distant curses.

'cross the sea, a hex i blow
and in a dogged eye did bind
misfortune that the curse would fall
upon this hound in both eyes blind

to maim the man who broke my heart
i soothed from far the sightless dog
but this hex had a harder route
through raucous waves and soupy fog

when mist became the canine's view
she lunged with teeth & eyes gloss white
a bite sunk in his leg bone deep
cursed my curse met the wrong man tonight.

I made a film about you.

Transorbital Lobotomy:
the eye-opening documentary
of docking your memory

the bridge home is about to burn
and this time its my turn

so you better go.

the night goddess of aerials and cherries arises.

here comes the brewing burden of his true masked learning
and with burning acidic assistance of fury turns a spurned heart cruelly blue.

back off to the backhanded heresy so her haphazard harem delights in me

hark the leper & the pharisee rejoice in distant karmic harmony

while i, the priestess; hands a newborn art form to the prophecy.

i heard you like what you see
the gold dust encrusted on her rusty Etruscan bust

& all she would need in the morning is some love
but she don't even lease
she's only a visitor in his headspace

he looked at her.
under cover of a suburban cupboard,
he hovered;
and saw
a southern mouse
trace his mother's
other mouth.

a projectile propensity for a manic intense destiny
and panicked in the dynamic density of her menses.

she fills your mouth with the dazzling
dirty treats
of her venereal
dizzy eats.

Haven't written here in a while. But I'm unhappy again so here I am.

I officially hate my job and my supervisors. I have no more respect for the company I work for, or my bosses.

It's time to decide where I am going to go. Time to make a plan.

• apply for IATSE 212 membership
• get proof of hours in order
• ask about fees, time to apply

• make a portfolio website
• apply for Moment Factory
• start 3D animation learning
• make more animations
• draw more

And now for something really fun; a list of all the times (that I remember right now) of being objectified starring strange (and sometimes familiar) men.

• my first day of work serving drinks at a strip club, when a man groped my butt as I asked him his order
• the second time I had my ass groped at work, serving at Cowboys during Stampede.
• when a man tried to put a sticker on my chest while serving at Cowboys.
• the time I was offered money to go home with a man after I served him his beer.
• the times I was asked to be a third in a threesome with a couple I had only met serving them drinks.
• when my ass was groped walking through a crowd to the bathroom at an Offspring concert, at Cowboys during Stampede.
• the time a man offered me money to serve drinks topless at the bachelor party he was having, while bartending (with a shirt on.)
• the time a 40 year old, on the bus, asked to take me, then 20, to a movie
• the time a man sat next to me on the bus and shook my hand, then wouldn't let go til I yanked it away. "it's too bad you're taken," after he asked if I was single (i lied and said i was not). Also told him my name was Sally and never looked him in the eyes.
• the times when familiar men (so I wont describe here) made me uncomfortable because they saw me as an object (three I can think of right now)

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.