Real women sacrifice

We drank a lot of tequila the night we met, I remember that. 

And I remember his black mask, the way it wrapped around his lips to his nose and ears. Wrongfully, it covered something so beautiful and I saw his skin underneath begin to lose its’ sparkle. Like, champagne popped and left open, or rain that pours over wildfire. I tried to show him his skin, and how it reminded me of oak wood. Sand. Coffee made with cream. Soil, loam, dirt mixed in puddles of rain and mud. Maybe even sticky, dark honey. I prayed to God, “help him take it off, help him remove his mask, help him love the face You gave him.” But, despite my prayers, I watched him rust like old metal. 

Still, I am trying.

I really am trying.

I am trying to see what lies underneath. Oh God, I love and cannot leave him. I am only a child, but I do not fear Your faithless men, anymore. I have learned to love through all the layers of my own bleeding heart, with mercy, guide me to force that hard lesson. I promise, I will hold his face, his skin, who he is and who he longs to be. I will set my own judgement down, because whatever he believes he has, he does not. It is not contagious. 

Please, take off your mask. 

Your skin 





My girl sniffs gunmetal

while she listens to heavy metal

on top of

rooftops and junk shops.

She smokes when she bathes,

believes her version of aromatherapy

is better.

Her legs in the water are pale and

flourescent, like lined lights sheltered by

snow frozen into hail,

but she likes it golden-brown and


“like a 7-and-7,” maybe a whiskey

sour cocktail.

She pops one for her baby,

says, “we need to get high, boy

because someone like me,

I am to die for.”

We were rolling around when

she found ash in the drink and she drank it

when their voices were too loud

she shut them,

said, “this is not a church,

not a coterie,

it’s a stab.”

She screams because

it seems it is all she can

and will do,

so she doesn’t fight back.

Instead, she holds herself up above the concrete and

she straightens her back.

To her surprise, she found that she was



my lungs fill rather quickly with

vengeance and

I am weak, even after a week.

She is still growing

Sad girls steal

her covers at night

and paint her face

in the morning


she hides in cracks

and washes herself

in cups of

old coffee.

At first

I was afraid


she looked so much

like me

but as she bore her teeth

like knives

to those who have

watched her suffer

I saw in front of me

a survivor,

a fox footed fighter who

bore a fleeting resemblance

to the wild.

You have seen

the stains in my sheets

and the

marks along my skin

but the bones

in my body belong

only to her.

She is still growing

and she is mine.

Blue mood, blue moon, he had a blue car, too

Ride (Instrumental) – All music rights reserved by Lana Del Rey

It’s easy remembering 

my summer with him

when his love was sweet, 

like honey,

and crazy, 

like violence.

I thought I’d found 

my blue moon, 

a perfect match for

my blue mood. 

In my first attempt

to win over

his heart,

I created some fucked up idea 

of perfection

and how we

were exactly that.

Still, I find myself 

thinking of him 

as I am driving.

And I remember how I’d watch him 

dash and daze, 

dazzle on the highway. 

I was so high, 

but I knew I loved him, 

and I knew

he thought I was fucking crazy. 

People still wonder

why I choose 

to live always chasing

that brief thrill 

that leaves me divided,

time and time, again. 

But I’ve always told them 

the same thing:

In this attempt

to win over 

his heart,

I promised to spend

the loneliest moments of my life

with him.

Home is not a place, 

home is not people,

home is a feeling.

Home is 

somewhere I wish 

to become less afraid.

and as his big red eyes close to sleep,

I felt so safe.

In my final attempt

to win over 

his heart,

I completely

lost my own.



When they ask why my floorboards are made of mahogany, rosewood, and ebony, I tell them it’s because the darkened tones remind me of her.

Dusky floors brush my bare skin every day, both faultless and at my most fragmented.

Unlike those who should have done you better, her toughened skin was never afraid to touch mine.

This is a lie, I am on the verge of tears


My spine has found so many knives gorged into itself, I cannot make out the shape anymore. I am mad and yelling to some. Quiet to others. Cut throat to a few. Unknown and unrevealed to many. Who am I to me? I remember, I took a picture of my mother and studied the lines on her hands. She wore her hair down; face and nails, naked. Sometimes, her lips would flush red as if the boiled blood under her skin understood that no exit existed. In this particular photo, her lips were bludshot. She presented herself smart and simple. The truth, an undeniable fact. I noticed, even the lines in her hands were strong. I wonder, do they match the patterns of my own? Are these traces of my rage or my silence?

It’s strange, how some bodies of the human race seem to be constantly running away from their home, and others are bodies who are desperately in search of that exact, same place. Every night, I prayed I would make it back alive. “I have fooled myself into thinking I could stand in something sinking and, oh God, I have never felt so small and I am so scared to die.” To every prayer he would answer, “Child, when will you understand? For you, home will remain as a place you must always chase, you must find everything for yourself.”

Still, I cannot quite find who I am. But surely this time, I will not wander.

I still miss you, sometimes

I tried to burn it away in my muscles. Tried to rip them apart to prove that it would break in my hands. Tried to keep myself busy, tried to change it with my name, but I mostly tried to sleep it away. Change because it made me violent and vulgar. Made me drink, down the throat and out my eyes. I washed his beautiful hands and I can’t remember, was he my lover or my oppressor? When did we start moving in opposite directions? Your flawed views reflect on my metal eyes and I know better this time: look around but do not touch anything. Like it didn’t exist, that is how we’re supposed to be.



I am a different person to different people, but with you, it’s quite opposite. Like my favourite sunset, I dip under billions and disappear in the dark. Or, maybe I have settled and slept because my moon is watching. She holds me so tight, the art comes oozing out. And as these stars fall onto our world, I can’t help but stare into their shine. The world does not deserve to see her creativity, but oh God, does it need to.


First, I noticed her laugh and the comfort I found in something so loud. And although her laughter was beautiful, her true brilliance came forward as she came towards me. With every step, she stained the floors with pools of herself. How, I wonder, after you drained the colours from your own, can one still dazzle? “I do not dazzle,” she answered, “rather, I am dull, soft, and aching. Please do not rush me.” Darling, I find you very special. Where you find soft, I begin to find soul and your ache has created a pulse. I insist, climb inside and revel at your brilliance with me because you are not dull. Truly I find you quite radiant, take all the time you need.

This is your warning sign:

Get out from the walls the tables the floors the electrical outlets. Get out from the continuity of paintings, no beginning and belonging. No middle or returning and no end, rather half finished projects arranged slightly differently every time. Get out from the empty and the safe, see what you want to see when you want to see it. This is your warning sign: get out get out get out.