I am 34 years old and still a girl. I love Boston and my babies. I am an addict. Sometimes, I am manic and happy. Sometimes, I am mental and depressed. I am writing to stay alive. I am discovering myself accidentally. I am losing myself on purpose.
Sex, religion, love, hate, obsession, fate, sex. did I say sex? Stories, poems, prose.
I am a writer and a reader. I love craft and creativity, inspiration and fun, fantasy and mystery, philosophy and fear. I love words.
She was 6 days,
And 3 dead babies coming.
3 long years of the body
betraying the overachiever
who kept trying
To fill the hole.
He was drunk the whole time.
Every night, as religious as pasta
And pork chops.
He never said he was proud.
He never said he loved me,
Until the pills and the charcoal and the
return to the hospital of my birth.
I don’t need it.
I need it now.
Im better than he thought.
Im better than he planned.
Im not enough for myself.
Im too much and cant stop
Filling the hole
Pitcairn and the sex scandal
Sex and the City
Its not filling the hole.
She came 2nd.
Perfect mama did better this time and
Still the high numbers came, the appointments
Depression sitting in the inner city,
Oddity, liability, baby,
profile so like hers that came before.
(would they all have looked that way?)
cut me open to save the drama
cut me open to end the tie. Blue eyes!
cut me. I love the pain it takes to try
to fill the hole.