There was a forest filled with trees and some honeybees

Today I actually looked at you

Not the parts within

Because I’ve always seen how ugly that is

But the thinness of your lips

A small mole that dots the underside of your lower lip

The grayish tan bags hanging fat and loose under your blue eyes

But blue that is somehow muddied

Encircled by lighting bolts of red veins

Probably from all the weed

Your face is hollow but somehow still full

And your face is always cast down

Maybe that’s your internalized shame materializing itself into your physical realm or your lack of appreciation for self because you know how much of a low life you are?

But you are not attractive

And I don’t like you, I actually can’t stand you 

Your hands are rough against my knee

But not calloused

Full of unwanted and unsatisfactory friction

You smell like my mouthwash that you quickly spat out 

Because you thought you were going to kiss me

I hope that mouthwash burnt your tongue because of your assumption

I’m so glad that every time I am near you I bore easily

Because it makes me realize how much I never actually wanted you

Because I actually love myself so fucking much

That I would never subject myself to dangers that are you

The lack of consideration that makes your character 

Your blatant inability to emote and simply care 

I’m in this life with me for as long as she is with me

And that does not and will never include you again

they will tell you to stay 

hold on because it will get better. 

i will tell you the truth of it; 

it may not- may never be better

it may even get worse, as i know it can 

but, you will learn how to hold on 

that suffering is also living 

you may muddle through, never reaching another side 

you will still survive.

you will still wake in the morning, so will the sun 

you will go to bed alongside the moon 

the wind will still blow, the sea still wave 

there will be days it rains, ensuring flowers bloom tomorrow 

you will still survive. 

writers will still write 

actors will still put on plays, maybe one will inspire you

there will be art to be made- even more of it to see 

it may never be better

but even as it worsens, 

the days still come and you still survive,

knowing you can again. 

Fretty chervil is what Hopkins calls
the green entanglement
that seeks to strangle
everything straight
in my lawn or garden.
I just think it’s Kentucky
reclaiming its own.

In winter’s grasp, where silence reigns,
I wander through the cold remains.
A world enshrouded, pale and stark,
each breath a ghost, each step a mark.
Snowflakes fall, like whispered signs,
veiling truths in frosted lies.
Beneath the ice, a world concealed,
where restless spirits are revealed;
they waltz in darkness, a spectral dance,
in winter’s grip, they find their chance.
With every flake that falls like tears,
I face the shadows of my fears.
So here I stand, a girl alone,
in nature’s vice, my heart of stone;
the winter winds, they sing my name,
a haunting lullaby of blame. 

In my dream, I’m back in the classroom,
this time as a visiting author. To get the room quiet,
the teacher demands order, her strategy—shame.
She focuses on a particular student, a boy, who is trying
his earnest to comply; she berates him for his trying.
The rest of the class mimics her, chanting:
Shame! Shame! Shame! And the boy is crushed,
just crushed. Which is when I ask myself,
What is mine to do? I’m just a visitor, after all, but
how can I talk about writing when all I feel is shame—
for the boy, for the children, for the teacher, myself?  

That’s when the tingling starts,
this static, seizing me, charging me,
sizzling through every vein.  

I know what you’re thinking: that my body was falling asleep,
and I was just dreaming, but no, this was real. My body
in that room was real, and there was no choice, not really—
no turning back, no leaving—I knew I would speak,
even if it meant never visiting another classroom again,
I would speak, and I did, into that room resoundingly:  

Where shame lives, nobody learns

and everyone went still
the boy, the children, the teacher, my self
and everyone was lifted.

The fly did its swan dives and pirouettes
All the while bewitching with its little kazoo
And I sat there basted in sweat and hating its guts  

Perhaps because I never had the stick-to-itiveness
To learn a musical instrument
And on the dance floor I’m burdened  

With two left feet, or perhaps because I knew
If I smelled it close it would
Smell like death or I realized  

It would always win a tickle fight.
I found myself clapping for it nonetheless.
I have wasted my life.

When I slow down enough to observe,
I notice inside my head a mood of
frantic activity, as though
there’s never enough time.
But as I look out the window, I see
a world in slow motion.  The tall grasses
at the end of the canal stand in peace,
soaking in the sun,  Spanish moss
hanging from the live oak, drifts
in the breeze.  A gentle motion
in the leaves of my new tree.
Even the birds and turtles seem
to be taking the day off.  Not
a one in sight.

Murder of crows
                    launch from a treetop
Dart as one,
                    mob pursues
Red-tailed hawk ascends higher altitude
Crows circle
                    defend territory
                    tailgate intruder,
Hawk screams kee-eeeee-arr
                    soars higher up,
                    flying away

I removed politics from the narrative
In an attempt at sugar versus vinegar,
all the while shrieking that “art is political”
and best people I know are —
and the worst people I know are —
But depending on the day, it swaps
as pretension claims moral superiority
and simplicity equals blind kindness.
But there’s a nightmare flooding the streets
of Minneapolis and I can’t understand how
that same kindness smiles when ten shots are
fired on an icu nurse who swore an oath
and they create a face for Antifa,
yelling “terror” when their own comrades
are nationalists who want to kill us.
Bile rises as it has countless times and I
feel numbing sensations through my hands.
my body now manufactures lidocaine over adrenaline

I can’t keep anything straight because I’m self medicating with any dopamine I can get my hands on and I’ll have to join a twelve step program but by the time I kick this thing I’m not sure what world will be waiting for me. If me and mine are proved correct, what does it mean for the ones who were wrong, who I love just as much? Is there any coming together when shots have been fired and we’re questioning our humanity together and is there any reality where we’re not all already monsters?