You Want Me Like Whiskey

Welp. I guess I’m just emptying out my notebook now.

I’m fine with this.

I went to a writing workshop in October and much of these (including my last post) were the result. I’m not mad about it.

Hope you enjoy.

You want me like whiskey
like a mama
like a piggybank
like Friday after a long week
and I exist to you
it is so thrilling
and I want you
like the crinkles in the corner of your eyes
want to greet the world


An Ode to Noses

Well, it’s been a long time.

The transition to Miami has been a long one, but I’ve gotten some good writing in.

I wrote this one for everyone I’ve ever crushed on hard, from way back when to now.

Here’s a glass to your nose.

It is fleshy, it is cute, it is prominent, it might be bigger than mine
and you hate it for being bigger
but I love it on my lips and between
my tiny-nibbling teeth and
just on my ears as you whisper and the
sound of your breathing. I want you to
fuck me with your nose. I want you
to get it in there with the rest of your
divine self. Your nose is your hallmark,
the statue that ties the room together.
It has its own landscape. It has its own
terrain and dirt from the day
and a mind of its own and
I want it. I want our noses
meeting finally, that intimacy of the
space between us, the guiding line
that is the bridge, that leads me closer to you
and I fall in

A toast to you, my sweet.

NaPoWriMo, Day 21 (late)

Prompt via Brave New Voices.
“My _________ does not give you permission to ________”

Day 21

Attention men:
My blue hair
Does not entitle you to look at me
The way you do
And it does not entitle you to leer
While I’m crossing the street
My jean vest and knee socks
Do not entitle you to devour me
With your eyes
When I keep my earbuds in tightly
And my meanest mug on,
Killer eyebrows raised atop my
Black sunglasses
So that I can roll my eyes without anyone seeing
My appearance does not entitle you
To think about me
My appearance does not entitle you
To my body
My appearance does not entitle you
To my smile
My appearance does not entitle you
To a goddamn thing
My perfect, black and blue hair
Is not up for discussion
My Doc Martens
Are perfect for kicking
My dress choices based on finally seeing sunlight after a dark winter
Is not an invitation
My body is not an object
My face is not an invitation
My height is not a challenge
My weight is not a political statement for you to address
My hair is not up for discussion
And you do not own me

NaPoWriMo, Days 18 (late) and 19

Day 18
“New Prescription”

Staring contest:
Me and you at this bottle of pills.
If the best form of comedy punches up,
consider me Big Pharma
with no one else to hit.
It’s not your fault, little ones.
It’s just chemicals.
“We’re all just walking experiments, baby,”
says the psychiatrist.
Groovy, man.


Day 19

Every month with the moon I growgrowgrow hair,
thick, dark brown, wavy,
and abandon my human clothes and home to run wild
in the jungle that is my city.
I am the werewolf you have come to know and love,
She who howls at the ruins of the oldest steel plant in the city,
she who prowls at the gravesites of the old stockyards.
I feel the blood of the city beneath my paws,
my own heritage pumps in my veins,
the voices of my grandfathers and grandmothers quietly echoing
their beliefs in the promise of the great wheel of the midwest,
the giant gear that kept the country turning,
connecting arm and arm.
I run down the lakefront invisible,
my thick hair flows in the wind.
In the dark,
where the horizon meets itself,
the moon has its own reflection,
sparkling as diamonds on black silk.
I howl.
Every month, at least once,
I become the werewolf She,
always with a protective shield of thick, dark hair,
and I run,
freer than I ever have been as a woman.

NaPoWriMo, Day 16 (late)

Dysphoria Blues in Minor Key

Got the Genders? (Copyright whomever on Twitter)
Get your armor.
Dye your hair an atypical color
And slap on yr fave jean vest.
Make sure it’s adorned with a lot of buttons.
Make sure each ounce of your physical presentation is a representation of every part of you
Shorts with knee socks and muscle tees.
Skip the makeup if you want, but a little eyeliner never killed anyone.
Post your selfies high and mighty,
Let them conquer anyone who sees you and relish in the compliments, or the silence.
Make sure your nails are right,
Your scowl is tight,
Your defenses up,
Your shoulders ready for the inevitable hunching to hide whatever is and isn’t on your chest.
Ignore the sensation of emptiness between your legs.
Try not to cry in public. Try not to cry when you try to get off alone at night. Try not to cry. Try not to cry. Try not to shy away when your partner touches you. Try not to shudder when you see them between your legs.
Get your armor on, oh brave dudelady me.
Remember they can’t take you,
Except when you disappoint your family again with this news,
Except when your partner leaves you,
Except when you get the awkward stares,
And rumors of your sisters disappearing left and right show up on the news.
Get your armor up.
Get your armor up.
Get your damn armor up.
Get your fighting face on.
You wanna live another day?