Declaration to Self

To my true self,

I am sorry I abandoned you to become a version of myself more easily digestible to people I wanted to like me. I am sorry I got lost in the tangle of trying to understand what the world wanted from me, rather than asking you what you need. I got so far away from you; my breaking point didn’t come until I felt identity paralysis. You gave me signs all along, but red flags feel like butterflies when that’s what you hope is there.

Now that I am on the other side and I am closer to you than I’ve ever been. I just want to say, I plan to spend the rest of my life


One with you.

Obedience sold at market price*

She’ll be

lovely and quiet

pink and delicate

like an oyster

drooling on the floor

lipstick in place.

Insert through eye

and strike the chisel

A mere tap

with the hammer

and she’ll petrify

to breath-taking stone

and you’ll restore

peace at home.

Never mind the detachment,

you like your coffee

poured from an empty pot anyway.

  • Not so fun fact: When lobotomy was a legal practice, 84% of the people that received it were women.

If you call it cutlery, let it cut

Reflective surface given power by flame.

Forged in a pit of hope, beaten

to elegant form.

Silver eager to mold- a spoon

if that’s what you need

a spoon here to please

Please, a powerful beginning.

Why a flattened start?

Pummeled on the anvil of servitude-

a hindsight bias,

she could have used in the fore

For a mix, a measure, a toss

a stir, or transfer- the spoon

can only crave what it has

dissolved. Silver seal Spoon’s surface from her

guts of wood

Would she need aspiration, I’ll give her

an aim. Spoons sit pretty

in their drawer, camouflaged

by other silver- not distinct.

You need someone, Silver Spoon.

Your purpose- is not your own.

I Don’t Need Nicotine Patches, I Smoke Cigarettes

Images of a Swamp Willow weigh me down

Statue my presence, petrify my face

Perhaps the monster’s toothed margin

its scattered warts on its alabaster belly

spare my fear a touch.

For its tentacles that root it still,

terrorize me the most.

The hush is almost tranquil, noiselessness

serves a calm but the tick

of time crescendos ‘til I crack

My little keepsake pattern,

always biting at my heels.