My newest mash-up video, Blair-centric to song "Maybe This Time" by Lea Michele & Kristin Chenoweth!

Recession-Proof

 

In the dead of winter

My band slipped off my finger

And came crashing down on the hard wooden floor

As if it was never really a symbol of eternity

As if you and I and the love we once bragged about

Never really existed as completely as the precious gold.

 

My finger seems thinner now, more slender, alone

The cold makes the skin shrivel

The snow runs my blood old…

 

We live together now, separate but bound

In the common bond of holy epiphany

A two carrot rock does not

A sexually sated housewife make.

 

We kid ourselves as children

Thinking we’d be more than a statistic

But we’ve ended up an even number

You take half, I’ll take the other:

I’ll keep the last name and the kid

You take the house you built

And the bed you lie and fuck her in

 

We’ll call ourselves bitter and even—

As even as the seesaw on any given day

Or Pisa’s leaning building that was simply born that way.

 

Was our marriage recession-proof or mere proof of the recession?

The bruises we gave each other multiplied

While the numbers in our bank account lessened.

 

Eternity ended before the sheet of our wedding bed got cold.

I am currently sitting outside my bedroom in Connecticut where I go to school and its fucking snowing. On Oct. 15th.

Is there such a thing as Global Freezing? I think we're embarking on the next Ice Age.

Regardless, I now understand why there were 100+ birds going batshit crazy in our yard yesterday. Glad they got a chance to peace out while I'm stuck here doing work...

Warning, this is a bit graphic and crude, but so is watching a pompus ass perform who thinks his shit don't stink...

Sweet Tongue Love

 

Your lips brush against the silver bulb of the microphone so sinisterly

That I cannot help but wonder if in your mind you are pretending

That you’re making sweet tongue love

To that proud appendage in between your legs

That with your teeth you would willingly risk a single graze

If only blessed gravity would lower your mouth and allow you to praise

That proud veined appendage dangling a mere two feet away

So close so…but no no, no girl will go down on you

Perhaps because she just won’t know what to do

So you show her with a wink and lick of that bulbous head

As your hand gives a hard stroke to that shiny black shaft

This is what you could do to me if I chose you, if I let you…

That shaft, it holds your mic in place allowing you to fake-fuck your mouth

Onto your spokesperson, your role model, your best friend

That pink blistering appendage chaffing itself on the inside of your pant leg

And it feels oh…oh so good; it feel likes you on you and honestly what could be better?

But oh, there’s no head of hair to hold onto, nothing there, nothing but you and you…

And then you wink at me ‘cause you have no idea what I’m thinking or why my lips curl into a smile of knowing your secret desire to go blow yourself into a type of ecstasy.

Just close your eyes pretty boy, open wide, say ahhh and keep on singing.

I Do Not Wish To Know You

 

I do not wish to know you intimately

As other lovers do

Our coupling

Our bodies togethering

Together coming

Has no more worth to me

Than the second to last breath

To leave the lips of a person dying.

 

I do not wish to know you’re every desire

Beyond those that involve my body

Anymore than a thief wishes to know

The name of the poor young man he is robbing

 

Sometimes I try and fantasize about how

A soul so bitter yet so naive came to be

I recall the brutal disattachment from my innocent

A cloudy vision brought on by a nightmarish dream

 

We exist but we are not life saving

Nor salvaging, time ticks on

But we burn out—we burn each other

And scorch marks are mistaken for love bites

We make nice now, but we cannot sustain the night

 

So no, I do not wish to know you

Blame my deep rooted issues on lady intimacy

Who pretends that trust is not as fatal as

An unprecedented death sentencing

That comes with confiding for the first time

Your love, internal and forever fleeing,

And as damaging as the public exchange

And display of two golden rings.

Barren

 

Each night I wake up suffocated by you

And the bed sheet makes two

Coiled around me like a white cotton cobra

I ache for starvation found in the form of a fan

Blowing circulated air round and round our pitch-black carousel.

How can the earth be spinning if each morning

Our bed is tethered to the very same spot on the floor?

 

Each day without fail you ask me

Over a pot of blissfully marinated marriage hell

Why I can’t ever say I love you and mean it

Or take you out to the ballgame like every well-to-do man deserves?

Is this the reason I break my back each day? You whine over the stew

So you can sit here and be queen of the world,

Wielding the domineering whip and a gold-plated spoon?

 

Its not easy being the better of two halves

Especially when the other in question is a full-bred manly man

I don’t tell you I love you because I don’t asshole

It’s not my fault that the trust I once had

Trickled out from under me in a slow, clotted stream

As my rapist held me down and I tried to scream

Until my voice got scared away and with it I lost it all

My love, my hope, my ability to look at the world clearly…

 

And you, I lost you. But I can’t get rid of you because you won’t leave.

Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t look at me, don’t turn on the light

This is who I am, the product of the past who can’t shake the memory

Of the one who came before you.

 

Each night I wake up suffocated by you

Each morning we find ourselves in the same spot in the same bed

The calendar dates change, the leaves, the clothes, the food,

But me, I’m a barren woman, dried out and hollowed and used,

And yet each day you ask me the same stupid question

Hoping for a change, an answer you know I can’t produce.

 

The Bread-Winner

 

Because you pay for my clothes

And all of the food I eat

Never have I felt the blades of grass

Scratch the bare soles of my feet

 

Or sliced my hand even accidentally

In an attempt to cut the dinner bread

You never trusted me with an object so sharp

“Just let me do it” in a firm voice you said

 

I long for a large paycheck with my name on it

One that is truly mine and not a pity sum

You fold into my palm, with which without shame

I am expended to pass the time.

 

I shiver when I hear them complain about “rich bitches”

Who to their own education do not pitch in a single dime

Knowing if I offered a thing to my proud father

He’d consider it both an insult and a crime

 

The greatest gift is education—and in pages,

I’ve become well read, but what I fear my studies

Cannot teach me is how to earn my own money

Or do something simple like cut the dinner bread

 

Or how to jump a battery in the rain,

Stranded on the side of the road

Or how to balance a check book

With charges I have made on my own

 

So while I can talk hours on end about

Woolf, Plath, Tennyson’s Ulysses and all of his men,

I’m afraid my talents cease to exist

When I put down the ball-point pen

 

No longer a scholar, I revert back to a young girl

Rich in book knowledge, but munificently poor in the real world.

 

Tu o Nadie (You or No One)

 

I found five dollars in my back pocket

And felt compelled to start believing in miracles

Instead a bought a cup of burnt coffee

For $4.95 and drank it down, Cynical

As the day you taught me that

Intimacy is as dreadful as murder

Without an exit wound for gory proof

 

Sometimes I miss you—

Like a cutter who finds not security,

But merely scabbed-over memories

In the nasty little scars first carved back

When the pain felt so inexcusable

I felt justified to open wide

And watch it drip drip down the drain

With a blatant refusal to acknowledge

That I could have love without despair: without you, I’m nothing

And passion without the pain: no one will ever love you like I do

 

Even though the pamphlets scream at me

From the waiting room on 27^th street:

“Love isn’t supposed to hurt”

“Love isn’t supposed to hurt”

Well, then, I’ll admit at having done love wrong,

Because it did hurt, much longer and more intense

Than the sting of the threaded needle

I used to try and sow myself back into place

After you left me on your mattress for dead

Where my body bled and bled.

Cheap Purple Wine

 

One night a sad little girl with dilated eyes

Looked into mine, bewildered—

Her pupils flat, stretched and saucer-sized

Were accumulated over a bottle

And a half of cheap purple wine

That stained her lips a shade of pity

No amount of pedestrian money could buy

 

She laughs uncontrollably so tears won’t fall

Though the whites of her eyes are rimmed with red,

And in between gulps of liquid her smile falters

When it is only her and I who care to notice

 

Now away from the music and wine-stained carpet

She tries in vain to charge her phone

So more you’ll-regret-this-in-the-morning texting can commence

And I just can’t leave her all alone.

 

Her sunglasses are back in place,

Shielding her watering eyes from view like a fence

But after disappointment hits with a ring of a message just received

I grab onto her so she doesn’t collapse to her knees

 

Now I can hear the tears, and see them leak out

From under the smurf-blue frames,

I search for words of comfort—

But she interrupts me and says

 “Isn’t it divine that until your heart is broken,

You aren’t really alive?”

Baby Prostitutes

 

In a society where sex is so goddamn taboo,

We wonder why parents chose to pimp out their kids

Like little baby prostitutes.

They teach them to wink, blow kisses at the judges

And shake those pamper-diaper-clad asses

In hopes their little girl can pull out a performance

Worthy to pay this month’s rent.

We sit back in dread as carbon-copies of Jon Benet Ramsey

Are being pumped out of factories, only to be brainwashed

By their sad painted faces constantly flashing on the nightly news:

In letters as red as their lips, we are informed another little girl is MISSING.

 

I can’t seem to keep the abducted little girls from Florida straight

There’s Caylee, age two,

Found with a heart-shaped sticker over her duck-taped mouth

And Haleigh, age five,

Still missing since the middle of last month

Suspects and those convicted are always family members—

Police dogs and caution tape should never come in handy

During a child’s typical playdate.

 

And when the limbs of this beauty queen

Are being confused with the remains of the next

We must ask ourselves why we allow this to happen.

Instead we watch and wait with bated breaths

And if the next victim is not found alive,

Then we pray that she is at least found dead,

And we are not left wondering what happened to Natalie Holloway,

Was she drowned like Laci or sold into trafficking

Like so many others abused to the point of not alive,

Never living and banking on their death-wish, god-willing.

 

Here we are in the land of the free

Where women are forced to maintain a childhood tendency

To be afraid of the dark and always left anticipating

The things that go bump in the night

Or what may be slipped into an unguarded drink

Always be a prudent girl, don’t be hesitant to think

That the world is after you, when the only way to not end up dead

Is to always be scared and let that fear stew around inside your tiny head.

 

The weekend of Valentines Day, a group of my friends and I put on three performances of The Vagina Monologues. We were disheartened to see later that week that our school newspaper The Chronicle printed not one, but two scathing reviews/opinion pieces not about us the actors specifically but the play itself.

The male reviewer decided it would be funny (I guess) to start his piece by listing off nick-names for the vagina like we do in the show. However, the ones he picked were not only incredibly degrading (and not mentioned once in our show), but also further mocked what is in actuality a very serious show dealing with lots of different types of violence against women. And despite stating he felt uncomfortable hearing the vagina being referred to as a pussycat, he apparently thought calling a vagina an "axe wound" would be appropriate.

I did not.

So I wrote this for that very special guy out there who is gonna need some serious help getting laid after what he wrote.

Eat My Pussycat

“Landing strip. Hot pocket. Axe-wound. Easy bake oven. Flaming lips. The Vagina” –The Chronicle, Feb 18^th, 2009

My vagina is not a landing strip waiting to receive your airplane.

Nor is it a hot pocket for you to lick and sink your dirty teeth into.

I am not an easy bake-oven, not a piece of plastic designed to heat up bite-sized treats to delight your gluttonous male chauvinistic appetite.

Nor have I ever been brutalized—attacked with an axe and left for dead, bleeding out profusely from in between my legs.

My lips are not enflamed by your sheer awesomeness or an STD, but perhaps are slightly enraged by your vulgarity.

I am not intrinsically angry, despite what you may think.

I like to smile.

Love to laugh.

Don’t particularly enjoy the act of being degraded.

I’m not sure what bothers you more: That we try or that we care

I’m not sure what scares you more: That we speak up or speak the truth

Maybe it’s that we speak at all…

Cover up your ears and hum as loud as you want

Cause we’ll just scream louder.

 

If the last stanza sounds familiar, its because I took it from an earlier poem I wrote.

One (Hundred) Night Stand

The weapon of mass dysfunction

Is not what we thought it to be.

It is not “I love you”

It is “I trust you.”

 

Do you trust me?

 

Honestly asshole,

What’s a girl to do?

Of course I trusted you

You never gave me reason not to

And for the first time in my life

That was reason enough

 

Mushy adoration can only get you so far

Down her pants

Around her head

Up and down her lips

But with trust you can go in for the kill

 

Trust is the ultimate submission

A plunge of faith so far down

You don’t recognize the floor is gone

Beneath your heels

Until you hear a deafening breaking sound

 

Do you trust me?

 

Is that what this is?

I can’t cry rape if I tie up my own wrists

And gag on the sensation of being adored

As you do exactly what I wanted all along

 

If you don’t panic,

It doesn’t feel like a lack of control

It raises you up and gives you a sense of power

You’re too innocent to realize you don’t possess

 

Honestly asshole

What’s a girl to do?

When the cravings for human contact

Do not faulter with time

And your body cannot unlearn

What it was already been taught

 

Of course I trusted you.

 

I was on my god damn knees

Gazing up adoringly to the one

You were the one

But you are no longer.

 

 

Chuck and Blair killed me last night. Almost literally. Thank god for dvr, I went back and rewatched all their scenes a thousand times. And then I wrote this before I went to sleep. Blair's POV.

Barely Standing

 

You apologize one sin at a time,

But never sober enough to repent

Completely. With so many misgivings

Under you belt, it’s a surprise you can

Bare to look at what’s left of me now.

 

When I cry I force my eyes to a mirror

And memorize my features in distress,

I don’t look away until I can fake

A smile so good I can even convince

Myself that I’m not dead inside without you.

 

All their concerning eyes follow me around,

But they don’t mention anything, afraid

I’ll slip up again under their scrutiny.

But who are they kidding with their ideals

And wishful thinking? I’m as good as gone.

 

No one seems to care that you’re spiraling

Down, down. You’ve got their benefit of doubt,

Albeit undeserving. It’s never

Been this bad before, when not even I can

Reach through the haze and pull you out again.

 

My stability has fled the building,

She must have run off somewhere with what’s left

Of your sanity. I hope that they can

Make it work, ‘cause we sure as hell can’t after

All the ways that we’ve fucked us up all before.

 

I wish I never said those eight letters

To you. My Audrey Hepburn movie deserves

A better ending than the one we’re heading

To: back together, but not healing. Love

Has never met a couple quite like you and I.

 

I know you’re sorry but that cannot save

Us from our self-induced, self-destructing

Marathon designed for two. First to cross

The finish line alive but barely standing

Get’s everything and nothing I guess.

 

We’re both still so young but I know that you’re

The one. I don’t care if you don’t believe

The things I’m screaming at you in a desperate

Attempt to save a life. Just trust me enough

To do me this favor and take my hand.

 

Don’t mistake my feet on the ground as a sign

That I’m doing just fine, in truth I’m just

As lost as you are in this ugly world

Of vanity and petty gossip. But no

One wants to believe that people can change.

 

We may look the part, but we are miles

Away from priorities we once had

At the start of the game. So if you

Go now, I’ll go too. Because death can’t be

More painful than the thought of losing you.

 

If you can think of a better title, let me know :)

Musings on the New Year

( The smell of skunk is stuck in the back of my throat )

 

( Pink Pluses & Orange Sheets )

 

 

( My Ugly Sister Named Envy )

 

First draft poem taken from a freewrite. I'm not really sure where this came from, if I had to guess I'd say its Chuck/Blair inspired because Blair battled with bulimia.

( I brushed my lips across your blank cavase )

 

This poem was originally called I Hate You, but in revising it I had a change of heart and made the ending totally different, so I changed the title accordingly.

( Hate No More )</div>( Poem under cut )

Revisions, revisions, revisions. Finals are starting for me this week and I've been revising poems non-stop. I'm only going to post the ones that have been significantly revised to avoid being too redundant.

 

( Poem under cut )

Envy THIS

 

Dear Mr. Freud, I have some things I need

To get off my lady chest if that

Is quite alright with you. You should know that

I don’t envy your penis. I don’t wish

To have a dangling piece of flesh getting

Caught in between my pant legs. I’d prefer

To not feel it twitch on its own accord,

Or bounce around in my boxers like the

Needle of a compass near a magnet

Whenever I spy cleavage or a short skirt.

No, somehow I get by without a penis.

 

I thank you for your concern, as you try

To decide why you feel so inadequate

Around my kind; you, with your theories, are

Pushing your insecurities onto me.

 

Do you know the real thing that’s bothering

You, dear Mr. Freud? You can’t bear a child

And you don’t know why. You also can’t stand

The idea of a woman aborting

A pregnancy—a choice you’ll never make

Because you are nothing but a mere man.

 

You want to overturn Roe v. Wade

Because you have babies on the brain

You want to pass on your Y chromosome

And watch an envious woman sprout out

A penis-wielding baby that will look

Just like you. And then you’ll name him junior.

 

You would rather die yourself than allow

A woman to abort a future penis

Who will grow to despise childbearing

Women just like their daddy, Mr. Freud.

 

Did you know that when a woman becomes

Pregnant, she does not forfeit her rights as

A human being to live her life the way

She chooses? You do not have a uterus,

Mr. Freud. You do not have ovaries

Or a vaginal opening and you

Cannot begin to fathom what it feels

Like to be pregnant. The closest thing you

Ever felt to a baby growing inside

You was stomach indigestion after

Consuming too much beer and pizza

During a lazy football Sunday.

 

You don’t ever have to experience

The burdens of pregnancy and giving birth.

Your penis fertilizes the soil

But then your job is done and you just hate

That your role in the continuation

Of the human race ends there, don’t you?

 

I did not make the rules, Mr. Freud,

And I cannot just cure your womb envy.

Do me a favor and give up the fight

On choice, it’s been mine for a long time now

And I don’t plan on handing it to you.

 

You control society, you control

Sex…isn’t that enough for you? Leave my

Body alone, it’s all I’ve got left.

 

Thank you for your time and please excuse

My Freudian slips; I think we’re done here.