*Photo by Kaleb Zanders @ Pennwest Edinboro Philm 

A Post-Grad Breakdown

A Barbie Doll’s Elegy to Us

It’s lonely up here

on the pedestal you put me on.

Some days I dream that you’ll take me off this glorified shelf.

Some days I even dream that you’ll step up

and join me.

But some days you look right through this glass case, 

and you look, 

but do you see?

Do you see who I am,

or some amalgamation of the perfect woman?

Touch me. Hold me. Reach for me first.

Take me from this pedestal,

tear me out of this case,

and brush my hair.

It is so sweet to be loved by you,

but it is so lonely

to be your dream.

Whispers From The Church Ladies

I am a daughter of Daniel,

and I know the lions aren’t really in the den.

Because a nation can be “Christian”, 

and all men can be “equal”

But every girl’s got money that her fella don’t know about,

and probably a good necklace that she could do without.

And if he just said “not my gal,”

then pat yerself on the back

for hiding it real good.

My Friend, The Diagnosis

Even when the food is delicious,

or the blankets are soft,

or the music is raw,

or the love is honest,

the ache in my bones 

is nipping at my heals,

and tugging at my sleeves,

and scratching at my door.

I know no pleasure without her stains.

She is my constant friend,

and she rejoices in my agony.

She turns my muscles to lead,

and my joints to jello.

She pulls a fog over my eyes

and paints the world a muddy gray.

Dogs die, 

families fight,

and couples break up, 

but she will never leave me,

and at the risk of being perfectly plain,

I hate her for that.

The Curse of the Cursor

I wish my lovely fountain pen used ink,

but only my tears seem to flow from her tip.

Perhaps a poet is cursed

to shift uncomfortably in her shoes,

until she is once again barefoot

(as God intended).

Am I destined to be her?

Have I embossed my name 

next to Austen,

who wrote the great romances,

yet never married?

If only. 

Then it wouldn’t seem so tragic.

Not this writer.

I will pour words

onto endless screens 

of endless screams,

and eventually be no more 

than a few ones and zeros.