Continent 13

The grand illusion of a narcissist

It was always my fault,
every metaphorical glass shattered
and the holes in the walls.

They weren’t real, our friends could not see them.

No one inspected my body for the remnants of your short fuse and addiction to making me irrelevant.

I was a whole continent of a person when I met you.
A little too many lakes, spilling over myself out of every one I housed.

You knocked me off my high horse.
That would’ve been enough.

But the story continued.
The horses in my farm went to slaughter
and eventually I didn’t own any land.

The original deceit was thinking I’d ever be small enough for the place where your love fits.

Maybe it grows big enough for other people,
but I was land, not water.
I couldn’t make you grow.
So I tried to make you smaller.

The less of you that there was,
made every thing less hostile.

You thought you were growing
when I let you go,
But really,
you’ll always be small.

And I’m a continent again,
but this time, everyone is welcome.

Goodbyes, 12

The first person who broke my heart
is no different than the second,
is no different than the last.

They are part of every poem,
and the little bone-holes from the gnawing.

They are the missing skin.

And the place where it healed.

Thick white lines that said goodbye to people.

They are prongs of the forks I climbed like ladders to get out of the places
that they dropped my body.

I only loved one idea wholly,
it just had many faces.

When the rubber peeled around the edges and my lovers faded into flaws,

I said goodbye with blood.

But my last goodbye – was all of it.

I took all of my blood with me.

And I stepped on them all on my way out.






Prompt was to write about the first person that broke your heart…

The blanket: 11/24

Tinted off-white
Filled with holes
Well-loved fabric
with faded balloons
Every edge torn,
Resembling a rag.
Aged cotton comfort.


The prompt was describing an object you’d save in a fire. My baby blanket.

Don’t kill spiders: 10

The spider blocks the way
out of the shower,
holding the curtains corner with
Seven of eight,
with the last we waves me out,
“you may pass,
none of us mean harm here.”

Him: 9

She lives in anticipation of his breath.
His subtle smirks,
she lives at the end of his words.
The woe in her and the world in him.

When he opens his mouth to call for her, she begs to crawl inside and live on his tongue.

She can live with the bodies in the basement and
the blood on his hands.
She can live with the harmony in the hurts.

As long as she is his precious,
the blood stone he plucked out of the ugly forest,
as long as she is the exception to things.

Sometimes the rust settles at the bottom of the water and everything turns brown.
and she turns into a number.

The boy : 8

There is a boy as tall as a tree,
who carried his decades on branches
His shoulders were the neighbor’s fences, lost baseballs and skinned knees.
His arms held the tireswings.
The blue in his eyes, easily a place to skip stones.
A laugh in the air around him,
The warmth of mother’s dinner,
A Christmas morning smile.

Boys like this are usually fairy tales,
because it is easier to write about good people
than to raise them.

All boys grow, to become statues or men,
but he carved a spot in the bark on the tree
and that is where the little boy will always be.
Running down hallways and drumming in tabletops.
The child exists, so does he.

Facebook therapists 7/24

Everyone has a cure
for everyone else’s suffering
and nobody cares
who they’re
Have you tried
this diet, or that one?
Have you tried to go for a run?
Have you tried anti-depressants?
No, not the one you’re on.
You spend too much time inside. Do you ever see the sun?
Take a nature walk.
Call someone to talk.
Do you eat too late?
Eat early, eat less.
Are you managing your stress?
Have you tried yoga?
You should adopt a cat!
Are you seeing a therapist?
Maybe you should quit.
Try some drugs. Oh, you do?
Maybe those drugs just aren’t for you.

Try a vitamin.
Move out of your house,
Get a new job,
It couldn’t get worse.

Stop worrying so much.
Or you’ll end up dead,
The cure to mental illness,
is in this Facebook thread.

Dogs 5/24

Hand in paw
and paw in hand,
This tells a story
That man’s best friend
is this poet’s true love
and the sound of claws
on the hardwood floors
welcomes me home,