Together

I've got all my books lined up in a row. Hard covered, clean spine, alphabetized. I always have my bed made. The throw blanket at the end has been flattened. I've got the dishes done, and the plants have all been watered. Every antique find has been meticulously placed in a casual way. There is symmetry, balance, and all the right things in all the right places. I've got all these nice artifacts I've spent all this nice money on. If you would look at me you would think this girl has got it all together.

Casualty

If they say words are like knives, mine are like grenades.


The damage is away from me but the syllables fly back like shrapnel. I put up my shied and duck down. The scratches are only superficial, but I've always been a slow healer. Don't believe it? Take a look at my knee.

Aristocracy

I make a prince feel like a pauper, and a pauper feel like a prince.


I'm screaming that I'm the queen, with more than the mirror to convince.

On the Down Low.

Don't you get tired of trying to catch up? Holding your breath to remain subversive? Hunting the cool before it hunts you. Do you know who you really are?

Morrissey and Ian Curtis are taken already.

Subculture.

Subterranean.

Subordinate.



Living life on the down low.

So long.

We were standing back to back waiting for the whistle to be blown. On your mark, get set, go.


Rushing away from each other as fast as we could and sneaking glances over our shoulders. In the race together, but with different finish lines.

We ran for miles. Pounding hearts and beads of sweat rolling off our necks. You weren't wearing the proper shoes because you didn't have them now.  We both saw the end in sight and with steps to go we were pulled back. Retracted like a slingshot.


All this time running away from each other and we had to find out the hard way that this whole time our spines have been attached with a rubber band.

Non-Fiction

I met the devil Saturday evening. He lives in a lovely home in Etobicoke. I dined at his table for dinner. I was well fed and given wine to my heart's content from the women of the house, while he steered the conversations. 

After dinner he read my fortune. Told me I worried too much, and I would be financially  troubled, and that the man in my life didn't see me as a priority. 

He told me that North America was upside down. That men here weren't as strong as they should be with their women, and that he never did the dishes. 

When I felt the vomit rise in my throat, I excused myself. 

The moral of the story, kids? The devil can't tell a fortune worth shit, and patriarchy is thriving in hell.  

Writer's Block.

I told him that he makes me genuinely happy. The kind of happy where my anxiety subsides. The kind of happy where I can rest easy at night. The kind of happy where I'm no longer trying to shape a piece of steel with my bare hands.

He sincerely apologized for this, stating that now I have nothing to write about.