Hand in unlovable hand

“I’m sorry I used you again,”
I whisper
letting the edge of the blade
plant shy kisses
down your neck
then I’ll say
“I’ll be gentle this time”
when we both know

the echo
following me trough the woods
screaming the same words
over and over
maybe I still love you!
maybe I still love you!
maybe I still

the voice that encourages me to hit harder
to cut faster
screaming into the sheets
(and now, in building ecstasy)
I yield

because you’re unlovable
statue of glass and ink
paper heart
it’s where I

to get away from you
until I fall off the edge
Then you’ll take my hand
guide it to the beginning
and whisper
“try again”



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About “Miscarriage”

I was very surprised to see the amount of response I got when I posted the latest of my literary ramblings on Sudden Denouement collective.

Yes, I am part of a collective now. I’m honestly not sure how this happened but it’s a huge deal for me to be recognized by other writers. I’m honored beyond words.
You can check out my post here: https://suddendenouement.com/2016/12/12/miscarriage/
And check out the other works as well. All the writers are insanely talented.

After everything this post brought me I feel like saying a few words about its origins.

I’m working on a novel. And it’s hard. Writing is not always a rose garden, as I’m sure you know. But this is beyond anything I ever experienced. It’s my journey. My odyssey. It’s beautiful, but damn if it doesn’t hurt like hell too!

My continuous self-doubt is slowing my progress. Some people find this weird. Yeah, I’ve gotten this far. Yeah, I work hard and yeah, I’m determined. And hell, the publisher bloody well called me, expressing his interest in what I’m writing.
So what’s the fucking problem?
(Sorry for the bad language.)

Well after all of this, I still don’t believe I’m good. Quite the opposite. I think I’m bloody worthless. I don’t believe in myself. I don’t believe in anything I accomplish. No matter how hard I work it’s never enough, I keep on judging myself because I could have done better. I’ve worked myself to the point of exhaustion, mentally and physically. I was on the breaking point.

That’s when I wrote Miscarriage.
Hastily, boldly, and pouring my anger and disappointment into each word. If you didn’t figure it out already, the poem is about my fear of failure. The deformed fetus represents trying to create something and realize you’ll never make it.
“Stay dead” is what a part of me wished right then. For the dream to stay dead and not come back to haunt me again. In that moment I wrote it I felt like the idea of writing my novel had forced itself into me, and wasn’t something I had decided for myself.
Maybe not even something I truly wanted.

Of course I realize it isn’t true. I do want it. And taking this journey was my conscious decision, no one else’s.

So what am I going to do now? Well, I’ll pick up my writing where I left off. Greet my anxiety and self-doubt as the old, well known friend it is and continue despite it. I’m not done here.



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Fetus in Fetu

I was too young when I made you
Skinny limbs and glass-like eyes
Staring into the bright future
But with each passing year the world grew smaller
around me
Now I realize you don’t fit
Your skin scraping against mine
If I try to pull you trough the eye of time
your stitches break, arms and legs flinging off in various directions
And what do I get,
a bleeding piece of your abdomen
The remnants of a childhood dream
to tuck in under my pillow
at night

This is kind of a sequel to my last piece: “Miscarriage”.

[Fetus in fetu (or foetus in foetu)] is a developmental abnormality in which a mass of tissue resembling a fetus forms inside the body of the host.


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It’s all so much easier now
As blood is flowing down my thighs, I lean back on the hospital bed
The memory of you forcing your way inside me
Fading with the pain
I don’t care, I want everything out of me,
the twitching
the turning
the hope of a new life
bleeds out on the floor
I thought I could make something beautiful
out of my shame
tame my monster
into something people could look at
and appreciate
And I would forget
that I never wanted you in the first place
But it’s easier
being empty
filled with nothing
To give up half way there
Rather than experience the horror of birth
The possibility of you tearing me apart
From the inside
“Stay dead”, I whisper at the sweet nothing
deformed little fetus lying limp on the floor
between my feet
before I wipe away the blood
and exit trough the emergency door



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“Don’t worry. The vein isn’t cut,” you say and I
– no! Don’t touch me
“It’s not the problem”
I pull my fingers trough the trail of blood.
You are impure for sure,
but everyone, even the filthiest sinner is clean at the core,
inside, where it flows, I can smell it now, your innocent wanting, the growing need makes my stomach rumble
and I’m getting hungry I’m getting hungry I’m getting hungry
I need to breathe, need to restrain myself
I let my knees cave in and it’s better to fall, yes, better not to feel.
But of course, you catch me and your bony fingers dig into my hip
and trough your skin I can feel the life flowing, throbbing with fear
Your veins are shivering on my hipbone and my predator muscles are tensing
God I’m hungry I’m hungry I’m hungry I’m hungry
Your wrist is resting on my cheek a droplet of blood staining my lips and
suddenly no price is too great
I dig trough your skin feeling every wrong you’ve done sting, an electric pulse on my tongue
a betrayal,
and every cigarette you’ve breathed in and the virgin kisses you’ve stolen
The tears and heartbreaks and sweat and cries at the first thrust,
and beneath all that you’re pure,
it’s where your weakness lies.
You still dream of becoming beautiful one day
and full and rosy cheeked and hope that maybe someone like I will whisper your name
but all I do is devour and as I’m sating my appetite your eyes fade to grey
You’re pale now almost blue
And so much more like the creature you imagined
waited for you at the end of the tunnel but the light has gone out
the taste is fading and all that’s left is the sour
an empty vessel.


Ok look… I don’t usually write eroticism… but when I do there’s a lot of blood. 


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What to do with all this love drink it swallow it then vomit it up but don’t stain the carpet
What to do with all this pain cough it up so you can drink it again
All I ever learned was how to defend myself from others but not how to let go
I can’t hold it, I can’t hold it
No. Eat. Swallow. Tuck in my tears behind my eyelids, never let go
I smile, lipstick and lies and intestines gushing out from my mouth
You think I’m pretty, I’m a fucking monster
I’ll eat you, I’ll eat them, I’ll devour you all
I’m all oozing wounds and ichor inside
Perverse satisfaction and self disgust and I’ll love you,
oh I will,
not as a human but as an abyss
I will never let go and
I’ll keep you safe and I’ll let you drink me
and what to do with all this wanting
when love grows too bold it will turn into destruction
and am I suffering well, am I holy now
with my teeth dripping and skin open
am I holy now?


Oh, my. I was planning to write something beautiful then this just came out. I guess it’s pretty legit since I am feeling truly disgusted with myself right now.


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A study in fear

Eight years old, I was afraid of monsters
living on the inside of my eyelids
Flashing before me as I blink
Glaring back from the mirror
Crawling out of my wardrobe
I kept mumbling spells and rhymes
as to ward them off
Couldn’t take my eyes off my reflection
Had to smile back at them
So they wouldn’t hurt me

Ten year old, I cried myself to sleep each night
My body started growing teeth from the inside
Scratching at my skin
An omen of something bad to come

Twelve years old, I begun to realize
The horrible dread of being
The lonely journey ahead of me
I learned of the three sacred rules
1. No one could protect me.
2. I could protect no one.
3. No matter what we did death would always be a step ahead of us.
I dreamed of fires that tore down houses we built
Of bones cracking and flesh splitting
I found myself staring into the mirrors,
the dark corners of my room
hoping that the monsters would come back
and give my fear a face

By the time I turned fourteen,
the world had lost its virginity
By rape
Nowhere to hide
No way to heal
I spent days alone in my room
watching as the red flew from my veins
I examined every inch of my skin
Finding out where things hurt the most
My life ahead of me?
I laughed
No promise of a bright future was worth this fear

Sixteen years, and my body had become a stranger
I made an art out of hurting it
Tearing myself down
so you could live
and calling it love

Six years later,
and I still don’t know how to exist properly
without that feeling of being pulled somewhere else
Behind the mirror
Into the dark places
I was too scared to look at
as a child

I know, this piece is a mess. Forgive me. I felt like posting something since I haven’t been active in a month.


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