At Your Own Risk

Refrain from falling in love with a writer. They'll break fingers over writing about you. An intimate thrash with non-sexual intentions Streamed from the poetic logic of weightless weights.     They'll remember your scent through the spilled ink seeping, rotting, through endless pages and stained bedsheets. Scattering the scars that bled upon a gentle... Continue Reading →



Run nature to my free soul or "to free my soul." Polish my bones with the finest you possess, until my essence is pure virgin once again. Twist each golden dripped petal, burgeoning within my spine and set fire to it.   Uproot and muster the tissue that grounds my existence and provide me with... Continue Reading →


  There's something about not raping blank pages with the literacy of infected ink that makes my blood burn. It's something like this, but not like this. Ultimately, it keeps me from writing.   I was promised relief. I was promised gratification. But this craft is a dirty, bloody, filthy thing that has to be... Continue Reading →

His Cracked Hands

As she traces the canvas with her fingertips drenched in nothing but depression, she performs a dance of interconnections with her extravagant broken heart and her corrupted vision of the works inside of her world. As her hair strands scrape the shadows of her pillow case, her skin sends the waves of the sheets into... Continue Reading →

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