I’m not dissociating, I’m actually really happy rn
I feel so special.
I want to remember this
moment forever.
I feel so special.
I want to remember this
moment forever.
I am filth.
Not a metaphor, not an exaggeration—
a rotting soul wrapped in skin
that reeks of rebellion.
My hands, stained with
selfish gain and secret lusts.
My tongue, a dagger,
slashing truth for convenience.
I’ve asked to be seen.
I’ve wept, not from guilt or fear—
NO.
From knowing I’m exposed.
Every breath borrowed,
and yet I use it to curse the One
who gave it.
I continue to
masquerade in virtue—
festering behind my teeth,
confessions stuck
in a room of pride,
hate and envy—
sins I’ve rehearsed
until they feel like second nature.
I lie,
then lie about lying.
I withhold mercy,
expecting grace.
I use God’s name
like punctuation,
then dare to ask why
He feels so far away.
Justice pure—
I’m already ashes.
No trial. No plea.
Just the sentencing
of a rebel who knew better.
Eternal torment
isn’t harsh—
it’s fair.
To suffer alone in the darkness
I spent a lifetime choosing.
To be surrounded by flames
that cling to my selfish figure,
as my soul forgets
what light even felt like.
That’s the story.
That’s my story—
if mercy never bled.
If love stayed seated
and let wrath run its course.
That’s the ending
I wrote for myself
with every proud excuse,
every ignored Jiminy Cricket.
However—
My story was changed,
When someone else
stepped into the punishment
like a lamb into slaughter.
Too perfect to comprehend,
too holy to owe me anything.
Yet, He took everything.
The nails.
The mockery.
The weight of every moral corruption
I pretend doesn’t matter.
All of it—absorbed
by a Man who never sinned,
so I could be called blameless.
How dare I grumble
about the imperfections in my life
when He shattered Himself
so my own imperfections wouldn’t
consume me?
How dare I complain
about my thorns,
when He wore a crown of them
just to rescue me
from what I had rightfully earned?
No…
this breath I breathe,
this peace I feel,
this hope I cling to—
it’s borrowed.
And forever,
I acknwledge—
just who paid for it.
CW: death and suicidal ideation mentions
roll with the radio static a mile or more empty
minded,
painted with the smell of cigarette stink¹, hand that cut me off out the window metonymizing, knuckles to nails to embered monotony,
exterior air dousing
for water, for anything
through empty
stations
of ads and sad, sad songs and talk shows²,
and shouldn’t it be illegal for the atmosphere to be this empty?
filled in not with the fuel of sound i need to blot out how bad the beaded
water is, anything is
so hot,
how many people lie the way they do
beneath overpasses and pass over Regions Made Uninhabitable by Global Warning, more at 9:00
¹i can’t make you smell it if you haven’t,
gravel smelling, drandma slaying,
dry smoke to lungy tar like bank interest piling
up the way pennies do
²settle for Pearl Jam but i’d take
a tune that wants to die
down less than the way i do
wings at my window
wont you tell me your worries
with summer scents in the air
so sweet
I hope you find peace and plenty
maybe soon
our colors change
red to blue
remember, when they do
hope is a favorite song
it’s okay to sing along
don’t forget to smile cus’
it’s so bright
outside
Hope is a feathered thing
an iridescent wing
giving colors
that catch the light
Hope is a place to breathe
where it’s safe to drink
the water of life
wings at my window
I hope you find a way
I hope you’re here to stay
sweet hummingbird
If you’re looking to donate to a good cause or help provide a little hope to those who need it, here are some Non-profit / Community orgs engaged with conservation, philanthropy and Humanitarian efforts:
– Humane borders: Fronteras Compasivas –
https://www.humaneborders.org/volunteer-information
Humane Borders, motivated by faith and the universal need for kindness, maintains a system of dozens of water stations in the Sonoran Desert on routes used by migrants making the perilous journey to the United States on foot. Humane Borders was established in the year 2000 in response to reports of a drastic increase in the number of migrant deaths on Arizona’s border with Mexico.
– The Trevor Project
https://www.thetrevorproject.org/volunteer/
Providing 24/7 crisis care for lGBTQ+ youth, as well as advocacy, peer support, research, and public education
– The American Bird Conservancy & Peregrine Fund
https://abcbirds.org/
https://peregrinefund.org/
preventing imminent bird extinctions. Improving millions of acres of habitat with bird-friendly management practices. Advocating for solutions to urgent threats that put birds at risk.
so far summer
is live and learn
lessons
choices
dead ends
hope
opportunities if I’m optimistic
lilies, white
magnolias as well
family, friends
answers
peace, even though
and rest
There’s no respite;
“Are we all ADHD?” my friend asks,
(an innocent joke, really)
but I can’t help but wonder how frag-
mented the modern mind is, like
a bumbling bee addicted to its own honey.
Crack, the mind splits, slurping the sweet drug,
spitting trivial facts that don’t really mean anything—
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire! the screen screams,
and I forget my thoughts.
But I don’t forget. Not really. The neglected self
remembers—the body keeps score, like a sport
live-streamed, eyes glued on the screen,
advertisers begging to be seen.
Pay attention to me, the mind begs, but is drowned
in the sea of colors and noise, of corporations
exploiting human psyche, our vulnerabilities.
(“I must post to stay relevant, I must look beautiful to be accepted…”)
PAY ATTENTION TO ME, the screen demands—
and we listen,
because a quiet mind is too frightening,
the real world too boring.
Comfort is pleasure, we say to ourselves as we rot
on the couch, and wonder
why tech billionaires live in this world,
while we use their tech to escape it.
Part III: One more day of extreme heat advisory!
The air conditioning at its wits’ end— I walk around my tiny house filled with so much art— so many water scenes— rivers, lakes, oceans, ponds, canals.
I stop at my five-year-old self.
Background: the Atlantic Ocean / Middle ground: the shore of Pompano Beach.
Focal point: me, nearly leaning against the frame, wrapped tight in a striped beach towel of blues and greens. My wide brown eyes turned towards the artist, my Oma. My short blonde curls frame a tiny pale face.
Dare I jump in here?
The heat drives me in. I rush past my silent self into salty waters. A quick turn back, I see my younger self’s eyes follow me. I swim out to deeper, cooler blue. Stay a long while.
Back ashore, my five-year-old self is still silent. I touch her tender cheek and leave.
an ekphrastic from Michele on Pompano Beach by Oma. Oil on canvas. 16 x 20.
I don’t want to write a poem today
I don’t have anything to say
Not a thought
Not a word
Nothing
Evening heat glows–
purple canterbury bells
crumple, embers fade
