This addiction 
has the worst withdrawals.
They leave you feeling
completely empty and 
until you get
the next hit.

Shaking in anticipation,
preparing for the next fix.
Face forward, inhale.
Hear your heart race through my head.
Pounding anxiously,

the collision creates a moment of pure ecstasy
in my addict body.
Pressed in close 
to confuse your heartbeat 
and the motion of your lungs.

The worst withdrawls,
but the best high.


Let’s pretend these sheets are empty
and that I’ve died or something equally as irreversible.
Flown away with the last of the sparrows,
or carried by an autumn breeze.
Perhaps pulled into the depths of a surging wave,
or lost in the darkness of a grotto.
Running an old dirt path,
where thoughts of you cannot follow
and try to plea my return.
In years from then, 
when I’ve forgotten the feeling of sunlight on my skin,
and when your prints finally leave my lips,
I’ll rest in peace,
knowing I saved you. 

little note at 10:24pm

Anxious feeling

Frightened soul

My hand in search of something to hold

Fingers tangled

Melt in my palm

Pulses beat to the same lonely song

Notes on Loving a Fat Girl

Be gentle with her
for the words of others have never done much
but break her esteem.
Caress her undesirable sides,
her spirit breaking thighs,
her disappointing arms
as you would the body of a thin woman.
Be patient with her,
tell her she is beautiful
because for ages,
society, peers, family
have treated her as though she was a blemish of humanity.

Trace the stretch marks along her sides with care
for she is always doing the opposite.
Treat her body with the respect and tenderness
that she yearns for.
Be patient with her,
take her in, savour her, swallow her naked body whole.

Do not get grumpy with her when she pulls her shirt down
during the sweaty collision of your tongues
for she is only trying to comfort herself.
Be patient with her,
instead whisper ‘you are beautiful’ into her skin and
leave kisses of assurance on her stomach.

While she kisses you
let her search for motive.
Expose your good intentions.
She will brush your lips for other girl’s prints
for lack of understanding why you’d choose her.
Be patient with her. It is not your fault.
It is not that she does not trust you.
it is that her soul is laced with disbelief and apprehension.

Listen to her when she voices her worries out loud.
Listen as her voice shakes and she confides in you.
Reassure her, be patient with her.
Wrap your words around her;
create a blanket of trust to keep her warm. 

Remember these,

when loving a fat girl.


Master Builder (Corner Stone)

I’ve got splinters in my smile from where
supporting beams were yanked away
lips tumbling to the ground.
Crashing into a pile of
cracked words and rotting promises 
that they whispered into my mouth.

Come along and walk past the rubbish,
compiled from pieces of frontal lobes and broken vocal cords
unable to ever remember the vibrations 
that once worked as a fireplace heating the soul.

But I invite you to rebuild.
Be my master builder.
Raise the corner of my smile with your presence,
heat my soul with the rhythm of your burning laugh,
and fill the gaps in my memory with new experiences. 


Our words infused

with a concoction of

youthful laughter


haunted souls.

        some still ring empty

                      a mere echo.

Infected Romancer

Terminally ill,
infected with lust
curiosity and nerves.
Spreading like a virus,
your words crawl deep
into my veins.
Tongue numb,
lungs struggle
in the midst of this plague.

Embedded in my marrow,
festering in my throat
enclosed by bones,
guarded by ribs

The ache won’t leave, and I’m starting to wonder,
if my chest cavity is better off empty.

The Capital He

He whispers your name like a prayer,
says it carefully, beautifully as if it were the name of a goddess.
He bathes you in praise
but is drowning you in holy water.
Repeating your sacred name
over and over and over,
blessed so that he can say he’s become enlightened
once he’s received the holy communion of your body
on his lips.

He’ll call you a royal.
Dressed in purple
lifting you to your highest class,
placing you on a pedestal
sitting you, perching you delicately
on the throne held up by your womanly duties,
your feminine expectations.
He’ll call you his queen but in the end
he will commit treason against your realm.

Suddenly you’ll become a witch,
a hypnotist.
He says you enchant Him.
Trance him with how you dress, move, breathe.
He’ll create signs of black magic in your eyes,
rituals in your steps,
and chants on your tongue.
Blaming his actions on yours,
“She made me” he says
so he’ll have an excuse to curse you back.

Try Again // Better Luck Next Time

I started to paint again.
because now I don’t see the green of his eyes
in the green of my leaves,
or the red of his cheeks
in the red of my flowers.

The radio doesn’t play mean tricks anymore,
because the songs we danced to together
no longer send an aching pain to my heart,
But instead ignite a spark of hope that
maybe I’ll find similar steps again one day,
this time in sync with another’s rhythm.

His ghost stopped haunting
the booths at my favourite restaurant,
and the swings at my favourite park.
I don’t notice him
in the sound of fall leaves
blowing across pavement
or in the taste
of a warm homemade cookie.

He’s absent
from the kisses of strangers
and the eyes of drunk men.
I don’t feel him in the butterflies of a crush,
or in the touch of a lover.

I can search for him in the pages of my journal.
Find him in the pictures saved on my computer.
He’s in the teddy bears in the basement,
and in the letters in a shoe box;
kept because moving on
is not the same
as forgetting. 

- b.b

10:12 am thoughts about a stupid saying

Tell me the story of how the sun loved the moon so much he died every night to let her breathe
cause she’s a needy whiny bitch sometimes