Nine Holes
What Happened to Love?
Heart decay has left a bad taste in my mouth
That I can’t seem to spit up.
The acridity of acid reflux pulses in my throat— doubled over at the base,
puking down the deep, empty well that leads to my guts.
My organs have holes in them.
My organs have holes.

My tongue is grating against the roof of my
(mechanical mouth),
whose doors open and close.
But no words come out.
What is heard:
the very soft sound of stiff skin
Grazing against itself, as if
My lips have never once met the kiss of water.
My teeth creep across the lips’ surface with a careful, inward scrape.
I am swallowing myself.
I am swallowing myself whole.

My brain is soggy and feverish, gripped with fervor, though wilting.
(Fervor that floods my soul, but refuses to even drip from my mouth.)
words of premature rot
(let’s say: bullshit)
ooze from between
this dry orifice, a slime
that builds up on my lips.
It dries and cracks and I peel it off and put it back into my mouth and that’sjusthowitis.

My Spongy Brain:
When I take a bite of this wet, spiraling thing,
will I taste Neglect? Will it crumble
at the touch of my tongue?
If I remove it, wring it out, roll it with a rolling pin,
And put it back in its oven—
Will it it bake or burn or melt?
Will another bite char my gums? Shatter my teeth? Burn the pink flesh even pinker?
Where will it go when I’ve swallowed it and my organs aren’t there to catch it?
Will I be just a head? A head with a dehydrated tongue? A head rolling
and rolling
and rolling and rolling
just because it is a head?
A head with seven holes and one million lives?

Or do we prefer the Vagina that moans with lies?
I’m a pair of legs runningrunning
r u n n i n g
Am I The Woman’s Pride
I’ll put my fist in my mouth if you put yours in my pee-you-ess-ess-why.
I’ll bite my lips if you bite hers.
I won’t say one goddamn word.

I’ll lay in this bed all day.
For you, I Will Let My Bones Deteriorate.
My brain is seeping out of my ears.
A Puddle on The Pillow.
Quick! Before it soaks up! Put it to use!
Wipe the puddle onto yourself;
fuck me until these bones break into shards that will shred my meaty insides.

me open—a single vertical line right down the center.
Take any limb you wish;
Harvest any organ you like,
just please leave the

With your sweaty body curved over mine,
Reach your hand in, that’s right!
Remove the heart.
There it is, six inches from my face.
It looks so pretty when it pulses in your palm.
So pretty I could eat it, but never know the taste.
As you squeeze your fingers around it,
It cries blood and drips into my eyes.
(I am a hole, stripped of what once made me whole.)
Please, sweetheart, keep it.

I’m just a head
and a pair of legs, anyway.

Selling sights and losing minds.
Girls with tight bodies and
Boys with canines. 
Flesh is but a commodity. 
Raw, manufactured goods. 
Body parts, what can be sold?
What price is there to pay
For brokenness and sensuality divulged?
Remember: if you rip a body limb-from-limb,
The sex stuff remains.


"Spitting image
of her mother!" "Apple
fall far from the
They call me
a rotten apple—
But people often spit
before they see.


Dissect my frozen body.
My guts are chunks of solid, cold meat.
Ice cubes that plop onto the winter water’s surface.
Some shatter, some crack, some sink.
I try to gather them into my arms.
In vain, of course.
I can only watch those bits and pieces
Fall into the opaque nothingness.
I can also scrape up what remains
And chuck it back inside.
[See if I can survive]
If I’m lucky, I’ll have a chance to bite the frost
Before it bites me.

Vicious Plague, Almost Grave
17. She screams, yet whispers––a red moan like death.
16. Her naked shadow (a black concoction)
15. Cradles but a thousand frantic dreams.
14. Hysteria is housed in her heart.
13. Incoherent muscles. Depleted strength.
12. Questionable structure. Of sound it is mute.
11. White: Borrowed. Red: Expelled.
10. The milky insides of her thighs are unforgiving. 
9. Glops of body fluids seep from her Woman Hole. 
8. Various forms of premature life cling to the milkiness. 
7. Her cheeks, too, are equally as unforgiving. 
6. The wet puckers from her eyes. 
5. It molds to the curves of her face. 
4. She knocks on her hip bones like doors. 
3. When they creak open, all that will be there is 
2. Murmuring fallopian tubes. A solemn cervix. 
1. Grief-stricken estrogen. A hollow womb.

I had a dream that I shot you
In the face—point blank.
And when I saw that grimey, opened flesh,
All I could see was the blood
That I emulate.
The DNA, that genetic code.
A forced bond. Barbaric roots.
In theory, I cried.
In theory.

I am slithering into myself.
Something of a listless worm,
Writhing and shriveled
Into some sort
Of fetal position.
If I could crawl back into the womb,
I would.
Live in semi-existence.
Solitude and a feeding tube.
I couldn’t be carried forever, though;
Could I? (Could I?)
Mommy, mommy.
Inside your belly, I was a simple idea
To fawn over.
Outside, I am held captive
To expected (mandated)
You didn’t birth a child to love;
You birthed a child to love you
You dressed me up
In outfits that matched yours.
You toted me around—an accessory.
Your Mini-Me.
A babydoll, a plaything.
All fun and games until
Your toy gets a mind of its own.
You will do all you can
To be my puppeteer.
Use empty promises
To cajole me into
Worshipping you.
You needed to be
My religion,god,idol,world.
My everything.
You needed unconditional devotion.
Perpetual infatuation.
You: the hourglass.
Me: some sand.
I am shivering down the funnel,
Hoping to outgrow your constricting figure,
But you refuse to crack.
I wonder if it’s because
Made of
Even still, your tongue snaps at me
Like glass.

I am your limbs, I am
Your extremities. You
May be the one who
Touched me, but it is
My hand by which I am held.
You linger beneath my skin, crawling.

We are separate, but
You splice us together.
Two bodies, one being.
I am your reflection, and
You are mine.
No beginning, no end.
(When will it end?)
You give me a sickening itch,
I can feel it—my skin—
It’s about to rip.
From the inside.
From the inside.
I do not feel safe inside it.
(Even with all its layers.)
I cannot scratch you out;
I guess I will just shed you in 7 years.


In the privacy of my soggy brain, I try to
Wring out thoughts
And the feelings that stem from them. Down my spine and into my fingers.
An anticipated misery.
A circular, self-appointed jive.
How can I be late if I never leave?

When my brain finally dries up, shrivels, cracks, crumbles, 
I will sift through the remains.
As if this physical intimacy with my headquarters will divulge its secrets.
I wouldn’t open up after being holed up
My whole life, either.