i tried to make something but my creative womb is barren.
i hope one day you'll understand the broken pieces i'm made of can't be put together.
the gaps will gape.
i am made up of as many empty spaces as i am little parts.
i am whole but i am not together.
i am dressed in the hologram of a happy girl.
you will know me by the sawdust that floats in the light shining through me.
the triangle rays that score through the cracks in my back then out between the bones in my chest.
you will not see the light in me.
i have nothing to hold it in.

in the question of who girl you want in your bed
who loves you stronger
who loves the hardest
the girl awake
the other sleeps
dont forget who loved you first
loved you next
loved you last
this girl

whose dog barks louder
whose scream stings deepedst

when she lies beneath you
shes so below shes unseen

im going to open you up to taste the fruit inside
weather alert

To logically determine what is making me so sad and to try to eradicate the problems so I can fucking live my life without wishing to be euthanized.


reasons why I'm unhappy:

- i'm 15 pounds heavier than I am okay with.

- the only thing i've ever loved was put down while i was away for work.

- i'm head over heels for a boy who is entirely unavailable, with no chance of becoming anything but.

I went two whole days without texting you and I went weak tonight after one drink. And nothing came of our conversation. At least I have nothing left in me to make me think it's okay to text you again.

no more calling like a crow for a boy; for a body in the garden.

I'm running out of boy options alarmingly fast.
A desperate girl makes desperate attempts and comes to find there is nothing sweet about desperation.
Its time to stop trying to be cool. To stop being funny.
Im not going to care. Not past tonight.

This is my letter to myself that everything you do in that moment is the right thing to do.
There is never the wrong thing to say.
Never regret anything you put forth.
Because at that time you knew that bit of honesty was what you needed to share.
And though it might not have been received how you thought, you are never wrong when you put forth the truth.

Investigate but don't invest.

woops I thought this was going to be something then it wasn't.
ha. surprise surprise.
I must not love you truly because in the time you've been gone I've been excited for two other boys entirely.
You've only been gone two days.

I can feel the muscles in my face twitch as I write this. My reflection is one of disgust.
I am disgusted with myself.
Because I am destined for greatness. And greatness is not achieved by lying on the floor being broken.

Greatness is achieved by those who bleed themselves dry chasing it down. Tomorrow I start the chase again.

I remember being happy like never before in Providence. I'm trying to bring that back to me.
It starts with slaying my vices.
It starts with no more boy chasing.
No more waiting for texts or messages or smiles or flirty glances.
It starts with no more drinking alone.
It starts with not getting so fucking excited over every little thing a boy does to show some ounce of affection.
Fuck all of you and your ounces.
I need gallons of love and if you won't give it, you won't get a drop out of me.

No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world.

what kind of man loves like this.

bitter to the deep end of my chest
because my mother's milk is not as sweet
then find i could not feed you from my breast
a mouth too full to suckle this new teet

the smallest hand to hold inside the crib
the softest home to find in this girl's lap
a starving boy will fast forget the bib
then try to scrape away his cradle cap

with silver shears too sharp to cut the cord
before this stillborn heaves its final breath
a door for us to leave the labour ward
would then become our sudden infant death

by midnight tonight.

I stitched my heart together just in time to rip it apart again.

How many times in a season can a heart possibly break?

I'm thinking back and wishing I never spent so much time with you.

I wish we never climbed that hill and watched the sun rise.

I wish I never held your hand in the middle of camp, with everyone around us and having no cares.

I wish I never stared at the stars with you for hours that last night.

I wish you never asked me to bed that night. I almost went to my own. I said good night and hugged you for what I thought would be the last time. Then you asked me to your bed and I swayed.

I wish you never sent me those words.

"i'll pick you up."

No wonder I have feelings now. Fuck.

But I am proud of myself today.

Because I made an adult decision.

I am not going to continue this with you.

There is no way this could end well on the path it's going.

I need to cut this cord.

I need to end this hurt.

I hope I don't see you before I go.

I hope I don't have to tell you this is over. 

I hope you just know.

Because if you try to keep this going, I don't know how strong I will be.

As much as I stare at my phone with wide-eyed anticipation when I hear it buzz, I hope you don't text. 

This is the last night I read your messages of love.

This is the last night I think of our bodies together. 

This is not love.

This is not the love I'm meant for.

This is the last time I make this mistake.

I am above you and in you. My ecstasy is in yours. My joy is to see your joy.

a broken girl in pieces approaches an open door.


If all you do is give your love to people who don't want it, how are you left?

Does your love just come back to be passed on to the next? Or do you become emptier with each loss and with less to give as time passes?

Once I felt I had a lot of love to give. And no one I gave it to wanted it.
But I always had it, waiting to be handed over.

Now that it's never been returned I fear I truly have nothing left to barter with.
I've lost on every bet.

I can't believe this is happening again.
One day I will learn to stop giving my love to people who give their love to someone else.
This is the last time.
The last fucking time.
This will not work out.
It never ever does.
This will not be different.

I really miss being happy.
I miss having all my pieces.

I lost my bag with my wallet, my keys, my rubiks cube, my tools and my earplugs at the last festival. I'm almost certain it was stolen. And all I could think of was how honestly I deserved it.

I deserve all of this.
I deserve every ounce of pain in my glass.
I have deserved every time my heart was broken into so many pieces that I couldn't find them all.
And once I picked up my broken parts, I'd walk into another man who would help me put them half together before he smashed them out of my hands.

Now I'm so fucking broken that I don't see the point in trying to put anything together.
This is the last time I try.
All that love I thought I had to give is going away.
I'm burying it deep.
Because everytime I share it, it hurts.
And I am done with hurt.

you won't see me fall apart.

the tallest boy is welcomed into the circle
he's moved to the center
then fed the ripest fruit.

the saddest girl becomes the offering
to sacrifice, to satisfy
to replenish this sanctuary of our strife.

and in this hollow there is what is destined
a girl never fed
a boy never starved.



I know you said no expectations. But think back to what you said and what you did.
You treated me as if you liked me. Your actions did not reflect your words.
And you will believe you are innocent and I am wrong and insane.
It is you who is insane.
You shook your head no while saying yes.
And now you're lost wondering how you could set yourself up for a strike and hit none of the pins.
You know what yes, I do hate you.
I didn't even like you when we first touched, I just wanted to feel a body.
You told me not to fall for you and in saying so, I did.
I told you I wanted to leave. I didnt want to cuddle.
You made me stay.
You made me stay so you could break me.
So yes, I hate you for it.
Now you're happy and you don't like me, and it's fine because only sad boys like me.
I get it now, I fucking get it and I'll leave you be forever.
And I don't want to be your fucking friend.
You still need to learn to take responsibility for the things you say and do.
Your defense is trite and absolves you of nothing.

how'd i ever get so lost

It's been so long since I've written here I kind of forgot its existence.
The reason is I can't write when I'm happy.
And I've been happy.

Pure, unadulterated happiness for the past two months.
People often tell me what an awesome life I have, how impressed they are with what I've achieved.
I get a lot of thanks for the amount of work I put into things.

These comments stem from an external understanding of my existence. There are some dark truths of how I got to where I am and how I am still here, doing all this.

When people tell me what an awesome life I have, I feel the need to share how my life isn't so honourable.  How busying my mind on all these levels is what saved me. How close I've been to ending my life because it was so stagnant that suicide barely would have made a difference.

When people say thanks to me for putting hours of labour into productions, I want to tell them it's not even for them but for me. The work I put into things has only ever been for my own benefit. It's been to keep my alive. I am Newton's first law. To rest means certain death. If I'm busy, I'm alive.

Most upperclassmen in art schools take three to four because studio courses are typically five hours each. Also, they usually take two or three studios and others being humanities, like art history and such. I took five classes this semester. I took four studios and a screenwriting class. Which I didn't realize was insane until the last week in the semester when I had four final crits and everyone was like 'oh I have one/two. You're insane."

I handed in every assignment on time. I got good remarks on my work. In the midst of the chaos of five courses at probably the best art school in North America, I performed my first trapeze act in a show that I also designed and teched the lights and audio for.

My classes ended last week. The aerial studio I practice in has been closed the past week as well.
And I feel unbelievably broken without these things taking up my time. This weekend I hardly did a thing. It's alarming how inexplicably sad I get when I don't have things forcing me out of bed. I've come to a resting position and it takes more than I could ever imagine to get myself out of it. Even when I know that staying like this could kill me. I'm learning that I am chock full of addictive behaviours that are not being resolved. My addiction to work, when I am not at work, converts to other forms. Equally as addicted to labour as to sex, when neither are sated I resort to sugar. And I gain and lose the same five, ten, fifteen pounds whether I'm happy and busy in life or not.

I am sick but it is my sickness that is me. To lose one habit might lose them all. But one habit keeps me alive while one only keeps me glued to one spot. I need to make all of my addiction for one thing and perhaps then this pure happiness can last.

reasons why i hate my vagina:


if i don't piss immediately after sex there is a 90% chance i will be in severe pain for two days after, thanks to urinary tract infection.

guys i'm not really into will think i'm tight and the guys i really like will not get the same experience.

the most painful thing i've ever had done to me was a procedure to keep me from making lives.

i had to choose between most painful thing ever done to me or years of pills, shots or other inserted devices.

my ideas don't count in a room full of men.

i'm often late for things because i sometimes won't get out of bed until i've had four orgasms.

i'm less useful at work where physical strength is required.

i make a lot of bad decisions.

i will never know how another person feels from the inside.

in the most unsuspecting times and places, i will become painfully aware of how bad i need to fuck something.

guys can't make me come.

i have to work twice as hard to be recognized in my place of work.

end up in richest poverty.

I'm starting to feel the nature of my addiction shift to another dimension.
I'm starting to feel like I might not be a sex addict.
It might just be much worse.


Another weekend full of bad decisions. Nothing new.
Except when I came home this time, I felt very honestly
that I could be
seriously mentally ill.

The idea of crying came to mind but I needed to go out and try to live my life.
I went to a cadaver lab today in drawing class.
Standing in a room surrounded by shelves of lifeless bodies, I was frozen.
On a table in a fluorescent lit room, a man lifts a sheet and a corpse lays rigid and flayed.
The man lifts the arm aggressively and we gasp.
I sit and draw the back of the thigh and marvel at the tendons stringed behind the knee.
In another room, the man opens another bag and a pile of organs and flesh are brought to sight.
He shows us the tongue, not inside a mouth but out in the air.
While he's shifting the surrounding body to show us the mouth, I notice his thumb pressing into an eye.

Another body he shows us is filleted symmetrically at the chest. He pulls out a detached heart and sticks his finger in the hole. He shows us a gallbladder. He closes the muscles and then the skin of the chest before we move on.

It was in his imprudent handling of the bodies that I came to realize again that I shouldn't worry so much about what people think of me. If I put my life on the scale of all history, for all intents and purposes, I'll be dead soon.

don't go; tell me that the lights will change.

I learned this puzzle long before I ever learned the touch of a man.
The first mystery I solved with my hands.

At sixteen the solving was writ in my bones.
Here it lives on between the tissue of my fingers.
A metacarpal memory of every edge and face.
An oracle foretells a picture of a coloured cube
with all its sides succinct.

Amnesic when I think of you, of you, of you and you.
While the memory of this pattern transcends.
Every grope grab throttle and squeeze.
I read it in a book.
A phalanx never forgets and the answer is always here.
Our memories are not the same.
All the times I left and have been left and will leave again are gone and will go.
And this cube will see it's solved state ad infinitum while I work on the solution to you.

But a man is not a six sided shape.
And every one a new sequence of turns and slides to solve.
A button, a belt, a zipper.
left turn on the back face
ouch he says.
down turn on the front
and he moans.

An abscence of an answer. A means to an end.
I peel off the stickers and put them back on the right way.
I'm a cheater where it counts the most.
Everywhere.

wine & dine

No brass knocker to know.

Through a crack 

in the glass 

A thread wide gap 

to pass

I came into your house.

No bars on your windows

No locks on your doors

Try bridle my cogent approach

But you will not 

keep me

out.

you give me a feeling.

Because in one hour it will be Valentine's day, I am once again in a cycle of thought called "why am I always single?" It annoys me to think about but I can't leave the cycle until I write it out loud. Sorry if you're reading, this will probably annoy you too. But to decide if I have a problem or not, it must be written.

I verily, truly, honestly and deeply believe that in some form I have an addiction to sex.

Growing up I wanted a boyfriend.

In junior high I liked a boy. He wanted my best friend instead. 

This is the time a friend told me to stop looking for a boyfriend, and just let it happen.

So I did.

In high school I liked a boy. He wanted another girl instead.

I was already halfway through a process of becoming someone who would never have a thought about wanting a boyfriend. I never wanted him as a boyfriend. But I liked the way he looked and felt and the way he looked at me.

He was not my first love, but he was the first.

I left the city. My evolution into a hard hearted girl edged onward.

Within the past two years I had completed my transformation into an ascetic of sorts, wholly abstaining from romantic love. I dedicated all the time I would have given to a man to my art and my work. And it has been good. When I slept with a man, it would be him who wanted more and I would be the one who laughed. Now it was me who got to say, "well maybe you shouldn't have put out so fast."

Then another man came into my life who would make me question my austerity. 

I think I wanted to be with him. Then I left the city.

And I've come to know why having a boyfriend will not work for me.

I change my mind so often and require so many different personalities in my bed that I could never promise myself to only one. 

So I will not do that to a man I care about. I will stay alone. I will take what I need from men as they come and go.

I can't be with you because you will not hurt me. And I need the hurt to be happy.

I've been thinking about my sexuality and why it is like this. Once I thought I was just kicking back at society. But it goes deeper.

I was in kindergarten when I got brought into a dimly lit room with five other children. We were told we were in this special class because we were a little bit smarter than the rest. The teacher read us a little picture book about a little girl and an older man. The man was her stepdad and offered the girl toys in exchange for weird acts of touching and more gifts to keep the touching secret. After the reading, we were told if we had experiences like the little girl to tell another adult and not keep it hidden. 

I thought I was put in this class because I was a good reader. That's what my mother told me. But I'm thinking it could have been because they thought I had been assaulted myself, which I had never been. Historically, children who have been assaulted exhibit some form of sexual behaviour very early so I think I might have been conducting myself in a way that made my teachers think this.  Essentially I've been at least noticeably sexual since as young as six just because I was fucked up all on my own. Growing up I only hung out with boys. I remember playing in a large toy block shelter with a boy and getting pulled out by a supervisor in my daycare. I wasn't allowed to play alone with the boys in a spot that no one could see. I had my own room and tv at my grandparents house and when I went there for the weekends, I would stay up and watch Sexual Secrets, keeping the volume low. The show wasn't even pornographic, I just was enthralled by nudity and the concept of intercourse. At an age when internet still blocked up the phone line and I was only allowed on the computer for a choice amount of time, I would spend it looking at strange cartoon pornography. In high school there was a point where I stopped getting invited to parties because I would go and just try to fuck someone the whole time. After I lost my virginity I never wanted to fuck again. I was in the midst of an eating disorder that was destroying my mind and wouldn't leave room for me to even think about sharing my body with someone. It was my addiction to non-eating. When I stopped starving myself from food, I realized how hungry I was for touch. I put one addiction in the place of another. Now I'm an artist and everything I make is about sex. I animated a loop of squares two days ago and although visually there is nothing sexually suggestive, I realized the colours I had chosen were all flesh tones. I've been thinking a lot about how I'm going to get through my semester abroad.  Because I don't sleep with strangers. I haven't slept with anyone at my art school at home so I imagine it will be similar here too. I thought about going to a strip club. Men go in and pay for dances and extras, so why can't I? Wouldn't it even be better since I'm a woman? I remember some of the dancers back at the club I used to work in actually being very pretty. But would I be so desperate to pay for sex? If men pay for women to take control of them, if they pay for the opportunity to submit to a woman... could I do the same to a man? Does such a thing exist? Am I in such a backwards spiral of thought that I can't accept the idea that it would not be so hard to find a man to hit me in bed as I think? This is where I will truly understand how deep my addiction lies.  I decided to write off men for now to keep my mind off it and pursue women instead just to think about something else for once.

I met a man on the street today who asked me for the time. He never told me his name but I feel like I know him all the same. As our paths crossed along the icy sidewalk, he waved for my attention and pointed at his wrist. I looked at my watch and proclaimed, "Seven-thirty." When I matched my gaze to his, I saw the circuitry of his brain firing off messages of perplexity. A muscle below his left eye twitched and his lips began to part, but he never said a thing. I left the man here; a dumbfound statue with a limp jaw and brows tensed in something between thought and struggle.

It was only three o' clock. What a marvel it is that one would put such trust in a stranger to give them the correct time. I didn't lie though, not truly. This watch had been broken for years. I found it when we rummaged through my grandmother's home for items of value after she died. It read 7:30 then, just as it reads now. The rest of my family passed over the useless timepiece but its leather strap and golden bezel captured my eyes. I saw worth. Even a broken watch is right twice a day and I have always loved the feel of leather. 

In how the wood of your branches held me
while blindly searching with the tips of my feet
for holes that would hold.

With eyes to the sky and hands that never left your trunk,
my fingers slid between the bark and across your front
I raised myself.

Through your canopy I emerge and respire
an air so pure it floats

One arm outstretched, one arm to hold
Balanced between safety and sweetness.

I take your peach in my fist like a pearl in a ring.
A stone set in gold.
and eaten whole.

On the descent
a hollow in the bole.
I found the honey in your tree.
and never tasted something so dirty and sweet.
Then still climbing down, it clung to me.
In a long sticky wire all the way to the ground.
That shone with an amber that left the sun wanting.
And with no shade to hide her
the rays that she sent
 illuminated that tacky gold
against all her will.

A choice for power to reach lightyears beyond,
comes not with the strength for control.

I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.

it's a little alarming how much you've gotten me to feel towards you.
i think you're the one who will make me into the crazy girl.
i think about the things you said to me and write them into pretty images.
"why are you in this room?"

i woke you up the last night of the ski trip because i wanted you and it was the first time we could be alone. i crawled up behind you and told you my secrets. i thanked you for waking up because i was filled with fear that you wouldn't. you were surprised that i liked you. because i've never shown an interest, and to be honest i never really was before that trip. but no one else made me feel comfortable the way you did. when everyone looks at you like a sex object, those that don't seem to stand out.

i think you should know when i say i like violence, i don't mean i like to hurt others. i've never been in a fight. all i know is the violence i inflict upon myself. it's how i hold myself when no one will. there is safety in pain. it's the only thing that's certain.

i think i'll miss you a lot. mostly in how our bodies fit together perfectly like a puzzle of two pieces. i wish you were here. i want you to talk to me, but i don't think you will. i cried when i got here because i lost my phone and the airline lost my bags. i whined to you because i needed to talk to you.

i never talk to boys first. ever.
but then i found my phone. and my bags came the next day.
and i stopped crying.


you were my tenth. i think that makes you special. i'm sad you weren't my last before i left. but it's good i got to eleven because i learned just how much i really like you. i wished he was you the whole time. i never regret sleeping with a man. it's always better than not. i told you i think i might be sick with nymphomania. but i fear this one will push you away. i'm very afraid.

i think you broke me. i never had feelings for men who didn't use me or ignore me. you're some kind of first. "but maybe don't go falling in love." i'm really going to try.

boy in girls clothes

nerve endings.
she said I think we could be friends
but i'm afraid.
i jumped in the lake.
the water rose to meet my feet
and the shiver started in my toes
it rushed to my eyes right through my clothes
skywards like a lightning bolt.
i broke the ice with little bits of love.
small but deadly
they called me but i had already come.
once there was sand here
before that snow
now nothing but sea and waves and froth
soon the salt will fuel a fire
and whatever there is to burn shall burn
the suffer is coming, she said.
and pain begets more pain.
i came here on a shuttle.
a hard landing, a prophecy told.
i came into the world like a comet and exploded into the atmosphere.
i searched the earth for my pieces.
they had been eaten.
i took you home
i dug into you
my parts took up places in your heart so i took them back
i left you alone with holes in your bones
and laughed my way out the door.
your mouth made a scream in the shape of a whisper
and you bled your way out on the floor

you never realize how beautiful a sunrise is until it is the last thing you ever wanted to see.
somehow i slept through the pain of the night.
i tried so hard to help you but i'm useless.
the only thing i know about pain is that it goes away when you inflict it on yourself.
to control pain is to turn it into new pain.
i carved a warning into a wall of stone. you wrote yours with the tip of your finger in the beach.
it was gone by sunset.
i wasn't made for this.
they broke the rules when i was born.
'of course you are' she said between snarling lips and closed teeth.
i give bad advice and can't make you feel better.
all i know is to feed you because to starve is death.

who is happy in a sea of carcasses
put up your hand if you were the first here to die
i begged you to stay.
begged.
i bent my back to be beautiful.
before the beginning of the black moon.
are you surprised that i used you?
remember what i told you.
i am not that girl.
do not put me on that shelf.

i've gotta stay high all the time to keep from missing you.

I think I cried in the bathtub again.
I never felt so clean,
yet still so caked in filth.

... I remembered a day in the forest, working on the crew with you.
I stood in the empty trailer of the work truck and leaned against the frame, heavy with despair that you would never be mine.

The night before I met the one who was yours.

You saw my sadness from where you stood, outside and in the group.
You climbed into the trailer and asked me what was wrong.
You took off my sunglasses.
You pulled down my scarf.

All of my naked sorrow for your golden eyes to ponder.
And I told you nothing.

Because it was not the time to tell you what the problem was.
That you would marry another girl and you would never see me in that light.

But that moment when you leapt into the truck, backed me into the side, and forced out my bare face for you to gaze into like a crystal ball; that's a moment I remember as one that told me you felt the same ...

The steam of the tub became the breath in my lungs and I came out soggy with dread.
Thank you for showing me real fear.
I have become it.

I wonder if you'll text again.
"I thought of you today."
Every time you say this is a knife in my side, though not steel like the ones I put in myself. It's the bone of your fingers, clutching my center and caressing my curves.
I tell you every time I see you how much I miss you.
Nothing ever changes.


I looked at my tattoos in the mirror to soothe the ache.
The way out is through.
I repeat it like I'm in church again, talking to an invisible, all-knowing presence with the same hope for granted goodness.
I look at the solar disk on my neck. My god is the sun.
All of my breath, blood and life given from this.

I drink some cool water from a tin cup.
The metal is familiar and draws me in a flashback to a moment of comfort.
It's the feel of the razor on my hip. It's my transformation of the dull pain to the euphoric release.
I need this.
I needed you.