Spiritual Breakfast Sandwich

Apple of my eye
Yogurt of my future
Quesadilla of peace and tranquility
Hash of solace
Streets of cobbled stone
Tang of my ancestors
Turkey to turkey
Love to love
Witness to all
Explosion of my dreams
Temptress of frozen pizza
God of god
Lord of lord
With a sad face drooping
Can you hear the time calling?
Can you smell plastic burning?
Can you hear violins weeping?
Are you here right now?

I cling to everything -
CDs that skip, rings that turn my fingers green,
the dead ends of my hair, old love notes
that turn my stomach over and over.
And I’m not proud but there are still boxes under my bed.
And I’m not proud but my closet is still running out of space.
And nostalgia is a fucking waste of time
but my heart is full with it.
Tell me I won’t hold this forever.
Tell me there will be a day where I let gloriously go.
—  Fortesa Latifi - Hold This
If You're Hungry Shut up And Go Get Some Food

If you’re moody
Go on a walk
Listen to some music

If you’re tired
Scream at the top of your lungs
Rub the back of your head nervously

If you’re anxious
Hyperventilate until you collapse
Then take a nap

If you’re angry
Remember why you’re angry
And whose not responsible

If you’re cold
Put on a sweater on

If you’re hot
Take your clothes off

If you’re restless
Have a seizure
Write a symphony
Start a fire

If you’re sad
Write some poetry

If you’re bitter
Add skim milk and artificial sweetener

If you’re confused
Act cool
And just pretend you know what you’re talking about

If you’re dying in a hospital
Flip off the doctor
And smile

If you’re dying in the street
Crawl into the gutter

If you’re fading away
Become the dust

If you’re frustrated
Break some glass
Pay for the damages

If you’re embarrassed
Laugh at yourself

If you’re pale
Own it

If you’re broken
We can talk all night

We become the sunlight border
of an almost-closed window.
We become the salt sweat coming
out of the back of Eve when she gave Adam the apple.
We become the hands that hold
and the hands that don’t know how to let go,
coil wrapped around our necks, shadows behind our backs,
a silent purple fistfight on our mahogany skin and yet,
and yet, we stay at every word that hangs in the mouths
of men who love us in past tense.
We become the bottles of milk left behind the sink.
We become the roof, the walls, the soldiers
without guns, we become mothers—lungs stretching out
like a shoreline, chest becoming an ocean for two.
We become the promise that we have told ourselves
when we were little. I want to be a princess. A princess.
A princess. And then I don’t.
I am blood, marrow, bones, flesh,
breast, lips, hair. I am. I am.
I am a woman. And then We are.
We are witches and granddaughters with too
little magic but enough strength.
We are the throats that learned how not to silent.
We are the voice that learned how to make thunder out of quiet.
We bang on every door who told us we should stay inside.
We missile every country who never expected us to run a war.
—   Kharla M. Brillo | All The Women We Needed To Become

stop saying you care about me when you only care about how i make you feel. after all of this, still, it’s us here, and still, all you’re worried about is you.

i never got an “are you okay?” never got a “how are you?” never got a “stay.” i only got an empty apology, a “i can’t fix this because i don’t want to think about what’s wrong” apology, a “i just want to mend my guilty conscience” apology.

stop saying you won’t hurt me when every step towards you is like walking on glass. i’m choking on your empty apologies and tasting only the leftover blood of regret. every hello runs the risk of falling through. every hello and i forget about the cracks.

i know this is wrong. every time you text me, i throw my phone against the wall until i stop smiling. love isn’t these feelings we give each other. love is a choice and you’ll never choose me.

—   note to self: give up


want to be glass. want to rupture. want to be melted snow.


am ripple of water. have crumbled. turned to slush.


my perception of self is a letter from a friend about a postcard from my mother about a drawing I made when I was five about my friend who drew my home.


I have stepped out of my body into the space between my organs.


encore. again.

—  Venetta Octavia, mind gets sick of itself
I am sick and tired of people telling me
that I need to move on
from the boy I am in love with
because I am hurting over the fact
that he doesn’t love me back,
that he is just a friend,
that I am wasting away my life,
that I am not enjoying it to the fullest,
that I am not giving myself or someone else a chance,
but how do I explain
that yes it hurts to not be loved back,
yes it hurts to just be friends
with someone you are so madly in love with
but I am not wasting away my life,
I do whatever I am supposed to do,
I do whatever I want to do,
I am not always this depressed over him,
I do have friends,
I do have a life which is boring
but at the same time exciting and good
and that trying to be good enough for him
even when I am not and won’t be
has made me a better person
—  Isn’t love about trying to be your best self for someone even when you are the only one in love, even when the love is only one person’s, even when they don’t love you back // JustScribbledWords
I'm Too Tired For You To Buy Me Dinner

Just take me home
So I can sleep

I’m too gone to be here
Just tell me your problems
And I’ll say, ‘there, there’

I’m too fragile to be your rock
Sharp and brittle

I’m too disillusioned to be of use
Playing imaginary hopscotch
On an imaginary playground

I’m too old to be the next new thing
Bitter bitter
Dark and bitter

I’m too repetitive to land a book deal
Blah blah blah
Let’s point out everything wrong with the world using shiny catchphrases

I’m too blue to sing the blues
I’d rather make robot noises
And walk past you without making eye contact

I’m too hurt to take myself seriously
Tar in my lungs
Sarcastically coughing

The monsters under my bed said they need some space

The Chinese character for fire, 火,
is so written because it resembles the shape of a flame itself. The
character for eye, 目, resembles the shape of an eye. The character for door, 门, resembles the shape of a door, complete with a knocker on top. So on and so forth.

If I were to write you, you would be 关, meaning: closed. Meaning: cut, barrier. Resembling the shape of a gate. Meaning: I will never knock on your door again.

—  Venetta Octavia, “回”
I think I realize now, why you are the way you are or why you acted the way you did, you just needed another person, another body, another heart, another soul to not feel so lonely in your loneliest moments and someone once told me that a moment lasts for at least 90 seconds and I was there with you for your many 90 seconds and I thought I was there because you wanted me to be and not because you needed me to be or not because you were lonely.
what I am trying to say is that I understand why you are the way you are, what I am trying to say is that I get it, but it’s not okay, what I am trying to say is that I understood you but that didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt, because it hurt a lot more than I had imagined


earth an·gel

/ərTH ˈānjəl/


  1. I threw myself into the void, but the void placed me gently back on shore and said darling you will be remembered, not for who you are, but you failed to be. So, I told the void fuck off and dived right back in, these seawater lungs gulping down lifeblood, this is a stinging baptismal rebirth.
  2. I wake up to fluorescent lights in the hospital, and  desperately rip out needles they injected in me, devil tendrils pulsing in life I do not want. Ten hands hold me down, and I scream this is my last rite, the doctor says that is a classic case of delusions of grandeur to the scared interns and there is a prick on my neck and everything goes dark.
  3. The galaxy is eating me, and this non-oxygenated blood circles in my lungs, making my heart and everything so devastatingly blue blue blue, I am so daringly mortal, in my self-destructive tendencies, that these veins can’t take any more pinprick points before they burst. The galaxy whispers this is how a junkie looks, this is how an angel self-destructs. 
  4. I claw my way out of my own lungs, in a different world, my hospital gown hangs off me as my back bends and breaks, I rise to the ceiling and levitate, the doctor says that is a classic case of demonic possession to the scared interns, my head spins 360, my spine cracks and bees erupt from my mouth I am not a classic case, I am the original Lilith, my serpent tongue speaks. The nurse checks off unknown species on my chart and continues on. 
  5. Gabriel draws me up from the water, and I can swear, he reminds me off someone I know are you Hermes? He smiles in another life some knew me by that name.  In that moment I remember, and I know he is not taking me somewhere I want to be so I rip myself from his grasp, leaving twin bruises on my arms, in another world I was Icarus and the sun was my beloved, but in this one I made my vows with the ocean abyss. Where are you going? He calls after my plummeting body, home home home. 
  6. Is your home not heaven? the sky asks as I descend through it. In another world maybe, but it never truly was. 
  7. I hit the earth hard, dazed and mouth full of soil, I think this is home. With its glided mortality, and chocolate chunk brownie ice-cream. With its blood-soaked kisses, and barbed wire love,with its sunshine lungs and radiation smiles, in its imperfections, this is home in the way the ocean stings against my cut wrists, this is home in the way I have bled for it, this is home in the way it gave me shelter when my wings were gone. This is home in the way it embraced me when all I  had was a cage on my back. Welcome back it says, welcome back. 
  8. Who have you become, the void whispers, she stops and corrects herself what have you become? All I know is that these veins are no longer glowing, that this halo is broken and gone, that these wings cannot fly no longer, all I know is that this earth is my cradle, my mother, my grave. All I know is that I am stronger than ever before. I tell the void fuck off. 
  9. I am no longer what I was before.