i am a shit writer. i am maggots sucking at shit, my body trudging through shit, made of shit, i am shitting back out the shit, only to just ingest it again. i am a shit writer.
there are candles in bed with me, and this is a lifestyle choice.
photos ive taken recently/shared on instagram
As I age, an avoidance of it
I’m interested in transitioning to male, but to say so is flippant
You are not a real New Yorker until youve menstruated through your leggings.
You are not a Real Woman until youve washed the insides of a chicken.
Turns ons include: watching
you roll a cigarette,
tonguing the paper,
the drippy moss smell of the subway,
news stories about rape,
stories about child rape.
“come home, I miss you feel depressed and I am bored.”
What is the string along which everything is running?
I suffer from extreme mood swings; I was born in the sea.
not categorized to each other as daughter,wife, slut,
but bound by these.
withhold life; death.
“cell phone app to align your chakras”
Commune digitally with the earth dead
I felt a great moment of calm, alone in the bathroom.
my cat has ever-changing rules around touching his butt;
which are complicated
i want to lay in the street
and see who comes to fuck me
my husband mindlessly lectures me about our ‘bad’ cat.
How next time he will choose a
pet based on temperament not looks;
identified with cat
because im a slut just doesnt mean im easy
rainy bedroom window shot
(weird angle: looking through clear cube nightstand with floating red cube inside.)