If I

If I find tomorrow
will it be like yesterday?
If I find my place
will it rearrange my brain?
If I tell you stories
will the wool cover your eyes?
If I reveal the truth
will it tell you all my lies?



And here we go round and round
can’t jump off, can’t fall down-
this world’s turning inside out.
Turn those smiles into doubts,
turn that message into clouds,
can’t remember where we started
now we are just dearly departed.


Tell me who I am
and what I’ll never be
let the story drown
in brilliant infancy.
Tell me what is up
tell me where is blue
and I will walk alone
along one-two, one-two.


I find myself still wanting
beloved and adored
the curse of having fallen
face planted to the floor.
Decades lost to sacrifice
the writings on the wall
just a skip past circumstance
I find I’ve done it wrong.
Never looking back-not a choice
just a fact
cannot turn a neck that’s twisted
this way over that.
I find myself still wanting
singing words of lunatics.
I find myself still haunting
the days old tired myths.


You know
I thought I was a boy:
too big, too tall, not feminine enough.

Looking like my brother
not a single sign of mother.
I’m a little girl but confused about my cover
I have the body-but maybe I don’t?
I think I’ll bleed-but maybe I won’t?

I’m a little girl
my body barely grown
can you fucking tell me;
what story do I own?
What the fuck is female
when dysmorphia is home?
What the fuck is my tale
when anxiety has grown?

You tell me what is female
tell me what to do
if it’s not about my vagina
surely it’s my everyday pursuits?

Yet, I don’t know my face
can’t visualize my body
my mind a mental wreck
plagued by symptoms-mind is foggy.

You know,
I use to think
I was a boy
a girl it seemed to me was void
of everything my body meant;
too big, too tall, too masculine,
but then you see
I found the truth within-
genders just the outside skin-present the way that feels the best
it’s biology that dictates sex.
Tell me what it is to be a female;
lipstick, nice hair, and seashells?

Nature and nurture
the real deal
a concept that saved my life-
so surreal,
despite the lies that have been told-
just females,
my body, my own, so unreal

I am a female.
A mix of masculine feminine freedom
owner of a cunt and reason.
Dsymorphia undone
through treatment.

Seeing behind the mirror

Magic’s in the air
and I don’t even care
what kind of person have I become?
When nothing feels real
and I am numb
to the fire in the sky.
Locked in this tower my mind shines
but there’s an absence of the light.
Everything feels silicone as
I stand ever on my own
with the glitter epitome
everything we’ve painted gold-
platinum, dollars, burns and molds
reaping whatever you own
never travel far from home.
Magic’s in the air
but the world is dull-just there.
I shouldn’t really care
if nothing’s real or fair
human as the system, broken, caught, don’t fix it.


And in this moment
I forget
just who the mirror is looking at
the pieces fall
from frame to floor
the princess doesn’t live here anymore.
Broken all the window panes
stained glass paints
the gardens decay
but all along the corridors
sounds that mark the ghosts love score.
A symphony and nothing more
sounds that haunt your heart forlorn
take the mirror from the drawer
you’ve found who you’ve been looking for.

Life in crisis

I have lost a lot of things
some small like keys, and books and rings,
but nothing seems too matter these days not after I lost my sanity.
I once was ethical, successful and proud-all my dreams coming around.
Then my illness worsened again
another crisis induced by stress.
Having dedicated my life to what I love best-helping others lost in this mess.
Losing reality, losing my calm, no longer in control of any of my thoughts.
I stepped away so no one got hurt
not just burnt out but seriously disturbed.
I have lost a lot of things,
like a career that took a degree,
a mother, a life, and family-
coming to terms is so fucking daunting,
so unimportant all of those damn dreams.
Came so close to killing this shell
thought about it no pause for help,
during a panic-
when did I start hitting myself?
Can’t stop the thoughts of putting me down
planned it time and time again
but here I am
still breathing.
I have lost a lot of things
sacrifice a vice to me-that
I would offer blood and teeth
for a stranger just to eat.
But in this time of dark mindset
I found out what true love really is
freedom from former ignorance
a new respect for the silence.
Freedom isn’t in a check
and though love isn’t all you need-can’t get by without money-everything is up to me.
I found freedom in my fall
I lost everything friends and all
but what was left in the wreckage
was a new respect for letting myself live.
I’m still broken, crisis ridden
my mind maze bound-sick and twisted.
I have lost a lot of things some small, some large, some in between
but what’s been left in all this wreckage?
A freedom from what’s been expected.

End game.


The word brings tension to the body.

It brings a tingling to the lips

and a need to whisper secret maladies.


For an addict the word is a loaded gun.

Say it loudly and suddenly you are out-ed.

Say it softly and suddenly you are imprisoned.


A word with so much potential.

A word with a bitter-sweet sickness.

A word with so much power it can make you feel so very small.


So hopeful, enchanted, by its message.

So positive entrapped by its essence.

So wonderful, it can make the world bright again.

Recovery, it ends.


Replaces every sentiment.

A word with such shame the sound brings tension to the body.

Tingles to the lips and cravings for the wrist.


For an addict it is a loaded gun.

A bitter-sweet reminder that it never changes.

A harsh reality that it does not get better.


A suffocation.

A realization.

An end.

(August 27 2013)