They warned me of the big, bad wolf lurking in the brush. He had teeth yellow and stained with blood, An insatiable hunger for my girlhood.

The glimmer of wonder shimmering in my eyes Grew dull and weary of watching my back For fear of fangs proclaiming themselves a knife, Unzipping my flesh to unsheath my skeleton, Spiraling, spiraling—

Squirming with my eight arachnid legs as I spin my web of lies—

I was ready to be devoured. My innocence was dead and buried. He wore my skin like a ballgown, Waltzing away with my fantasy of true love, And when I asked to see the man behind the mask—

They do say the way to his heart Is through his stomach.

More clutter accumulates than a landfill gathers rubbish— Boxes of my great-grandfather’s papers stacked to the ceiling. He interpreted God in a way that speaks to the deepest trenches of my soul.

I’ve forgotten the sound of my conscience, Dead air and space buzzing in my empty head— No walls for the acoustics to bounce off of.

Shrill static, microphone feedback deafening to the point of no return.

It was God chiming the doomsday bells.

I told the voice to bite its tongue And allow me to make room for spring.

But the other line crackled silence And I got lost trying to find my way back to the garden.

While chasing your ghost, I became one myself.

Sitting by my window, knitting like a sailor’s wife, Eyes glued to the horizon with the hope that your ship is the next to dock But I know you washed upon Calypso’s shore And can’t remember my name anymore.

I wandered the empty corridors of your subconscious And saw a thousand closed doors.

I’m still haunted by you, You injected me with your toxic energy And fled when I began convulsing on the floor, Frothing rabidly for the antidote.

I tried moving forward But felt you pulling my strings—

Forever doomed to being your puppet.

A madman wields an ax, Craving the music of blade meeting bone— Carving in the base of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, The long-awaited resolution to the prophecy:

The madwoman that waves her quill, Words within her that yield dark forces—

She writes what she held on her tongue, Spitfire loose cannons, If the slanderous chatter cannot be said with one breath—

There she blows, Page smoking as the ink sizzles.

The things left unsaid Turned into whispers on the wind.

Father throws his empty bottle of Jack at the wall And Mother cries over her burnt turkey dinner. I spilled the wine and took my grandmother’s freshwater pearls.

I bared my sole And shredded the tendons on the shards of glass, Reminding me of the blood that was shed under the May Moon.

Veins tangled like the tree lights— The only way to set them free is by severing.

She screamed from her fiery core— She cannot keep herself cool and collected on the surface Because the sun stepped out of the atmosphere And sprinted toward her bodies of saltwater seas To soothe the blistering of his own weathered, leathery skin But it angered his wounds—

And Gaia offered him her shaded forests to rest his head. Pillows of moss and fig leaves for shelter from the whistling wind.

If he sits still, He can hear the sound of Earth spinning her axis, Dancing on her heels to touch the stars above her.

Another space rock called her from the neighborhood of Andromeda, It’s much less heat And everyone minds their business.

She says she’s outgrowing the Milky Way And must go where her lifesource will not be exploited.

She’ll only miss whispering to the moon While the baby slept, Wandering the unlit hallways of her many hills and valleys, Releasing the pent-up fury that has been building since before her waters separated from the firmanent.

Tripping over a hornets nest, Unleashing the winged beasts, Watching as the curtain closed like their swollen throats.

The apple didn’t just fall far from the tree, It crossed the cosmic threshold into another dimension And fell on Newton’s head.

Law of Attraction states We attract what we think we deserve. Waterboarded with your toxic positivity And false sense of hospitality.

You never intended for me to walk into your abode And put my feet up on the coffee table like I owned the place.

I was the victim of your two-faced charade. Pardon me if I bring with me the brigade to break your walls down. Cannonballed into oblivion. This was the revolution they prophesied.

Prisoner of war, lined up in their shackles, Opening their mouths for the earth worms to slime and slither down their throats.

Closed mouths don’t get fed. So the worms find an apple, rotten at the core.

I’ve got a one-way ticket to Crazy Town Where they can never keep a good woman down. One might suspect fatherless behavior. Mine asked for a favor While he was out buying booze And came back less than enthused To tell me his body is breaking down particle by particle.

Death, with a full moon under his hood, strokes his sickle As it drools for a tendon to sever. I watch the blood trickle From my wrist, Wishing me Merry Christmas, Happy New Year And the best of luck in all my future endeavors.

We’re stuck in the running loop Of living with a shriveled spirit inside. My brain is soup And rage is alive.

The further I distance myself from tragedy, Diving into the deep end of the rolling green hills With waves like the sea And scenery that summon chills To run marathons up and down my spine.

This race, no one will win. You cross one finishing line just to find the other is out of reach. Once rigor set in And I sat for my afternoon tea As the smooth porcelain of my skin Out-purified the white of snow.

I’m not ready to go Into the light. If Life has taught me anything, It is that Death works according to his own time.

My existence is an act of war. I was not bred by submissive women— I talk back And don’t always know when to admit I’m wrong.

Dishes will rise to the ceiling, Becoming a cesspool for plagues And maggots.

I’ll step over the piles of dog dung in the den And leave them for you to squelch your toes in its cold, mushy heap of smelly waste When you’re half-asleep, Making your morning commute to your dead-end 9 to 5 And running on caffeine fumes.

I won’t make you dinner after a long day Of slaving away for corporate America. You can feed yourself.

I want to put my feet up, Watch my daily dose of Days of Our Lives And forget about the mind-numbing chatter of complaints you have for me when I walk through the door.

Oh, you say I don’t care enough about your problems? You drink like a fish And smoke like a chimney.

You always make everything out to be a joke And wonder why I laugh at us.

Hand in hand, We look like a funhouse mirror.

You’re tall and skinny. I’m short and fat.

They should put us at the center of their circus act And throw their peanuts for entertainment.

My mother strategized— Weaponized incompetence.

Burn dinner. Let the children deface the walls with their propaganda.

We are raising an army of self-sufficiency. Once you leave the safety of the womb, It’s a war zone.

My body laid in the field Where the goldenrod grows. For a hundred years of winter And a millisecond of spring To be dried out in the absence of the sun.

And now No one wants me in their garden.