Ode to Chef Boyardee: A Poem


I scrape the last ravioli
from his inner tin walls—his cylindrical ribs
contain my princely dinner.
My fork presses onwards
into the man’s metal viscera, pursuing the mush
of his sweet guts, the succulent cardiac red
of his tomato paste innards.

All day I have awaited this
the way a warring king, after a day spent waging
and wielding, wants for mutton;
I am a royal, ready to ravage
the hidden tenderness of rout’s canned spoils.
The chef, that smiling man—
rotund fleshy jubilance on the can—
is my jester, then, and in my castle,
monarchs dig deeply into the meat of their courtiers.

I empty him into the bowl. His very soul
sloshes into the glass, enriched
iron red; in two minutes’ time,
I will slurp him with queen-befitting greed.
I will cherish each mangled droplet as it sluices
towards my stomach, as the last of his drippings
splash past my omnipotent tongue,

the muscles of my body
a churning fiery machine anticipating
the arrival of his liquefied sinews, the steam
his sacrifice will provide.
All day I have awaited this, and now
I may vanquish what is mine.

Small: A Poem


tumblr_nnq8u4gVci1tiyj7vo1_500I named you “small” because
that’s what I wanted you to be.

I wished you were microscopic.

I wished you were the tiniest organism,
the common cold,
a vermin I could escape.

I named you “small” because
that’s the impact you should have had.

As a meteor
you would have burned up in the atmosphere
and left no mark upon the surface.

I named you “small” because
that’s how you made me feel.

I am influenza.

People wish I were gone.

I can’t
leave a crater on the earth. I can’tmake a mark.

I named you “small” because
I wanted to brush you away.

But you’re still in my periphery,
leaning into my vision,
big as ever.

Regarding Your Comment: A Poem


A few days ago,

I jokingly mentioned my self-loathing

(as I am wont to do,

knowing full-well, of course, that it is no laughing matter,

but laughing anyway to cope) and

you had the audacity

to say, “well,

you think you hate yourself,

don’t even go there, I have more self-loathing up my sleeves

than you’ve probably ever seen in your life,”

as if it is a competition, a game, for someone to hate themselves

as if it is a smug way to one-up someone,

to tell them your struggle is the greater, and the more worthy,

to put down their entire lifetime of self-esteem issues,

because, hey, your perception

is that your self-esteem issues deserve greater recognition,

am I right?

I’ve never intentionally pierced my own skin,

but I’ve certainly thought about it

and isn’t that evidence enough

that my problems are real problems?

Is my battle invalid, illegitimate,

until I swallow pills, and take a razor to my thigh––

does it have to be on the outside, rather than

a wound that is always open inside of me

and always bleeding

and always widening

and always hurting?

I know people who have made their own attempts

and I know people who a burying their scars

and would you tell them that their reasons are inferior, too,

and that they don’t know real pain, either?

Let me tell you now

there exists no beauty in hating myself––

it’s not romantic, it’s neither pretty nor petty––

it’s black, and it’s empty, and it’s full of obstacles,

and it’s a mountain I have to climb over every day.

It’s not a competition,

it’s not something you can brag about,

or show off, or compare to another’s––

it’s completely personal, completely awful.

Self-loathing is not a trophy. It is a disease.

I Am Not Your Puppet: A Poem


I am not your puppet, and you can’t pull my strings.

I don’t know what to say to make you understand these things.

I can make decisions, I have feelings, just like you,

My opinions count for things, I’m telling you, they do.

So next time when you ask me if I’ve done what I’ve been told,

I’ll put my fist into the sky, I’ll shout out, strong and bold,

“You have no power over me. I work for my own will,”

And, if after all of that, you disregard me still,

I’ll simply walk away from you. I will leave you lonely.

I am not you puppet, and I work for myself only.

You Can.


You can throw a party without me and talk about it every day at lunch.

You can plan another one while I’m siting right there, and

You can deliberately avoid inviting me.

You can tell me I’m a part of the group and then meet up together without telling me.

You can post the pictures online.

You can promise that I can go but never tell me when.

You can do this for a few weeks, until I give up.

You can tell jokes that everyone else gets but me,

You can create jokes about me while I’m away, and

You can act like I am a walking, talking joke.

You can make me feel unwanted.

You can remind me of the times when I sat by myself every day at recess, and

You can let me know that now is not so different from then.

You can.

And you have.

Nothing Here Was Beautiful: A Poem


Nothing here is beautiful and everything is wrong.

It was a brutal honesty that you knew all along.

Every time I cried to you, exposing my distress,

you shrugged the shoulders I cried in. You couldn’t have cared less.

And every time I remember when it felt so right,

Dreams where we are friends again give me chills at night.

You bruised me with your words and looks until their pleasure died,

and yet, their ugly memory will still kill me inside.

After all this history it’s hard to feel strong.

Nothing there was beautiful and everything was wrong.