Quick thoughts while home sick.


*Is driving in your own lane the adult equivalent of coloring inside the lines?

*All I really want to do today is buy a ridiculous amount of candy bars and play video games.

*Speaking of video games, guess who just bought Super Mario 64 on her Wii U?  Yes…that would be me.

*I have decided that the theme for my 30th birthday is going to be Princess Captain America. Clearly, I’m not meant to ever really grow up.

*If someone showed up at my door right now with Chinese food, chocolate chip cookies and a Coke slush, I would instantly be the happiest person on earth.

Connected


The prince lives and dies by the whims of his ebony tower.
Uncontrollably volatile, tragically beautiful,
leashed to a life unraveled.
Tired of running circles in search of what he needs.
What his body craves. What his blood screams for.
He suffers. He withers. Still his atmosphere pulses,
beating a beacon to the heart of one as lonely as he.
The princess drowns in the madness witnessed by her emerald towers.
When did the world become so dark, so reckless,
so void of the hope rapidly dying within her.
She longs for poetry and prose, control and freedom, play and rewind.
Longs for her completion with another’s puzzle piece.
He has been searching for her for centuries.
She has been in love with him a hundred lifetimes.
Their souls fit together as twins separated at creation.
His lips are her salvation and her smile is his sanctuary.
Maybe the sun will one time shine on the day
when his palms meet her face as he quietly whispers,
My love, I have sought you for all eternity…
my soulmate, my kindred spirit, my long-lost heaven.

Desire.


I find joy in the back of your neck.
Mesmerizing temptation and admiration.
Its pale perfection could be devastated by
a tongue that brings bruises or teeth that draw blood.
Oh, decisions, decisions.
How delicious such passionate, deviant behavior.
Speak my name like a secret as I journey your body relentless.
Crawl across its peaks and valleys,
lap at your heartbeat at every pulse point,
tease the forgotten places that house deepest pleasure.
I could turn you into an ecstatic, screaming masterpiece.
Just hand yourself over to my rampant creativity.
You are flawed beautiful and I will
worship every misshapen muscle, every tragic scar,
every unloved inch of your broken skin.
For you unleash deep, primal desires that affix my eyes
and intrigue beyond all measurable comprehension.
Allow me fury and fervor, love,
and I will take good care of you.

Unholy


It is about punishment.
It is about release and freedom.
It is the end of a rope been fraying a lifetime.
Laying in a daydream, surreal,
vices resurrected to destroy,
a body broken and a spirit empty,
a life-force pooling silently in hands
that have authored an unintentional disaster.
An offering of tears no longer satisfies.
Heartaches refuse to stay internal
and turn into specters and ghosts.
Words stay a mess that cannot be cleaned.
There must be blood.
A crimson apology.
There must be an end.


I am empty…
yet, somehow,
selfish and thoughtless.
How long can you swallow feelings
before you begin to choke on them?

Insert title here.


  • Every night, while walking through the pitch black living room, the cat jumps out at me from behind a clothes basket, and I have a tiny heart attack.
  • All I want to do today is eat cookies and cry alone in my bathtub. Is that really too much to ask?
  • I think I may start a new challenge, possibly two. I am in desperate need of a project…and a distraction.
  • Whenever I’m getting dressed in the morning and it comes to  the ultra important shoe selection, I inexplicably hear Mufasa say “Remember who you are” and my gaze immediately falls on my Converse. #Disneyguidance
  • It’s been nearly 17 years since Mambo No. 5 came out and hearing my name in the song still makes me smile.

Images


Thoughts of you inspire fear and excitement.
Surreal images flash in the dark –
as a soft focus romance projected on a fluttering silkscreen –
and the butterflies flood me relentless.
Your scent is earthy and strong, clean spice
invading my lungs and slowly trickling farther.
My skin jumps to greet your fingertips.
They aren’t as soft as mine, but tough and challenging…
a change my body craves much deeper as times passes.
I long to have you spill across me,
unleashed, untamed, a passion so consuming
I am electrified and incapacitated simultaneously.
It is a twisted, hardened arousal and I am enraptured.
You alone – sapphire eyes, haunting gaze, guttural voice –
can stir and awaken such primal desires,
building and burning from trembling knees to insatiable lips.
I allow you possession of every inch and you allow me deepest pleasure.
Be the match and ignite a wildfire.

Speak to me


Your voice is buried beneath my skin.
It’s pitch, timbre, depth, persuasion
crashes and rolls like rising and falling tides.
Cool and smooth revolutions almost visible
underneath this consuming, porcelain covering.
You speak authority, confusion, bare desire,
but truth so sweet and unforgiving I almost can’t take it.
For when you speak so beautifully to me,
I feel inadequate beneath the weight of your words.
Incandescent. Trapped between awake and alive.
I cannot be the same person you speak of,
but, oh, how magnificent to pretend.
To let the waves rush from ears to chest to thighs,
all consumed with promises, declarations of love,
perfection, intentions leaving ripples in its wake.
I am but parchment and you inscribe your poetry upon me.
Whisper until I crave the full power of your lungs.
Deny me your voice and I will need it all the more wildly.
My devotion is completely taken.

What if my every weird thought was a FB status….


  • How to know if you have an obsession…and a problem: You talk about your Sims as if they’re real people.
  • While playing a game, one character called another character ‘kitten biscuit’. This is, now, my new favorite nickname.
  • Some days, I just want to stay at home with the cat. Other days, I can’t wait to see a face that isn’t so fuzzy.
  • How many times have I dropped my mascara on the carpet and said, through teary eyes, ‘It sucks to be me’? Too many times.
  • If Oakley (the cat) could talk, the first thing I think she’d say: I know you’re not my real mom.

August.


We are outstretched silk on August’s deathbed.
Muscles convulse beneath summer-worn fingertips
and fading orange heat.
Your body beside me is foreign and familiar,
filling me with grace and fear beyond momentary comprehension.
Trapped in tortured days where the scent of you alone is a turn-on.
Bathe me in it and I will still be unsatisfied…
for if it is not dripping from your skin and onto mine,
the mark is useless and a tease unrelenting.
Only with you invading this space does my universe seem to align.
We have been falling in unspoken love for years.
Yours is a beacon only my ears twitch to hear.
I will fight it until my blood screams echo
but you have my heart in the palm of your hand.
I implore you respect it enough to keep it safe.
Winter is coming.