Your world was pulled out from under you.
Died in a car accident off the “K” Street overpass.
What a shame that a boy had to die and you still don’t realize what it is that you do that hurts us into hatred.
We are not the reincarnation of those kids who died.
We are not your second chance to fuck it up.
I am not my mother.
You were not the womb that hugged my fetus for nine months-
That 14-year-old stomach intense apologizing for the sickly love that made me…
The sickly love that would break me.
You were spiteful in your fostering grandparenthood,
Bathing my youth in ice cubes,
Then drying me off in dollar bills…so that your hands would never have to touch me…
And every time I shivered, I got slapped with a bill screaming double time,
With interest, for the lack of gratitude that I never fail to provide.
I owe you this disease back:
A viral reconstruction of the cum shot you made me swallow,
Before my life was flipped around,
Spread open wide, and gang banged by the biggest tragic shafts;
After you became the actress-
The type-cast-two-faced evil villain…
Basking in your delusional illusions-
The practice made perfect expert at impromptu,
Believing your own reinvented memories;
Crying genuine Visine tears.
I owe you all the ill-ass-backwards empathy you gave me as a child,
The lollipop pillow pacifier, double dipped in anthrax:
My sweetened slow death suffocation that I lived in like a hospice-
Or my mothers overcrowded casket, with a straw…
Your social high society pity plan to murder me with the suicide that Dr. Karma prescribed that pain you claimed, even though it came before you;
The unnecessary pawn shop pink slip that can only be paid back in abuses.
I owe you back all your relentlessness, for all the love you kept yourself from feeling.
I owe you reciprocated hatred for every time you looked at me, calling me by my mothers name, still believing I was her.
For every time you dangled foster care in my young, lonely and starved face-
Like a warm meal, teasing me with the threat of a way out that you would never let me take.
I owe you an about face for every time I should have turned away from your fist, from your anger, from your spite…from the unhappiness you bred and took out on me when we all became exhausted from our collective karmic concussions.
We were so wrapped up in each other that we allowed ourselves to be laid to rest collectively; cramped together like sardines inside this box of blame…
Leaving only enough room for you to shake a proverbial finger at me after I flip you my middle payments-
Two for the price of one…a clearance rack sale that saves me the breath of having to speak “fuck you.”
Fuck you for every thought that you let pass through your head that said I would never amount to anything,
For every time you said you’d never help,
Two more for every time you help out your hand two inches short of helping me…so that nobody would know that you: were the bad guy.
But, what goes around, comes back around again,
And one day you’ll find that the hand you held-
Was actually holding yours.
And I’m sure you’ll find that
Will always return to give you back all the “good times” you sold your life for.
And when you’re old and lonely and more banged up than my Pa’s screen door…
You’ll know what it feels like to freeze for reparation
And starve for love,
And live, like dead.
Falling apart as you’re breaking from from the cracks inside your wrinkled script,
You’ll be a mosaic in reverse
When I water down my cut off my Scotch Tape reaches that keep your act together
And rip the audience away.
Someday you’ll know what I felt like as a child-
Living down antediluvian confusions;
Apologizing for faults that were not mine.
And even worse yet,
Someday you’ll know how incredibly deep the breathing bleeds inside your lungs,
And the insane sting of sacrificial splinters that numb your fingers
When you’re scratching against the cheap wooden casket lid,
When you’re still alive, with a heart, suffocating in a grave-
Screaming dog pound puppy hope, unable to articulate in words,
The plea I’ve plead, to resurrect me from the grave that my childhood was tied inside by the ropes of your nightmares.
Because the heart of that child has scratched through that buried box,
Apologized for crimes that someone else committed
And solicited the acceptance of so many dolled out abuses-
Just to be of use.


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.