Poem: thin lines

It’s hard to love your body

when it’s the reason:





damage and transgressions.

It’s hard

to not want–




–your own skin off

with shining acrylic

nails, a coffin shape,

etched to kill.

Or make yourself unappealing—

to get so


averted eyes protect your dignity—

or conversely

to get so thin

you can’t

be seen. To be

so thin

that you disappear.


skip the thin

and just

disappear all together.

You can’t violate the air,

Or the mist,

Or the wind.

So become the sky

line drawn

like a race track to heaven—

or hell.


on which God you

believe in. Perhaps

just the abyss.

A white nothingness for all

eternity. With so

much bullshit,

a lot of nothing



Fiction Snippet: American Spirit

His legs splay out on the mattress, while the pillows and blankets sit at the foot of the bed as an offering to the Greek God Eros. His brow glistens with the mark of a job well done. 

“Fuck, it’s hot. Did you turn on the AC?”

“Yeah.” I slide back into bed, inches apart from him. The fan blows stale air at our heaving chests.

I breathe in deep, feeling the gentle tremble of my legs, and laugh.


I shake my head. “Nothing.” My lips part into a wide smile. “Did you still want to smoke?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Jesus, you’re cliché.”

He shrugs. “It just feels right.”

I snort. “Well, come on then.”

I throw on a shirt and shorts while he grabs his black briefs and white v-neck undershirt. We file out of the room and venture past the living room onto the small porch of my apartment. He lights up and sucks hard and deep on his American Spirit.

A plume of smoke escapes his puckered lips and like my thoughts, it hangs in the winter air. I shiver and shrink back into the chair, tucking my feet beneath me.

“So,” he says before inhaling again.

“What?” I look up at the cig perched like a bird on his finger.

“Have you heard from him?” Smoke puffs out with each word, like the impending cloud of a train.

My eyes rest back to the dirt patch in front of me. It’s a graveyard of clay pots for crusted plants I forgot to water.


He sighs. “Shit.”

“It’s all right. I think I stopped hoping he’ll reach out.”


I mumble a yes.

“All right, then.”

“Can I have one of those cigarettes?”

“Yeah, sure.” 

He tosses me the yellow carton.