How To Fight the War Inside Your Body

War is raging in your body

Oppression of all sorts under your skin

The same that tore your mother down

and your sisters, too.

The same that will break your daughters

because you have not been taught how to love yourself

but everything outside of your own.



down to your birthskin and into immersion,

water resuscitated all of your unjustified guilt.

Bathroom mirrors scrutinized more than just your upper body

You fought

And you lost

Crumpled to pieces at your own reflection

–  not enough strength to pull yourself from the shame

Not enough will you hold your head high

and look you in the face.


You have long made excuses for this repression

Worn it like a crown upon your head

Adorned it with your diamond tears

Deified it

Even given it face

And form

Given it home inside your most sacred places.


But if you will wake

Give yourself some of this love you give to others

You will find an army sitting inside of you

ready to help you extract freedom from any kind of oppression

You will be done fighting

Because you will love

And you will heal.



Your walls will go up again.

And this time you will swear it.

You will swear to keep them standing.

You will swear to protect yourself.

You won’t break like tired wood.

You won’t fall.

Your bridges won’t burn

because there will be none – no crossing to the other side.

No marching against yourself.

You will surrender to yourself.

You will belong to you.

Not to the promises.

Not to the waiting.

Not to the wishing.

Not to the lonely nights,

or the dying lights.

Not to self-destructing habits.

Not to people who aren’t or things that aren’t.

Not to what you’ve lost

or what you will never gain.

You will be yours now.

Yours to guard.

Yours to defend.

Yours to secure.

You will come home, to rebuild.




For A, and the many times you have burnt my body


Like adrenaline pump life. Make us woke.

In just enough time to do foolish things.

Because one-night stands are stories we swear to never repeat

Until our bodies catch feelings and we attempt to burn evidence of it

In several wild sexcapades.



There is something about a person needing several shots of it.

Before sanity scrapes the folly off their eyes.

You’re alone in this bubble and it’s going to burst. Run.

But you can’t.

The last of it hits you.

As if you’re anesthetized and time contains you.

You’re cold.

In a room that feels that like it’s just been torched.

Your stomach turns. And crumples. And kneads

Like the diarrhea it announces when you’re anxious or too nervous.

Only this time there’s less physical awkwardness

And the pain coming is from a place beyond the soul.



On its own it triggers bearable harm.

What makes it insufferable is the thought that we ourselves, might have been guilty of giving it all the venom it needed to destroy us.

Like when I thought I could love you enough for the two of us.

To balance out this rollercoaster relationship.

This, fucking love.



What It Takes To Be a Writer


It is mostly these that creep up on you.

Fears of never making enough sense to keep an audience.

Fears of never making it to the shelves.

Of waking up someday and realizing this thing you have with words is.




It is being broke.

And damned.

And condemned.

To social invisibility, internal confusion, nervous tension, mental strain.

And all the words and phrases used to describe a lunatic proud of her paltry creations.


It is private shame.

Not being able to reach inside your own dreams.

And the damn clock keeps ticking.

And the sun rises and sets.

Every. Other. Day.

And yet nothing changes about when?


It is a slow slow kind of life

In a fast fast moving world

Where nobody sees you,

Hears your shy hellos,

Or bothers to ask about the nonsense you’re writing.

Until you are dead.

And your letters are discovered buried in some old wooden box.

In some ramshackle apartment.


Suddenly you’re a genius.

The whole world knows you.

They talk about you on TV.

You even have a name.

You’re Jack. James. Pablo. Susanne, with two ‘n’s.

Or whatever you want it to be.


You’re no longer the creep that moves in the shadows with a pile of papers.

You’re no longer the creep that lives around the block with a receding hairline or the bad clothes.

Your once forlorn life jumps on fame lane.

Without warning you’re an epitome of true talent

And every one sentence you’ve written is quoted with so much pride.

It is only now you know what it takes to be a writer.

All of your damn fears and all of your damn dreams combined.


A single emotion of fear

You pretend they don’t care

so you can also stop caring.

Have reason to hate.

Reason to shut yourself out.

Reason to be bitter.

Reason to spite.

Reason to have all the reasons

to justify your overthinking

of things.



So full of soul

You’re a lot of sun.

A lot of wind.

A lot of rain.

And a lot of storm.


They’re afraid.

Afraid of your being.

Terrified even.

Of how one person.

Can be so full of.



Emotional Psychosis

For our rogue minds have a mind of their own.

And everything is right in the moments when they are for us.

Like when we won’t let go because we want to be ‘happiness’ for others at all cost,

—without permission,

even if it means a bad relationship.

Because convenience is staple and maybe lives longer than a broken heart.


Life: Conquering It, Living It

Every day we discover parts of ourselves we never thought existed

That beyond the chaos and the suffering

Beyond our fears and our many lacking things

There is a will, more resolute than just conquering life

A promise and hope within us that we desperately must cling to

We have so much strength is it not frightening what we can do with ourselves?


Because love, this morsel, is just not enough

Actually, this was inspired by the #kpodolachallenge. But (of course!) since I didn’t get around to submitting it, I figured maybe I should post it on here.

Because love, this morsel, is just not enough

There’s no such thing as a ‘sort of relationship’

There’s no ‘kind of, maybe, let’s be together’

There’s no doubt, ‘baby, I want you, but I’m not sure’

No trying, ‘okay, let’s see if this will work’


Bad Talk. All you’re giving me is drifting words

Words that have no grip

Words that are limp

I can almost feel their sag

Before their last letter escapes your lips


Words, these same

That hop out of your throat

Without feelings or a care

Of the magnitude of their torture


I watch your tongue curl as your lips deliver the poison of a thing

You want going on between us like I don’t have a say

Like I should take it or leave it

Like it’s the best that will come my way

Like I should thank you for this generosity


I cannot begin to tell you, though, how grateful I am

That you show me love, this, much

That you consider me worthy to receive

This charity you give.


But when it comes to matters of my heart

And how it can be shattered into a thousand pieces

By non-commitments like yours

I swear, I’d rather take the lone way home

Because love, this morsel, is just not enough.



Desires. Heartbreak. Healing.

Find it.

Find your wings

And darling fly.

Fly from this place

That brings you no joy.