Cyanide Queen

She cried until she had nothing left

Until there was only cyanide inside, somewhere once a sense of pride

Bought tickets to a ride

But the devil’s in the details, because when you buy the ticket

Someone else controls the gates of the carnival.

Empty maybe

But there’s something left inside

She’s made of cyanide and broken pride

Drained dreams busting at the fucking seams

She is me, now the cyanide queen

No respite on her knees, no more dreams of being free.

She is the cyanide that binds to your enzymes

Destroying all of your rhythm and rhyme

She is cyanide, she is me, she is my “what I have grown to be”.

Tears of acid rain

Let them fall—maybe they’ll sooth your pain

I’m the quiet one at the table

All the lost and quite a bit unstable

A lot silent, a little bit violent

Cyanide boiling up inside

Pick a moment, a person, any volunteering victim

She’s quiet but she’s a little bit violent in her silence.

Cyanide queen falling apart at the seams

I’ll melt a hole in your fucking soul

Until you think you need me, say “You complete me”

Maybe the acid rain will sooth your pain

White-tipped eyelashes, taste the salt of broken things

Because the devil’s in the details

And honey, you chose to take a walk in those heels.

They all watched me, the cyanide queen--Satan’s little angel

And my fall from grace, no attempting to save face

Such was never my place

But clearly I’ll have descended straight to hell.

I am the dust of all the stars I was once made of

I am your broken dreams, the cyanide hiding inside

The darkness in your silence, your secret violence

Your filthiest fantasy

The acid rain falling softly on your soul

And somehow still I’ll make you think that you need me to make you whole.

They clipped my wings and watched my fall from grace

Expecting me to make some attempt to once again rise

But I’m sitting here in hell

Got my own seat at the devil’s table

You’re welcome to come on down if you are willing and able.

Think I’ll sit back and put on the matching heels

Settle in and maybe make a deal

The devil’s in the details

The cyanide queen is sitting here on her knees

Dearest devil, do you need another ruler in your kingdom?

A vicious little bitch to brand?

Maybe another left hand?

Or maybe I’ll just take your fucking throne and rule alone.

There shall be no phoenix rising from these ashes

The darkness has become my storm

This is my fucking reborn

I am the ashes, the empty space between breaths

I am

That painful ache in your chest.

Cyanide, she is part of my norm

And when your heart is battered and torn

I’ll be there with my cyanide soul and my acid tears

To melt away your fears

I come not bearing comfort

For I am the passion in the darkness you hide within

The skeleton in your closet of all that you have ever lost

The one who holds all of your secret sins

I am the joy found in pain and the compounds of acid rain

Your pleasure found in pain.

They all watched my descent from grace, kept my wings and tried to save face

I got myself a seat at the devils table now

I am the forbidden fruit on the plate

Your secret hate

So I got myself a seat at the devil’s table

With my cyanide heart, I figure it’s a pretty good start

I’ll be every ride in his fucking playground

When the last angel has fallen

And all that you love has gone on

Look for me and perhaps that is where I’ll be found.

Is It Still Really Mine?

I'm sitting here staring at the page. It is strangely unfamiliar, as if not being who I once was made this place foreign to me. Perhaps some of it is the absence, perhaps some of it is the beautiful and terrible things life brings. Perhaps most of it is that I gave her things I can never get back, and this place is one of them.

I fell in love with people I shouldn't have.
Magic.
They're fucking magic.
And hers is broken, twisted, in a moment I missed it...

I sit contemplating fire and ice, my strange desires and slow burning fires under the surface.
Wondering of what I can now write here.

Is it really still mine? This blog, frozen in time.

I gave it too her...

He suggested that I move to a new spot,and start over. I thought about it. It would be giving up the last remnants of home that I have dragged with me through this fucking hell-hole of a place we now live.
So I'm torn...I don't want to give this up. Yet the things that belong here, the stories that this place was created for, I have them...And what happens when she reads them?

So maybe just theory and cryptic poetry...Or maybe I say fuck it, she went out of her way to make this hurt as much as she could, so if she feels compelled to read and doing so is like grinding the nail in a little deeper, then it's her own damn bad...

The way she left, the efforts she made, to provoke him into breaking me and destroying himself...She wanted to see me left in pieces...She did everything she was asked not to...Maybe I'll never know why, maybe I'll always wonder inside...Why she wanted to know that I cried as she lied.

Maybe I'll be stardust, maybe just rust...

I come here to write, the dreams the moments, the experiences, the feelings...And I pause. Because I know that she will read. Me.
But I'll not be responsible for her insecurities. She didn't believe, didn't listen, didn't take heed; the whole reason she was given this link in the first place. So I think that here I will continue to spill my escapades, all my little pieces of Hades. Pieces of me.

Best Not...

Best not to catch feelings

Best not listen to my whisper in your ear

Of those things everyone wants and is afraid to hear

Best not peek inside Pandora’s Box

There’s a reason I came with locks.

Go ahead

Take a little peek

He already picked the lock

Opened the box

Made a key

And set me free.

The scars on my body

Carvings on the box

Hiding within the sum of secrets and sin

I came with so many locks

Yet he did not knock.

I am the contents of Pandora’s Box

My scars simply carvings on the lid

I’ll spill my secrets, invite you to get your kicks

Maybe I’ll fuck or fuck up your mind

Chances are that it will be both with time

Whether or not you are or ever will be mine

Come on, just one little kiss…

One little slip into me

And then you’ll see

The taste of sound as it spins around

Like my blood on your lips

The soft trail of fingertips.

He’ll open me up and set me in front of you

I’ll sink to my knees, offering to drown in your seas

If you take just one little peek

I’ll find you in the darkness

Offering the acceptance you seek

Freeing dangers hidden and unseen.

I am Pandora’s Box, I’ll free the demons in your soul

Will it complete you, or will it swallow you whole?

I am pain and aching desire for the untouchable fire

Best not to look inside

I have no more pride

I’m simply lost on the ride.

I’ll be your coke whore

Your open door.

I’ll be your midnight phone call

The pause before your fall

And the aching sorrow in your chest

I’ll be the one you kept, the one that got away, and the one that shall always stay

I am the remains of your pain

And the shreds of all that has kept you sane

I’ll be your hope and everything in you that has been broken

You’ll see. When the box is open.

Best not to catch feelings

I’m in here dreaming

Of things both meant and never meant to be

He opened me up and set me free

Maybe you’ll take a peek

And find me on my knees.

Best not look darlin

I’ll reach to comfort your soul

Desperately desiring to offer you hope

And perhaps my demons will consume you whole

Perhaps after me you’ll be broken

Pieces of everything left unspoken, hope left as a dangerous token.

Maybe I just want to be seen

To be loved for my broken being

To use my soul and gently stitch up your seams

Perhaps instead, I’ll haunt your dreams

And torment your being

For I am Pandora’s Box, and he’ll set me in front of you

Open and unlocked.

I’ll be your fucking drug,

Your forbidden love

I’ll be your playground

My moans the sweetest torture of sound.

I’ll be the one who loved you,

The one you could never have

The one who never got away, but could not stay.

On my knees I’ll pray

So for that moment you can be god

And I’ll be the remnants of all that you have sought

A gift that can never be bought.

Best not to peek inside

Too late now

There’s not much left to hide

I have no need for my own broken pride

My skin is Pandora’s Box,

My being all the evils and hope within

The sum of your sorrows and sin.

I am that line where sky meets earth

Unintentionally, I’ll drag your heart through the dirt

I am the pause between breaths

That moment in which you contemplate death

Best to love me not

For my body is Pandora’s Box

And my soul its contents

I have been unlocked

Spilling the contents within

I am the story of your pain, thirst, hope, and sin

I am the sum of everything you have ever drowned in.

I’ll come to chase away those monsters under your bed

For I am made up of the ones inside of your head

I’ll be there by your side when you’re bleeding in the dirt

Swallow all of your sorrows and hurt

I’ll witness your blood sweat and tears, gently cradle your fears

I’ll break your heart and leave my mark

Whisper how much I love you into the dark.

I am the eye of the storm, and it is all contained within this small box, now left unlocked

I’ll hold up the mirror to the skeletons in your closet

Free your demons and let them run screaming

To crash into me

I’ll drown in your fucking sea.

Just one little peek

One little touch

Nothing is ever enough

Best not to look, best not to love

For I am not heaven sent from above

I am Pandora’s Box

And it is best for you

To love me not.

Perhaps...

Perhaps poetry is the gods gift to the lonely

A way to bleed out the words to which there is no one to speak

Allowing the soul to bleed its ink in a way that borrows not from next week

Poetry is the empty chair

The accepting ear

The soul’s bloodletting and tears

A place where it’s okay to dump all of one’s fears.

Perhaps poetry is the gods gift to the lonely

A way for one’s heart to hemorrhage onto a page

Without the risk that comes when you spill your pain to a waiting ear.

Perhaps poetry is for the broken

An ode to all of the words left unspoken

The gods little token to those whose hearts have been ripped open

A drink of water in the desert

Of the minds midnight ride through time.

Perhaps poetry is bleeding black onto white

That silently screaming insight

The quiet girl with madness in her eyes

Who knows that no matter how hard she tries

The empty seat will not speak, will not see, will not ever truly be

An ear that actually hears.

Perhaps poetry is sadness and rage and joy and pain

The ink under one’s skin

An intricate invitation to sin

Demons on a page, no longer repressed in their cage

Take them out and teach them to dance

Because life is one manic chance.

Perhaps poetry is the dark light of the soul

The place everyone is afraid to look

Like a banned book, a dangerous hook.

I’ll be your little angel of sin

I am a reflection of your pain, your rage, your own personal version of insane

I am the midnight darkness of your mind,

all that shit you tried so hard to bury inside

the demise of projection and pride.

And so I’ll sit with the empty chair

Send my whispers out into the air

Let it sit back and watch the demons that dance within

Rubbing my mind on the edges of silently smooth wood

Soften them perhaps a bit for a moment

With the words otherwise left unspoken

Perhaps poetry is for the lonely

The ones made up of only dreams and other broken little things

Perhaps poetry is all of the words left unspoken

Expressed simply as the language of the broken.

Yes...I Could Write About...

Yes, there was a post. Yes, it was angsty as fuck. Yes, I took it down. Yes, I censor the shit out of myself here now. And yes, I do remember all of those times I swore that I would never do that. What can I say, shit happens.

Yes, I have a lot that I could write about, but I don't.

I could write about how I have learned that kneeling is a spiritual experience for me, about how I went from managing a million dollar department to working in little back rooms in warehouses and the sides of mountains, how fucking difficult it is to be taken seriously as a woman in this industry.

I could write about losing a night or a week or two to drugs I've never touched, about the overwhelming urge to serve and surrender in ways I never really thought I'd crave, about how I realized that maybe I was right and the world can't break me, but I sure as hell can break myself.

I could write about the inordinate amount of time I sit talking to an empty chair--pouring out my fears, musings, pain happiness and tears. About how drowning all the goddamn shades of grey as someone who sees the world in black and white fucks me up, about desire and need to feed that sometimes overwhelms me. About what it's like to have people you trained, mentored, bled cried and sweated with, tell you they'll work for you anywhere you go if you just say the word--and not have a place for them to go.

I could write about how if you have millions of dollars worth of inventory, I'm the one you want to have the fucking keys, but I'm a woman in a man's industry making better money remaining unseen. About stirring up the mix and getting my fucking fix, about how speaking from my knees in surrender to my demons, his demons, dreams without reason, has become my way of speaking to god. About what it's like being a storm in a world where everyone desires only shelter, about the fact that I'm a fucking whore and I really don't mind anymore, or about a look and sentence I was given regarding shame--a moment I'll carry and be forever grateful for.

I could write about how beautiful music makes my son cry, or about how he's gonna help raise his brother for a couple months while live on the side of a mountain. About feeling and feeding darkness and dancing with dreams and demons. About what it's like to rip your own heart out and look at it from the inside. About being the crazy fucking white girl everyone thinks hates them, when the truth is--I am who I am and maybe I'm just to busy to care to share words. About acceptance as possibly one of the greatest gifts one can give...

Yes, there's a lot I could write about. But for now, poetry goes into a folder on the desktop, and the rest is poured out to an empty chair in a lonely city of half a million people whose thoughts never quiet and which so deeply disturb my silence.

She Knelt In Broken Glass...

I had dedicated myself to the bottom of a bottle of tequila, so while I was well aware that I was sitting in the center of a pile of broken glass, it took me a minute to realize that she was kneeling in it to kiss me.

She knelt in broken glass just to kiss me...Broken fucking glass...

Riptide

He looks at me and doesn’t see

So caught up in her and what they could or could not be

I walk into a room and he doesn’t even look up at me

Having lost all that he holds dear,

I brought to life my greatest fear.

And he assures me that in a trail of sluts and drugs

I will make my sacrifice and pay the price

Prefaced with an apology for the pain

He looks right through me resting there on my knees

Trembling at his feet and wondering

How it works being hung over the edge by someone who dangles by a thread.

She consumes him with her fire into which he jumps with an overwhelming desire

And I’m being sucked out into the riptide

Drowning in the dark side of darkness

Nowhere to go, nowhere to roam, nowhere left to run to

While he soothes her mind and tries to patch the cracks in her soul

Regretting that he can never make her whole.

I knew there would be a price to pay in some painful way

And so I get to ride the edges of misery

Distantly wondering how he can walk her so kindly through the pain

And not notice that I am going insane.

I’m here. Here on my knees

I will fall off the edge just to please

I have become

A reflection of myself in a window with her standing on the other side

He looks right through me to her all-consuming sight.

I heard a song, and the singer said, “Do you speak to me like you speak to God?”

Oh yes

So many times spent on my knees

Somehow it’s a spiritual thing

Sitting on my heels

Shoulders back

Hands lightly clasped

Surrendering to the dominance of man.

Yet somehow now, I have found shame in what I am 

in the ways I that I feed my soul

in the paths I have walked to make me whole...

Whispering quietly to myself as if there were someone there,

 "Do you speak to me like you speak to God?"

I would have said yes, but I'm a bit of a mess

and maybe my communion, is just some fucked up union

of my broken pieces patched haphazardly together with the pieces of my darkness.

Now

I’m here, sucked out into the riptide

For a while I put up a fight

Now

Let go

Let it suck me under

Forget to wonder

What it’s like on the other side

Just sink and drown in the riptide.

For a moment

I was the moon

And I pulled on the waves

Created the riptide in which my soul dies

I formed the wave, dug my own grave

And made the bed in which I’ll now lie

Tasting the tears which we now cry.

My soul is black and blue

Seeking to drown in you

But you look right on through

So I give in to the riptide

Let it explode through my mind

Losing myself somewhere between space and time

Going under to the sound of our distantly echoing thunder.