I shiver, my phone’s battery on red,
as I kneel, unclothed, on the bed,
the smell of citrus permeating the sheets, 
the uneven spray of the shower beats
a rhythm,
displaced water hitting the tub’s floor,
soon your steps will approach the door,
but until then,
thoughts of you occupy my mind,
can’t wait ’till we’re entwined,
two souls as one,
buzzing to the cadence of many thousand days past, 
in anticipation of a future that will outlast
this moment,
the tick-ticking of the seconds,
time passing, yet love beckons
no notice,
only you and I,


I see you in the curve of my clavicle,
in the slope of my neck,
the beckoning brown fleck,
who’s tickle is audible 

I feel you in the needy purse of my lips,
in my teeth that must bite,
the contortion to keep quiet,
and my hands that twist and grip

I hear you in the involuntary sigh,
in the breathy, wanting moan,
the love to hate it groan,
and the fevered pitch, so high

I taste you in the salt on my skin,
in the wet, bourbony trail,
the pine-woodsy, goosebump Braille,
marking everywhere you’ve been

I need you, your every sensation,
won’t you let me awaken yours,
sink into your pours,
each the other’s salvation?

Tell Me

With kisses as soft
as a butterfly wing,
tell me I’m
your everything.

With a grip as forceful
as a vice,
tell me, command me,
don’t be nice.

With fingertips as gentle
as a summer breeze,
tell me I’m your good girl,
that I please.

With all your weight,
cover me like a blanket,
tell I’m safe, that you’ll
guide us through it.

With strikes as sure
as the beating of your heart,
tell me you noticed,
that it’s a fresh start.

With caresses as warm
as your whisper in my ear,
listen as I tell you
I’ll always be here.

May I?

May I borrow your smile today?
Mine hasn’t gone,
But I’m afraid, it won’t stay.

May I exhale in your embrace?
I’ve been holding my breath,
Can’t keep up this pace.

May I offer you my truest of truths?
Out in the open,
So forward we can move.

May I loan you my heart on my sleeve?
My skin feels transparent,
And I need to believe.

May I rest with my head in your lap?
My compass is broken,
And you are my map.


the day is done

meet me at home

no more masks

imagination can roam 

open the door 

screw the lights

against the wall

pin me tight

tangle your fingers

in my hair 

tug it downward

hold me there

kiss me fierce 

no “how was your day”

let your hungry mouth

steal my words away

take my hand 

lead me down the stairs

give me that look

that tells me….beware

lock the door 

and in the moonlight 

let’s get lost in one another

lost in the night

Talks to Angels


Although she wishes it were not true,

bedtime rarely means sleeping.

Her pillowcase is often damp

with silent tears, solemn weeping.

Whispering to Angels high,

in the quiet light of the moon,

she desperately seeks forgiveness,

morning coming far too soon.

But, this morning, when she wakes,

ahh, hope has blossomed and bloomed!

So, tonight, just maybe, sleep will come,

no more penance, soul attuned.

~another art piece by my daughter

I’m a Spouting Teapot

~artwork by my daughter

I’m a spouting teapot,

Curvy and stout.

Yes, I can handle

All you dish out.

When I get all steamed up,

Better look out.

I’ll tip you over and pour you out. 

The Sound of Silence

The striking is rhythmic, melodic, even. Rigid, thicker, and with much less bend and vibration than all the others, the oak makes contact with her sit bone muscles and her thighs, over and over and

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

No matter how hard she tries, she can’t keep her thoughts from distracting her focus. The deep ache of each unrelenting strike, especially the ones which land on the same spot again and again and again, beckons to her, willing her to let it all go.

When he pauses, she feels his palms travel up her back, cupping and squeezing the rising welts on her behind and down her upper thighs. She listens to the words he’s whispering in her ears. She knows what he desires. More than anything, she wishes to give him just that.

Closing her eyes, she leans back ever so slightly into each strike, hoping the extra momentum will silence the invasive voice. Her voice.

Yet, there it is again, telling her things she just doesn’t care to hear, things she desperately wishes not to think. In frustration, she whimpers, gripping and pulling at the sheets.

Why can’t I let go? Please, oh, please, just let go.

Attempting to relax into the sensations, she exhales, lowering her forehead to the cool sheet. Fingers twisting into the sheet, knees firmly planted and sinking slightly into the mattress, she breathes, in and out, savoring each thud that takes her breathe away. She shivers a bit with every cool whoosh of air, her breathing naturally beginning to pace itself with the oak rhythm.

That’s when she hears it, the tink-tinking of the metal ring at the dip in her neck, feeling it’s tink-vibration travel through the circling leather on which it rests. Slowing, it registers that it matches the beating of her heart.

The room fades away, and there’s only the tink-thump, and the vibrating hum deep inside her, desperate and building, begging to be released, the one matching, no, dependent upon, the thwacking on her behind.

Tink. Thump. Thwack. 





Not Today

for as long as she could remember, she’d felt it, even though she wasn’t superstitious,
she couldn’t deny it, 
this unwelcome, 
yet eerily comforting presence,
signs of its existence
but no more so than in vulnerable situations,
especially when her feelings
were so big she thought
she’d crack 

sometimes, it consumed her,
when she most wanted to hide; she’d feel it in the pulsing pressure of unfallen tears behind her eyes,
in the ball of rubber bands tangled and bouncing in her belly,
in the twisted tightening behind her ribcage, the anvil resting on her heart,
in the shallow breathe, because anything deeper would make her burst, collapsing her into herself

it was most present,
and most potent, 
as this toxic voice inside her head,
one which constantly told her
she didn’t belong,
that she wasn’t enough,
that she owed something she could never quite repay,
was expected something she could never live up to,
that the world must be railing against her,
this voice loudest when the world seemed to quiet around her, 
when she desperately attempted to slow,
to try and savor it, 
her pillow’s other side never cool,
and her mind never quite at rest 

it was a blurred existence, 
a constant feeling of living in a black mist,
one she couldn’t shake no matter what she tried, no matter how much she laughed and smiled and pleased on the outside

she’d tried to hide from it by pretending it wasn’t there, 
by speeding through her days at 100mph, trying not to blink,
and yet, here it was, still,
a backpack of lead upon her back, 
making her feel as if she were living in a spiral, 
every action destined to repeat itself

it took 40 years of this sinister ghost chasing her,
40 years of futile running,
years upon years of spiral and repeat, 
until she finally slowed, 
until she looked with unclouded eyes,
startled when she saw her own reflection

all that time, she’d been haunted by herself,
the weight of regret, 
a relentless stream of
and even punishment,
obscuring every decision,
every interaction,
every day

afraid she’d become the epitome of everything she’d cursed, 
she’d become just that in the running,
the illusion of control causing her to fall further and further out of its grasp,
making her want to scream until there was no voice left to hear, 
her fear of vulnerability so strong,
it had begun to shroud the hope in her eyes

but not today