Addicted to Sacrifice


If I could just burn another
bit from the tip
I know I’d make it through.

It’s not a willing exchange,
the spiral,
advantage given, advantage given
we’re desperate
blind, gathering our things
but this funhouse is sealed
and we’re lost for good.

Another one to “Freedom”

Honey, baby, sweetie pie
Cherry, apple, key lime,
Do you know just why
I’m born to die?

Honey, baby, sweetie pie
Darling, rodent in the pigsty
I’ll sit in my cell
And wait to fry

Honey, baby, sweetie pie
I ‘ll help with the child
I’ll keep up the lie
Locked in the bathroom
Daddy’s getting high

Father, Daddy, love of mine
You know I’ve done my best
You know I’ve tried
But it’s time to close the door
To pave over the graves
And build the floor
To say no to the abuse
To forget the pointed muse
You left us before age two
Reproving you
Beating me
I’m glad you’re through
And I can be free


You and me like
Broken heroine needles and poetry

Mother likes it. Published. Sold to the one generous man living on the corner. He knows better than anyone what it’s like to be alone. Unnappreciated. He buys the poetry no one else does
because he knows,
Trying to make some money and the writing may never cut it. It’s time for prostitution, for masturbation, for anything I can do for the few extra dollars on the street side. All I do is walk, write, and read and I love it. I’d walk more if I wasn’t stuck in this form. My feet blister after only several hours of walks a day. It’s alright, but I wish they would turn to calluses. I have a whole world to explore and I don’t have time to wait for my feet (tootsies) to catch up. So fucking tired.