doesn’t, makes him want to work.

It makes him think of that woman he’s always loved.

That he will always love, that is worthy of everything because,

He’s never seen a mother that was willing to be as home to him as she.

She is his beloved

“Be Safe”

Okay, I’ll admit it. I want to be safe in the sense that I don’t get shot in my house. I want to be safe in the sense that when I walk down my streets at night with my little dog, waiting on her to do her “business”, I’m not going to be attacked. I want to be safe enough that when I follow the road rules, I don’t get in an accident because others also want to be safe, or rather, unharmed.

But there is a part of me that doesn’t want to be safe. Being safe takes a chunk away from the loudness of life. It reduces the voices of exuberant laughter to polite chuckles. It sucks the genuine grief from our deepest fears and distills it into quiet murmuring condolences. It shatters the adventure of stepping one foot outside of your comfort zone by giving the illusion of safety.

But safety, like everything, is an illusion. It’s not real. It surprises us because we expect things to be the same. We expect to wake up, go about our day without incident, return home, eat the same meal we did last week, watch regurgitated shows with different characters but the same stories, and go to bed at the same time. It’s our expectation of safety that, pardon my french, fucks us up.

Chaos and change are the way of the world. If we could control any of it, we’d be reasonable in our expectations, but we do not. We can do our best not to contribute, by following the rules, obeying laws, keeping an eye out for ne’er-do-wells, but being safe is a lie we tell ourselves so we can live with minimal fear.

My Aunt Lizzie and Uncle Dave are driving a different route back from their vacation in Maine. It has places for them to stop that they’ve never been before which means the potential for a fantastic adventure. But in the commentary on their shared pictures, there were all the comments from a variety of people telling them to, “Be safe.” The comments are made with love and not as admonitions, mind you. They are meant with the best of intentions. But I don’t think I’ll wish them the same.

I wish them to be unharmed but in no way to be safe. I want them to have the adventure they’re hoping for on the new route. I want them to have experiences that will give them the best adventure with minimal difficulty. I want them to see things so spectacular it takes their breath away because they chose to stop somewhere they wouldn’t ordinarily get to see. I want them to experience every drop of grandness in the views, every bliss to be had floating on the breeze. I want them to taste the rain as if it were their first time. To have Ruby show them the newborn idea of life heroic in a way that brings them fits of delight. But, I do not wish them to “be safe”.

Part Two: The Warrior

When I am no longer profitable as a breeding cow

And my personal power grows and I won’t bow

When my loins only invite the worthy between

And my ecstasy is the only heard screams

Then you’ll know, I’ve always been good enough

You will subjugate your time to my stuff

Stir the cauldron an ancient bower

For now I’ve come into MY power

I rule my body, rule my heart, I set my path on which to start

This is my calling, this is my way

From now until my end of days.

Part One: The Maiden

I am not good enough unless I’m on my knees

I’m not worthy unless I’m polite, you see.

I must follow the rules that I didn’t make

And pray my soul that they don’t take

My breasts are displayed as public property

Despite the turtleneck that covers these

It’s my fault my vagina monthly oozes red

Pink tax profits until my worth is dead