Rose Cotton



hapless fledgling
unable to move
unable to make a sound,
save the minute gasps and gurgles
(which I’m sure would
make my heart swell)

I am trying to get back to you

wrapped in rose cotton
I’ve a thousand names
yet none of them deserve you

I am trying to get back to you

there in a dark room
I dream of the weight
of your frame cradled in my arms
I dream selfishly of your
gaze weaving into my eyes
knowing you are mine

I am trying to get back to you

all the while
I am waking up to you
remembering a song made
just for us
my body is tired and stretched
with new scars, new lines
but they are all for you
I am all for you

I am trying to get back to you

even so,
I am not solely fixed on
the smaller you,
but all of you
to watch over you
helplessly in love
growing into happiness
growing into a place
I never knew (I love you)

I am trying to get back to you

and never on my chest had you laid,
floating in red water
suspended in a spiraling
I have watched your
grapeblue seedy pieces
over and over
and over
washing away from
my insides

I am terrified that I may never come back to you

I am harvesting smiles of the mothers
with ten pounds
of ten fingers
and ten toes


I am no woman
I am an empty shell



Painted there on your arm were rows of old stains,
smocking a six-toed panther behind a sword.
My shaman, my witch, my oracle.
You are the innocent Hebrew child and I’ve
licked the vodka clean from you.

You have shaken me from the shell.
They’ve called me Dahlia.

My skin is of yours, and yours.
It reddens and darkens to the sun
as if I was born to worship the open sky.
My eyes are of yours, and yours;
coffee-brown and bitter to the arrogant.

In a distant heat, I moved my mouth as
my throat stretched and arched to subtle
anguish in the midst of broken glass.

I wept from my womb
a cluster of fleshy petals. I pulled at the
rose from its abandoned cathedral
and was bitten by a thorn.

Blessing the night in tobacco and blood,
we were cradled in a woven basket made of palms.
Outside the coyotes cried for my daughter.
I wrapped her in fox fur to be buried
beneath the peyote stalk.

I spent nights in a box of sage,
drinking cocaine and mapacho.
When the prophecy was drained from
our prison, I began to sleep.

I was awoken by the hunting bells around your neck.
The same smoke that climbed out of his throat
climbed from yours, suffocating me from my place.

I haven’t left you.
We had seen you in the leaves.

Would you deliver my daughter?
Would you feed me medicants like your mother?

Will I die?
Would you let me?


Roots with the blue-corn husk
the stalks of weepy spines bend.
He spits into the plum-smoked dusk
where the tired scarecrows tend.
I could sleep with my palms to the sky.

Here I am, just merely eight.
The wrinkles on my collared dress
have seen my hard Father’s hate
while he rapes me to confess.
I could sleep with my palms to the sky.

The little synagogue between my thighs
spills with holy water that burns his tongue.
A spinning wheel whirs within his eyes
and I am, there, the helpless one.
I could sleep with my palms to the sky.

I’ve plucked the threads from my mound
for he would surely punish me.
When he grabs me, full and round
he makes me red and count to three.
I could sleep with my palms to the sky.

When I stood in the age of sin
with a dead child in my womb,
my father pulled it from my skin
and sent it to its watery tomb.
I could sleep with my palms to the sky.

Thank you Father, for my worth.
I am your baby of a bullet skull.
Tomorrow will be my new birth
when I am shipped to that limbo lull.
I will sleep with my palms to the sky.

Execution of the Lamb


A baby, wrapped in bleeding cloth.
The brain bone is soft like wet rope.
Curled there, blue as decomposing lilies,
she waits, still.
The scalpel has ripped away all of her
broken smallness.
Once I’ve dreamed of her in pink lace
with ribbons in her hair,
carrying a bear.
In this bed where people and love die,
though not in that order,
I watch the nurses suck my urine dry.
They suck the blood from me.
The only promise I have left of you
is the blood, the bed of red.
I am an empty hive.
The syrup has turned to black shit.
There is nothing I can do for her.
I could hold her frame to my chest,
to jump-start the heart with mine.
and watch it go, go, go…
please, go?
please, beat!
They take her away in the cloth
to be thrown away with hazardous material-
with bile and waste.

The House Sitter

Well, I had a good run of minimal depression. It seems the great beast was sunk its teeth into my chest once again. There I go, dragging my body, trailing behind little bits of flesh like a sad, meaty piñata.

I’m sad that I haven’t been keeping up with my very important blogging responsibilities. I wish I could say I’ve been busy, but the truth is I’ve just been unmotivated and sleepy.

Yesterday, I was driving and I had run a red light. I was 4 feet away from people crossing the street. An oncoming car nearly slammed into my driver’s side; had he not screeched this tires to a halt, I would have been hit. I just kept driving. I don’t know what I was thinking about that caused me to check out so severely.

I haven’t been sleeping very much. Food makes me nauseated. I’d much prefer to starve, so to speak, and feel the hunger pains as I lie in bed. My grandma asked me if I was sick yesterday. She said I look pale. I haven’t been eating and she said I look thin.

I feel like I’m one hundred people. I know I say this a lot, but I really don’t feel like I’m myself. At least, for the past week I’ve been feeling very alien to myself. I don’t even think I’m medicated.

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. Like many others, instead of celebrating, I wallowed. I cried like a bitch from midnight on. I held on to my body and wept not only for my stolen title as a mother, but wept for the mother I still haven’t met. I keep trying to tell myself to get over it, the loss, I mean. We’re past it. You’re fine now. Why are you still crying? I think of the would-be-toddler now, clutching at my bath robe in the morning. “Everything happens for a reason- you’re time will come- you’ll have a baby one day…” the words I’ve heard over and over, reverberating through the empty recesses of my maternity, never filling the void, never satisfying the open wounds. Meanwhile, my dear friend flaunts pictures of her newborn niece, “7 pounds, born on her due date! Look how cute she is!” What’s worse? The actual pain of not having my child- or the sick jealousy that consumes me and burns up any happiness I could have for another? I would like to be able to share in the joy of other women having healthy babies. Then, I return to selfishness.

My mental health is heading into such a deplorable state, I don’t know whether to cry for help, or stay quiet and surreptitiously implode. I feel like letting go. “Dear Goldie, thank you for watching the house while I’m gone. Please water the plants once a day. Trash goes out on Tuesday night. Oh, there’s food in the fridge, help yourself…”


To be honest, I feel like I had my stomach ripped out this morning. I HATE writing about this. I HATE even THINKING about this  I feel selfish and ugly.

My cousin announced her pregnancy yesterday to the family. While I truly am happy for her, my selfishness and jealousy is definitely clawing through to my surface.

3 miscarriages later, I feel like a failure as a woman, as a mother. I know it’s my fault, due to heavy drug abuse, not taking care of myself….etc. Even the word pregnancy gets to me. Gah. I’m sorry. I hate being selfish like that.

I just can’t help it. It breaks my heart.

I wrote this during my second MC:

look at you, grapeblue.
all my past beating through.
i remember that September
where all I breathed were fumes.

it seems as though we
could have made history,
you and i-

my hips know the feeling.
once before I’ve managed this.
for once, let me appreciate
these fluted floors.

my pride abates.
i could have saved you
for all your worth.
for all your birth.

They can take you away.
the lunar light above me
shows no grace.

my bones assemble.
somehow, i rise.
and i suppose you could say
it made me sad

to leave you in the
spinning surge-
that almost sacred space.

when i returned,
he stood there, eyes turning,
unbelieving in the red young.

for nights, i swear, i tried
to remember you.
a palpatory reunion.

for now i hope you roam
with wild angels and moons.
don’t let them forget you.

And because I’m a glutton for a pain, this song makes my heart weep

Day 10- 31 Days of Bipolar

10. Do you tell people you’re bipolar? Why/why not?

When I was first diagnosed, I had a little episode of desperation. In my attempt to find someone to talk to, or someone to understand me, I told a handful of “friends” about it. Needless to say, I lost a lot of friends that year. I had a lot people point skeptical fingers at me, saying I was doing it for attention. I suppose, stepping away from the situation, maybe it could have been seen that way. However, that’s how I operate. Or used to, I should say. I snap. I get so desperate in my little cave of solitude that I begin to venture out into the world, waving a white flag around that has the word HELP sprawled in red.

I stopped doing that. As a matter of fact, I stopped talking all together. For six months, I didn’t say a word. I was on strike- oh the horror of the world!


After my attempt in 2010, I remember drunkingly slurring out warnings to friends, “You better leave me now, you’ll see how insane I am soon enough, and then you’ll hate me for it.” It seems I wanted to protect everyone from myself. I feel that I am a parasite to the people I love and care about.

When I entered the real world, aka employment, I never mentioned anything. There have been a few instances in which a person has confided in me about a mental health issue, and I would bring up my past experiences to help them.

I used to think (I still do, sometimes) that by me talking freely about my past and present struggles, I would be able to change the world. I know, that’s a little steep. But I do feel that there’s a large stigma behind mental illness, suicide, even addiction. If I could let it be known, hey, I’ve got a Glitter Rainbow Imagination, maybe then people could talk to me and learn about the reality of it.

For example, I talked openly, perhaps too openly, about my miscarriages. Like I said up there, when I’m coping with a life changing situation, I run around waving my arms, trying to find someone who understands. I was able to help a handful of women in my life. One of them, a cousin of mine, had come to me with a heavy heart; she had lost twins earlier that year. She hadn’t told anyone about it and her husband was less than sympathetic. So, for me, I like to help people. It doesn’t always matter about the social consequences, but what matters is making yourself approachable to people that are too scared to come out on their own. Unfortunately, my public announcement of miscarriage was a little too dreary for people, wonder why. If someone asks me, I don’t mind speaking out about it.

No, I don’t talk very openly about bipolar or schizophrenia. There is one person and one person only that I’ve ever talked so freely to. She knows everything from how I’m really feeling each day, to how Allie is feeling, or Micah, or anyone else. Which, by the way, I’ve never talked about them aloud, either. She understands (thank you, love).