Queer, neurodivergent poetess (occasional author of short fiction)...creating magical works from her home office (kitchen table) in upstate New York. Certified riding Instructor, horse and dog lover...Thriving despite mental illness.
Torrential Down Poor
There was never much to take from the child. Things, perhaps; but she placed little value upon them. Dolls did not please her, she scribbled in marker over their pretentiously perfect painted faces. She styled their hair to baldness. They looked better to her this way.
Psparkles Psychosis (part II)
Wind whipped like a remorseless smack across Psparkles face. Her gait quickened. As she navigated the swathes of human swine- the sidewalk felt too small. Crowds had never been easy. Hoodie pulled up over her head, she kept her gaze trained on only the ground directly in front of her next footstep.
Suspicion of Owl Play
Resting regally upon my alder alter, as daylight wanes, the expected hunger grips me. Softly silhouetted by ancient conifers and the dramatic deciduous, mice and squirrels skitter and scuttle amidst the leaf litter below. Their time is not yet come.
Mattersome Mind Spatter. I hate everything. Had my fill of it all. Please don’t take offense, it’s a “me” thing. Surely, you’re just a peach. Entrenched in my microcosm, I barely even eat anymore. Still, do kindly back off of my biscuits. Who knew fasting brought out latent food aggression? The people who actually have nothing to eat. That’s who.
Psparkles Psychosis (part I) There was something about me he didn’t like. Well, I didn’t like anything at all about him. Of that I was certain. Those kind of eyes I don’t trust. The kind that dart away- scattersome… like roaches when the curtain lifts. Those make-me-nervous type eyes, those were the sort he had. Shifty-like. Unfond of meeting other eyes. Once self-certain, a hopeful young doctor, now a shell. Opaquely occluded with ghosts, for most of which, his mourning was vicarious. Once in a while shaken from his own ruminations, he actually listened, and heard the unfortunate lives most of his patients endured. Years of this emotional spew had deadened his interest wholly.
The Solace in Our Silence
During one of the many tumultuous patches that punctuated my last relationship, I was faced with a loathsome ultimatum. That snake of a man had the audacity to say I could choose to rehome you, or get up, move out- and move on. In a flash of clarity, I knew the relationship had to be ended immediately; and this time, permanently. I could not abide by such callous human ignorance.