Cover Girls

Women who’ve lived unfortunate lives and hold their breaths under pumped up breasts, as they hide behind that caked on Cover Girl brick wall masks; willing to be broken by some dick more interested in anal sex than her first name…or front teeth. Faster than a jack rabbit to fuck the same mental sickness that sealed itself in a secret kiddy porn slumber party French Kiss–forced down her play dough sex.

Some uninvited lust always piggy backs these girls to third base before she’s even old enough to know what it means to be at bat. Women who hate baseball because it takes too long to pitch a fastball and also because they always get clipped by curveballs when she finally agrees to deep throat that tag-team-double-header.

They just make themselves into trading cards; defended by sickly stats; too cheap for a protective sleeve. Climbing into shoebox, after dirty shoebox…rubbing themselves raw. Chasing the most taboo acts of sexual deviance like their lost childhood innocence…simply for the comfort it brings to be held by the hands that trade her…

…myself included.


Her 14-year-old skin hung tight around my fetal curves, holding all of my innocence in the loss of hers. Not all the crayons in this box are pretty. That newly pubescent body holding me so tight I stretch marked it with the brand of my dwelling. She really loved me like she could never love anybody else; the fruit of the dogged pursuit of a statutory rapist. Let me tell you again, not all the crayons in this box are pretty.

I was ripped from that birth canal with a force I never deserved. I could have lived forever in that young, naïve, child’s frame that allowed a predator to become the only father that I would ever get to have. See, not all the crayons in this box are pretty.

She beat and used me. He spread my legs and abused me. She was all I ever wanted I a friend, because we grew up together; but she thought she knew it all, and he was in and out of prison all of the days of my life. I told you, not all the crayons in this box are pretty.

I only really ever talked to her when she was high. Whoa. Did I say, not all the crayons in this box are pretty? Well, she died of AIDS and he got life, and I lost the only parents I’ll ever have to love with a love that is so unconditional it stings; because I learned early on that you have to love the ugly too…because, not all the crayons in this box are pretty.

He Likes Me Cause….

He likes me ’cause I’m:
Different. Breakable. Needy. Tiny. Forbidden. Smart. High and low class. A good conversation. A challenge. A conquest. Conquering. A conqueror. Sexy. An affirmation of life. Caffeine and sugar. A consolation. A man. A woman. Interested. Interesting. The giver. Accepting. The exception. Non-judgmental. Special. Exciting. Dirty and innocent, but not naïve. Indecent. Wrong and right. A reminder. A secret. A lie. A comfort. Uncomfortable. Someone to care about and for. Imaginary. New. Old. Home. Lost. The good kind of bad. A drug. A drug addict. Love. Loving. Unloved. A leader to follow blindly into a tree, if I justified it well enough. A childless mother. A motherless child. A mirroring monster. A good lay. Sad. Open dancer wide, but virgin tight. A surprise. A lesson. An addiction. A simultaneous reason to live or die, together.

He likes me ’cause he(‘s):
In the dark. Breakable. Breaking. Partially broken. Needy of the same. A drunk. Lonely. Afraid. Lost. Needs love and affirmation. Wants to feel without feeling. A student. A master. Pleasing. Pleased. A conqueror. Unsure of himself. Only believes in my inevitable success. Trusts my truths. Can deny me. Can run away. Can be proud through and or above shame. Glued together. Falling apart. Feels alone. As broken as me. Not tied to me. Can’t hide from me. Doesn’t have to explain to me (but does anyway). Can’t feel too much. Likes to be on edge. Can pretend he doesn’t treat me like an indentured servant. Doesn’t have to love me “like that.” Feels suicidal. Can be a part of my life. Is addicted. Afraid of falling from his knees before me. Can pretend. Has power. Can fuck and run. Feels dirty, too. Definitely scared to death of me…but also brought to life by me.


Eyes rolled behind,

trying to hide,

trying to pretend

that this weight I can’t carry

isn’t his.

Isn’t mine.

Isn’t ours.

I am

glazed over

with the residue of my longing.

The need for a man,

for a dad,

for a anyone

who would just give me the love

that the

California Department of Corrections

attempted to correct,

but only corrupted;

never saved.

Never salvaged.

Never cared to cure.

I am,

on my back

as I

slam into this same wall again

knowing that my

freedoms have

once again

become my vices.


ripped me open with his laughter

and all I could do was lie there,

fully aware that

this time

there was no ignorance that I could

slide into.

No bliss I could

use as crutches to

hold up my smile.

I cried blood.

I bled tears.

I turned my face

and let my god die,

let my savior fade.

I creaked and cracked.

I bent and broke.


And now I

find that the Listerine

won’t wash away

the burn of his lips on mine.

I find that

time will go and flow

and stop and skip

and skip and stop

and reverse, rewind.

Rewind to that day,

that fateful day

when my father blamed me

for the

confusion in his belly,


sickness in his head.

That day when

night broke through

and never left.

The sun

ran away,

hid behind

the black cloudy fun

in my dysfunction.

It ground me into dust,

set me in water and,

let me rust.

Let me cover over

those days that some man

walked into my bed

and fucked with my head.


the body

I was wearing

USED TO belong

to my mom…

But I,

knew all along

that it

wasn’t right,

wasn’t fair,


after all I’d already been through,

supposed to happen to me.

But it did.

And so,

here I am,

four hours away

from the cell he sits in.

The cell that inmate

J17128 sits in

and waits for March 4, 2021

to come

because that is his

earliest acceptable plea for freedom.

The earliest possible day

that he can once again claim

he is clean,

he is reformed,

he doesn’t form

those thoughts

that brought him to try to

rape his 12-year-old child.

That’s the day he can once again say

he has found God,

the righteous path,

taken the holy bath.

Been once again bathed

in the light that shines on every

inmate who thinks that 25

is enough on a 25 to life,

when he,

has had enough of that,

black hole they put him in.

But it’s been

seventeen years and the sun still

has not shone,

the day still has not

broke through in MY life.

And I know that I have

become my own parole board,

but there is

no bed I can lie in and

still feel that I am clean.

No mirror

I can stare into

and not see filth.

There is no ease for me,

no way to say I am done,

I’ve been reformed

and I am

ready to move on

as a productive

American citizen.

But in all honesty,

I can,

only be free

when I am

in between the,

shackles of my memories

and the

pains of my reveries,

my daydreams that

probably look a lot more like


when I,

think I’ve,

found god,

even if he is just a man.

To me,

it’s all the same.

So I’ve taken the key

to the shackles

holding me back.

I put it in a place that

I know I can’t reach,

and I,

keep searching,

keep working

to find the man whose

abuses run right through me;


complete disregard for me

keeps me coming back

hoping that his

dick reaches

deep enough

inside me to,

pull out the key


unlocks MY freedom.

Au Naturale

Lately, when we fuck, I bite through my lip until it feels like its going to bleed after every, “Baby….” I do this so you don’t catch me holding my breath anymore. I do it to stay present, keep the air moving through me, blowing the end of that sentence as far off a cliff as I possibly can. I look at you to make sure your eyes are still closed before I allow the tear to drop as those unspoken words crash on valleys of “better nots.”

“Baby, I love you.” It’s a sentence I won’t speak, a notion I will deny as long as I can to keep you touching me. Buddy Wakefield once said in a TEDxTalk that it takes a long time to make love to someone who hates themselves. But what is it called when you share an affinity for the love of self hatred? I don’t know the answer to that and I know we don’t have a lot of time together; so I wipe the sweat, tears and runny make-up from my face, muzzle my mind, unleash my monster, keep on fucking and wait for the next kiss I earn for keeping my mouth shut.

I close my eyes and let the beast take over, because that’s what you’re here for and I know it. I shut down my humanity and let our demons have their fun. Because we jumped into this, bent at the knees, backs braced for battle- whether you admit it or not. Fucking in quicksand, with our post-traumatic-trigger-happy demons playing chicken from their thrones on our backs. We were mirrors- of monsters that fucked themselves inside out with perverted lusts….tickling the g-spots of our damaged chasms.

For the first time, I met myself in that darkness. I searched my demon; let myself be searched, tied down in total trust and fucked from every orifice with twisted pleasure. I loved you pervertedly from the moment we met, like a long lost identical twin wanting to fuck them self in another person and having no qualms or shame about it. So, what can I say, but thank you? I can see all of me, through you; embrace all of me through you; love all of me through you….even if I can’t yet say it, at least I know. But you’re either in, or you’re out and that’s a lesson I won’t keep being taught again, and again, and again. I’m more creative with my self abuse than that.

For now, I’ll masturbate to fantasies of what it would be like to experience just once knowing love in a place unperverted by the bullshit that made us what we are; if our angels were never forced into demons by the necessity of childhood survival- where we don’t need the twisted sicknesses our fathers screwed into us to be turned on. I’ll touch myself softly this time, to thoughts of a place and time where our darkness is light and I don’t always have to earn each kiss; where validation comes in unsolicited words; where I’m not always next in line behind a curtain….where it doesn’t always have to hurt so fucking bad, just to make it feel good. A place where “I love you” doesn’t have to be choked down self aware held breaths whose exhales are diverted by the pain of bitten lips and “don’t look at me” trails of eyeliner, washed away in tears. A place where “I love you” is not a thought about statement at all, but something more natural- like breathing, something you can inhale as easily as you let it go.