In a sense I don’t belong – how can someone teeter tottering with asexuality say they belong at a sex party –

And yet, as I soaked in so many queers, lit up with being so iconically Themselves, my golden flesh popped to an illuminated chartreuse.

And yet, as I tongue wrestle with words, both bright and dim, with sucks and bites and laps,  I had a thought. An okay thought.

None of us belong. That’s the point. We are all subversions, with heart.


My body, the day after, is stained with a mosaic-pallete: pink dashes, holes, and a purple jaw line, leaving me feeling like a scratched lightbulb.

And I’m content with taking a step closer to a body I can feel at home with.

An interrogation room with a dingle dangling scratched lightbulb, and a table of comforting, potluck foods –

And it has been two years, kinda, four years really –

But, anyway, my sleepy cunt is just my sleepy cunt. I’m also carved-in thighs, branded tummy, a neck long and marred – and a jawline, my very own jawline,  with a mythical signature of me

lighting up


once again.


A Love Letter

Dear JR:

In the coming down of yoga, I realized some things. I have known my love for you is a cleaner and more enjoyable love for a while now. I have even mistaken my lack of fanaticism for loving you less. Preferably, but less. But in my meditations, when my heart expands to post-orgasm girth, without your touch or even presence, with gigantism inspired by thought alone, I realize that I love you more than I have loved anyone before. You are my favorite part of my life. You make me happiest. You make me most inspired. You ground humanity into me and elevate me to idealism — you allow me to feel infinite, to feel galactic, like an asteroid floating in the outer space of the human experience and human possibilities. You are my everything — and I don’t mean that in the spineless way I have used the phrase in the past. You don’t define my present or future– only I define those things. You know this, but I don’t even see the future, though when I almost pulled the trigger on us recently, I realized that my relationship with you spreads further forward then I can expect, and those realizations surprised me. Because, I see yesterday, rolling in Washington Sq. Park’s grass, saxophone oozing the blues in the background, and your other partner laughing with us– our bliss, our exchange of honesty. I see today, though it was digitally contained, there was still the sending of love notes, anxiety notes, motivational notes, phallic jokes, and geeky banter. I see a language not based on traditional dialect but reinvented in my tongue and in yours. Our spit and molars roll around the vowels, and then we whisper devious promises. We blush but we are in love. I think it is pure. Each time I confess love with someone new, the word reinvents itself. And this time the poems in my ear are lullabies. And I curl into your chest, your pet, your mouse, I squeak into your collarbone, trace it with my meek tongue that can never flirt with you with the rigor of my pen, I look into your icy eyes, and I know that in that cliché hearts-beating-out-the-same-Beatles-song way, that really should make me throw up– but I know, that this moment in my life is beautiful, because I’m sharing it with you. You are sharing it with me.

And that’s why yoga is a really weird experience for me.

Grand Canyon Writing

grand canyon reaching handI am on the edge of the burnt umber succubus. My eyes are outlining her curves,speckled with evergreen life, and I feel waves of wonder ripple through my body, like pebbles in a pond. I want a Moment. So I reach. (My shirt sleeves crumble up, exposing the pale-olive flesh that I’m stitched with.)

And grab her by her undefined natural phenomena and bring her down to my smirking face. And… INHALE! DIGEST! CONSUME! WONDER! TWITCH AND SQUIRM! CONQUER AND FLINCH!


My stomach, the enlightened nervous system, now owns her!

Mine. My snapshots. My narrative. My connection. My extension. My panorama consciousness.

Me. I CREATED IT. This entire world belongs to me. I created everything I trip and fall on; I created everything I worship and choke on.

God is a:

grand canyon

  • 5′ 8″
  • 115 lbs
  • 22 year old
  • olive toned
  • messy dark-brown hair
  • daydreaming
  • stuttering
  • emotional
  • passionate, passionate
  • GIRL

I become your God when you introduce yourself to me. It is that point where your worth and identity loosens into a vibrating line between my brown eyes and your own. And instantly, before our soft-spoken greetings are complete, I start the process of re-coloring you with my own biases and hyperbole; re-inventing you into my own creation. Re-inventing our setting into my own playground. Re-innovating our human dilemma into a platform for my own insecurities.

grand canyon godTo survive my damnation all you need to do is avoid me by all costs. I’m a great big disease, if you come to close,  you’ll catch my damnation. If you come to close then I’ll bring you to the fiery pit with me.

Listen, God is a mortal. Listen, God is a sinner. Listen, God will burn, but with sticky fingers reaching out, gripping tightly on every rough-tongued sucker who was cruel to Her.