& when i leave
i can try for you
bad dog
2/16/26
attraction
you're a natural
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my poetry. i write poetry to cope with trauma. warning for violence, sexual childhood abuse, physical childhood abuse, suicidal ideation, and a lot more. i used to have more, but i deleted it all out of a fit of embarrassment. use dates below to jump to certain years. or click here to go back.
& when i leave
i can try for you
bad dog
2/16/26
attraction
you're a natural
forever
abandoned
kitchen tiles
6/4/23
2026
& when i leave,
I won't wash my dishes.
I'll leave my dirty cups and bowls,
soaking in dark, soapy water.
I will let it rot and mold in your sink.
I won't dust the shelves.
I'll let the thick layer of grit seep into the crevices of your bookcase,
I will let the dirt fill your lungs.
& I won't clean my room.
Every pencil, every toy will be scattered across my carpet floors.
Every strand of hair will be stuck,
twisted in between worn down fibers
I won't make my bed.
I won't wash my sheets.
They will sit,
disheveled and neglected,
on my cold mattress.
My pillows will be unfluffed,
slouched against the headboard.
& I won't take down my posters.
They will stay where they are.
Held up by push-pins and tape,
and they will sit
and they will watch you.
& by the time you notice,
that my room is just a little too silent--
no loud music shaking the walls,
no quiet sobbing filling the halls.
by the time you notice,
that my room is just a little too still,
i will already be gone.
half way across the city,
the state,
the country,
the planet.
I will be gone.
& when you grow old,
& when you grow weary,
I hope you pull up a nice folding chair and sit in the center of that room,
and stare up at me.
The dust in the air,
the posters peeling from the walls,
the way my sheets still have my outline.
Every framed photo will stare back at you.
& by the time you notice,
I will already be free.
i am told i am a bad dog.
a dog whose disgusting whines hurt ears. a dog whose frail and thin body takes up too much space. a dog whose paws are sharp and unclipped. a dog whos unclean, unkept, unfed, unloved.
its all i know.
but i can try.
try to be a good dog.
i can try to quiet my whines and i can try to cut off my claws. ill try to curl up, as small as can be, in the furthest, coldest corner of the room. and ill brush, and ill brush, and ill brush, and ill brush until my fur is clean.
& when you yell, ill try not to cry. & when you hit, ill try not to whine. & when you kick, & you shove, & you pull, & you tug— ill try to be good.
but im a very, very bad dog. an unclean, unkept, unfed, unloved bad, bad dog.
& its all i know.
i am a small dog. feral & scared. i lurk behind dark alleyways & into cold cardboard boxes. my fur is matted. my fangs are sharp. i bare my teeth at those who cross my path. despite my snarl & my growl, there are still those that get too close. some pull & tug, some dig their nails into my fur & some hit; others are soft, slow & gentle, soothing with cold hands as they scratch behind my ears. no matter: it all feels the same. a piercing pain. an ache under my skin. a match striking the sandpaper. a hot branding. no touch is safe. no touch is kind. "stay away," i bark, i whimper, i plead. i bite & i bite & i bite & i bite. bad dogs don't get pet. & i am a very, very bad dog.
dark shadows on blue walls / curled up beneath warm sheets / a lamp watches / from that dresser in the corner / when do i run away?
those trembling fingers
that reach into my mouth
past my teeth
& teasing the back of my throat
my kneecaps form dark purple bruises
from my place on the floor
my heart thumps loudly in my chest,
banging against my ribcage.
it hops
like a rabbit in the forest
those fingers that cradle my chin
are the hunter & rifle
i gag as i choke on the digits
tears springing to my eyes
my throat burns,
as i hurl up puke
i heave with my churning stomach,
fingers digging deeper into my mouth and
pressing on my tongue.
i gag once more
i lick the ridges of my teeth
and i kiss the hand
i savor it
the bile tastes sweet in my mouth
i've never been so safe
as birds leap from our branch,
they spread out their wings
and glide across the sky.
their feathers are neatly brushed
and their claws clipped.
soon,
it is my turn.
but unlike my peers,
i am a bird without wings
and all i have are my talons.
my feathers are unkept,
and dirty.
my claws are sharp,
too sharp.
they tear through skin,
stab and slice.
"it is your turn now," the bird behind me says.
"i am scared," i reply.
"scared of what?"
"of flying."
the bird laughs. "a bird scared of flying? how can you be scared to fly? from the moment you were born, you knew how to fly. it's in your heart. its in your soul."
but i am unlike my peers.
i tremble. "i'm not sure if i know how to."
i know the birds behind me get restless,
shuffling on the wood.
"you just take a leap," they say.
"simply spread your wings," a different one tries.
"let the wind carry you," one pipes up.
"it will come naturally," they reassure me, "as natural as the sky is green, as the leaves turn purple in the fall, as cats bark and dogs hiss. you must know how to fly."
"but aren't you looking?
can't you see?
i am different from you,
i don't have wings."
"that's impossible.
aren't you a bird?"
i'm not sure if i am.
the bird sighs. "i cannot teach you this.
i cannot teach you how to fly.
we all know how to fly.
why don't you?"
why don't i?
why don't i know this?
why can't i be normal?
"there are no rules.
you simply must know."
i want to argue more, but my tongue gets caught in my throat.
when i jump,
my body hurdles towards the ground,
sinkling lower
& lower.
i dig into the wrinkles and folds of my brain,
searching for that secret knowledge i am told i hold,
i try to cling to anything at all,
but i am falling too fast.
i am close now.
close to the dirt.
this should be easy,
but yet,
i am still a bird without wings,
and all i have are my talons.
just fly,
just fly,
just fly,
my body hits the ground with a loud crack
"see?" the bird cackles from above, "you're a natural."
2024
forever a rotting corpse
sinking into the mud
the maggots that crawl beneath my skin
remind me of hands and fingers
they squirm and wither and twist and turn
my hands used to tremble at the thought
walking past a threshold of a door
no where to feel safe
my body is open
unprotected
my father has finally won
my yard is dry
dead grass and twigs.
my patio is dirty,
rotting wood and loose nails.
the sky is dark,
black clouds and no stars.
my door squeaks open
slowly
timidly
the living room is dark
dust scatters the room
corners covered in plastic and cobwebs
cockroaches scurry across the wood
and mice whisper inbetween the walls
the stairs croaks under your feet
creaking and groaning
with years of my loneliness
my blings are broken and my curtains are torn
my window pans are cracked and shattered
with glass on the floor
as still as can be,
wind rustles the branches outside
while crickets chirp
and flies buzz
the blade sits heavy in my grasp.
fingers wrapped around black micarta,
with knuckles turned white,
my nails are chipped and bitten.
a dark red stains the cuticles.
my reflection blinks when i do not
in the silver mirror of the blade,
& i grip the knife tighter.
my palm is red
and my skin forms wrinkles.
will it hurt to bleed from your own two hands?
this pain that's already burrowed,
& buried under your breast,
already taken lay beneath your heart.
will it hurt the same?
when you hide underneath your blanket,
from those crashes in your living room,
in the "sanctuary" of your bedroom,
will it hurt the same?
& when you are covered,
cast in the tall shadow of a man,
shivering,
pleading,
trying to fit your limbs back into your body,
will it hurt the same?
my father's eyes would land upon me in the kitchen, his kitchen,
a child bleeding out
from slashes
and cuts
and gashes.
my blood would turn those white tiles a beautiful, vibrant red.
my lungs searching for air,
as dark, vacant eyes stare up at the ceiling,
& the blade slipping from my fingers.
is this any different?
i would carve my chest,
snapping my ribs,
as my hand would reach deep into the open cavity,
tearing my heart out,
beating within my palm;
would he cradle that same beating heart into his own two hands?
would he lather thick blood onto his skin, getting stuck within the crevices of his fingers?
would he wash me off?
how long would it take for my heart to stop thumping uselessly in his hands,
until he'd set it back down?
until he got back up?
until he walked out of that room?
would he leave me a decaying body to rot into the kitchen floor,
fusing with the tiles as my blood dried?
would he let maggots and roaches
feast on my body:
one last sacrifice i am obligated to give.
would he step over me every morning,
as nothing more than decor:
a rug he ignores?
how long would my smell linger?
how long could he stand it?
blue, pale lips would utter the words:
"you did this."
would he get me then?
i can still feel the blade in my grasp.
2023
i'll
jump off
a bridge,
a roof,
out
a window.
crush my bones
tear my skin
crumble
like a sheet of paper
bleed onto the pavement
into the grass
& into your hands