“Live! And have your blooming in the noise of the whirlwind.”

-gwendolyn brooks

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we think it’s a good
thing to be suddenly mad
at everyone,

rage just means
you’re alive.


I spent years
counting the silhouette
lines of my cell
on the wall
and twirling,
perfecting a psychological
curtsy, a shrinking,
a giggle.

why are you so mad?

I am speaking to the bricks.
I repeat myself daily.
getting repeatedly banned
for showing a part of an areola
and a part of a dagger mind,
sly, relentless in her pointy tongue so I
wear a bullseye. car followed me
the other night and the others,
yelling something about my legs
my massage therapist placed
his dick on my hand

being forced to touch a guys dick
while im bent over puking;
that memory always comes back
second, and so does
being fucked without consent,
but why are you so mad?

persistent panic attacks
and the psychosomatic breakdown
that comes with them: messy
stomach, can’t breathe, dizzy etc.
“I am high functioning”
so everyone expects everything from me,
but if I cough a request here comes
the abandonment by friends
when I finally need them.
loneliness, crippling,
daydreaming to feel someone take
my hand.
that interminable door slamming shut
by my men.
the words histrionic
when I finally move to speak.
why are you so emotional?

my dad is dead .

my brother is dead.

my house is falling down.

the pets all got tumors living
there and my mom is losing
her memory. she doesn’t remember
the time we watched the moon
dance and turn brown
or the word for channel.

everyone hates whores.
if I’m not good at sucking dick,
I’m worthless but I cannot practice
there is also the discarding of the
aged maiden, my knees shattered
and no escape but to walk for miles.

but why are you so mad?

my first memory was me
being forced
to try on outfits for some guy 

until  he patted my day bed,
bent me over.
raped me.
if I tell them that story,
they tell me that’s why
you’re so sexual now
as if I have never existed
without the shadow outline
of men surrounding me,
stone and unresponsive
like bars
to a cell. 


you can find me



red and
dripping little
balls of

up your steps
up your hall
up your banister
hovering above your bed.

we call this next section
Sekhmet’s turn

light the fucking candle.

stare at the mirror,
a little past it.

what card do you see?
they ask.
I see the moon.

turn it over.
it’s the moon.
they do this all day long
to prove to me the existence of God.

I have a jar of oil, bayberry, my own spit,
blank check signed, prick from my finger, dash of
rosemary, rose petal from my dad’s
funerary placement (private, just us)

and my menstrual blood
on the mantle.

“I give it all to you.”

(I’ve done this before)

take my blood,
drink it like pomegranate jui ,
get drunk on my rage.”

turn over a card:
just to prove things to you,

I wake up the next morning
bleeding again,
a week early, moon in Leo.
pour a cup full to her.
candle lit.
to the lion’s head,
drink up, love.
it’s pertinent you take it
one bitch at a time.

the first thing you notice about me
is my smile, wide, bright like a star
and  the second thing you notice
is the viper behind me.

the fifth one i call is Sekhmet.

“five of wands”

January 5, 2014 and we
have arrived in
North Philadelphia.
the first thing I notice
isn’t the black plastic bags
lining the blocks or the
Auspicious Coin Laundry Service
sign boxed in blue lights
but the way you don’t
seem to look at
me and the way I seem
to blend in with the
tan upholstery of the
passenger seat
even though I am
wearing a bright red
coughing, asking
if this is where we are
going to live and practicing
K e n s i n g t o n.

mired in the habit
of saying everything I think
aloud without
of tapping a finger on
my thigh. of checking
time, twisting a plastic
straw in my hand and

something building
in my chest;
emergent waves
pounding at the
sternum like
irate knocks
when they want to
be sobs then


“what do you do when something loves
you? do you love it back?

I’m volatile.”

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