Tag Archives: love

Love games 

It’s unfair where women are put,
On a narrow little shelf
made to contain us. 
When we’re left alone
And try to reach out- 
We are simply too needy,
Too damned needy.

Yet, when women are gone out 
For a night on the town-
A lack of communication 
Is enough to hang them,
To brand them sluts
And those fucking whores,
Those fucking whores out there-

The only time “feelings” are
Important are when they 
Are yours-
The conversation becomes serious
When the men decide
That maybe- now- it’s serious,
It wasn’t the right time before.

But if a woman takes a love-step
Before a man
She’s deludedly mad, and 
Should take these steps back- 
Clearly he’s not wanting to 
settle down, but don’t fret-
You’re too young for something serious, just yet.

So Women are put on the bottom shelf,
Gently dusted off when used 
As vessels for what he’s drinking tonight,
And what they’re drinking tonight- 
We’re rinsed out when empty
And set back down to wait-
Until the next luncheon-
The next date.  


Childish Errors

When I look back at high school,

I realize I was lucky enough to embrace

The terms used when I was bullied-

Amazon woman. Band nerd. Art geek. 

Clumsy. Fat. Goody-two-shoes. Jesus-Freak.

I was lucky enough that most of those

Words were just words to me then, 

Many of which have changed these

10 years later.

But the one thing I will never forgive

Was the time I didn’t stop them

From teasing a boy in class.

He gave a speech, and cracked his voice,

The sweat dropped down,

His checks velvet wine-

I saw the hurt they caused 

And I did not stand and tell him

They were only using little words,

And ten years later they would mean

Far, far less than they do now…

I can forgive bullies their childish errors,

But I cannot forgive myself mine. 

Who else (like me)

How many sit in their apartment boxes

Weeping over lovers who have died?

I read a book recently, and the woman

Lost her British lover who far surpassed

Any kindness she thought deserved,

And when his letters stopped arriving

Some weeks after the funeral,

The silence became real, the salt tears


How many sit alone in apartment boxes

Weeping over lovers who have died?

Who else (like me) has not known this loss

 but through a poem or novel, and 

deeply weeps for those who are weeping? 


I hear it coming,

The splitting of what was sewn

And lumped together for so long,

That they began to fuse.

With pus and skin cells clinging

When limb touched limb for too long

In the hospital bed not on the 

Window side of the world, 

The split was pain and tearing and blood

for the greater good of each leg,

Glaringly obvious and necessary, 

Ignored and denied until inevitable.