Well, I’ve Been Afraid of Changing ‘Cause I’ve Built My Life Around You

It’s been a rainy, solemn day here, and “Landslide” fits the mood. These lyrics hit me deeply. The ever changing “landslide” of life. If you stand still, even for a second, you get left behind.

I will always love and adore Stevie Nicks. ❤


My Experience With Christian Dior’s Poison

Was back in the 90’s when I was just a preteen misfit. My babysitter at the time had brought a drunken friend over who passed out on the couch to sleep off a hangover while I was on the way to school. I walked over to her inebriated skanky person and noticed she had left her purse open. I looked in to make sure she didn’t have drugs because the LAST thing I wanted is to leave to school wondering if there were drugs in the house where my brother (who was still a child at the time) might get curious and accidently ingest some.

I looked around her bag…
very nice zippo lighter
something which I think was a pregnancy test (could have been a spermicide applicator)
loose change
ripped paper with an unknown number on it

a most intriguing dark purple bottle.


It was fairly new, for the bottle was mostly full and I can smell its magic faintly from the sprayer. I went ahead and spritzed some in the air and was immediately wrapped in a fog of seductive complexity. It was sweet but far from “girly”, it was the scent of mystery and ambiguity…sophisticated and distinctive. I turned the bottle to view its name and realized, ironically, I had been…Poisoned. After the smoke weakened and lingered…I looked over to the passed out woman and looked back at the bottle.

It was then when I knew, I had to save this perfume from the clutches of this unworthy bimbo. So it was then, where Poison became my potion. An untypical action of mine that I felt was a necessary evil.

On my skin (then and to this day) the scent seems to repel females but attract males (or those who are Two Spirited)…which I certainly felt was an advantage. I wore it mainly for myself, because it made me feel really good and whenever I spritz it on I remember our dirty past together. It seduced me into doing something I was told not to do. But how could I resist?

It was Eve…
the apple…
and the serpent.

I Don’t Know What to Call This

On this day last year, I loved you.
I loved you so much.

But I wasn’t here.

I didn’t even exist.

I’ve burnt myself to the ground so many times and sifted through the remnants and rebuilt with what I’ve found. I am the pile of limbs that sold her soul to the devil for 27 years of everything.

And still I manage to be everything I’d rather not be.

I stopped loving so many people that I don’t know who this is talking to. I don’t know who you are. Perhaps that was the problem; perhaps that is why like frost on a window we parted ways with the morning sun.

I just need someone who, when I wearily start to prise off my fingernails, will just hold me. Will tell me that I don’t need to deconstruct myself. That they’ve got me, no matter how sharp my edges are. That they’ve got me.

Things to Say Instead of I Love You

I’ll take all the memories
and package them like boiled sweets,
twisted at each end so we can get at them
and I will save them for winter
and for everything else
because we need them more than we think we do.

And as much as we’ve right and reason to hope
we’re entitled to what we once had
just as much
if not more.


Coffee that has stewed
for half an hour or more.
I gulp it down;
I will wait.

As Mumford and Sons shrink themselves
small enough to run chord-fuelled races
down my left and right headphones,
Strings plucked to the rhythm of lust,
I will wait.

As his fingers wonder what they were made for
other than pressing morphine buttons, call buttons,
as her skin cries out to the muffled sun
for freckles, pigmentation, anything,
I will wait.

As God’s own finger dents the atmosphere:
causes a tsunami which barely splashes his knuckles;
As I feel the earth spin one more rotation
and the hands count down 24 hours more
I will wait.

And your endorphins shake hands with each other
for the last time
and make for the exit.
Your blood cells feel their final bullets judder and backfire.
And as the amber glow in each tiny cellular window
goes dark,
you evacuate in the silence
between the bleeps of all the lives put on hold.

It’s the coffee that wakes me-
lukewarm, hitting my own roaring bloodstream.
My thumbs trace the sensitive inside crease of your arm,
and as the last nerve flickers through the clinical air,
I know that you would have told me
to stop waiting.