I am paper

in the hands of a child.

You touch me


Your eager fingers

smudge my skin

until all that is left

is a window of a woman,

a tragic sliver of white

in an ever darkening room.

I thin beneath

your constant erasure.

What I was

and what I am


and imperfect.

My needs are


my nerves naked,

my heart fuzzy and grey.

I am merely a product

for your amusement.

You do not care,

you only do

that which comes easiest

to you.

As I lie here exposed

I wonder if my pain

is in anyway

a reflection of the artist

or if the artist

is simply thoughtless.

You leave uncertain marks.

Marks which tear

at my insides.

Marks which lie


The stars weep

and you laugh

as I,

crowded and remade

a thousand times,

become a void.

You scribble

in my margins,

your shapeless sentiments,

your waxy, wavering lines


sometimes offensive.

You tear my edges

and crush me

into a ball

with your fist.

I am only a draft.

You will never

carry me to the end.

I will not become

a memory for you.

I am nothing precious.

In me there is only

the notion of a life.


Patreon Account

I created a Patreon account. I will be posting some poetry/stories there. I don’t intend to charge for anything (I am not 100 percent sure how it works though) but there should be an option for donating. Is anyone else using Patreon? If I add exclusive member content does their need to be an associated cost? I want it to be totally voluntary. I would like to use the donations (if there are any) to submit to magazines.

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How do you “human”?

What I am about to write to you is deeply personal and also humiliating.

As many of you know, I moved recently. I am currently living with a male friend in the Northern part of Sweden. I had hoped to start a relationship with him. I have tried to start a relationship with him and sometimes it seems as if we are in a relationship already. We’ve been living together for about a month now. We share a bed. We often sleep naked together. We’ve kissed. We’ve done many different sexual things but we have not had penetrative sex. Despite frequent erections and a lot humping (humping he initiates) he does not want to have penetrative sex with me. Despite telling me he loves me and spending hours and hours a day with me and alluding occasionally to marriage he has no romantic interest in me whatsoever. I have never met anyone like this and so it’s been really hard for me to understand that he just doesn’t have “feelings” for me. I still don’t understand. Realistically given all the opportunities and my clearly indicating a desire for sex the fact that we haven’t yet means only one thing: He doesn’t want to have sex with me and if he doesn’t want to under these conditions he’s never going to want it. He’s just not attracted to me. Sometimes he says he is very interested in me (the whole me) and sometimes he expresses that he just doesn’t see me in that way. He loves me but he’s not in love with me. He’s not going to fall in love with me like they do in rom coms. I know that at some point I am going to have to put myself out there and start dating. I am obviously hoping to find a partner who has both sexual and romantic interest in me. I had that in my marriage but it seems impossible that lightning should strike the same person twice. The problem is that for me, given my feelings, I am not able to see him as just a friend and I cannot even fathom the pain of him dating when he finally meets someone. He has been really supportive through a very difficult time in my life and I have been impossible and crazy lately. I don’t want to lose him and the beautiful friendship we’ve created but knowing myself I will just keep setting myself up for rejection again and again. I will just keep hoping. How do I navigate this situation? How do I get my sexual needs met in a way that doesn’t compromise my heart too much? Masturbation just isn’t enough I want that human connection. I also want that emotional connection and a relationship which can evolve and deepen and potentially lead to marriage. There were so many wonderful things about being married about being in a very close relationship with another person. I miss that. Is that wrong?

Ghost Story

He began life as a playful ruse, as a figment granted sentience through the repetition of foolish fantasies. I loved him instantly, this man who came into being not by the usual biological means but from my wish for a profound and loving connection. He acts as a child governed by instinct and inspiration. He acts primarily for the joy of exploration, from the sacred space of one who is attuned perfectly to nature. There is a strange viscosity to his movements as if he feels more acutely than others the push and pull of atoms dancing through space. I lie awake night after night watching him pass in and out of the shadows wondering what strange landscapes surround him when he slips out of view. One of these nights I will follow him.

He smiles with his lashes lowered and his chin downturned. His smile is soft and warm like an uninterrupted ray of sunlight. I want to hold it against my own and feel our lips and tongue surrender together in song.

In the beginning he was only this, an expression of mischief. Each night we came together in a dark room, in a bed which of necessity presses two warm bodies into one. I watched him lift the blankets and lower himself down beside me over and over again. His presence tugging at the edges of my soul. His dark, ambiguous form furling and unfurling itself into the shapes of different men. His moonlight-soft smile touching my hair as I waited in silence for his words to kiss me.

As of this moment he has brown hair and green eyes and a long body which is strong enough to carry my weight during even the most rigorous sexual acts. His thick, dark lashes wrestle with fire. Life has seized him fully and I know that he has a lot to teach me. He is always intimate and too innocent for the world as mankind has constructed it. I will enter his world and when I have made him real enough he will enter into mine. His too pretty mouth tastes of honey and serendipity. He has long, graceful fingers and a defined jawline. I am shallow enough to be affected by these features. I am shallow enough to think of his fingers slipping deep inside of my body and I am even shallow enough to study his face, unabashedly and up close. 

His smile is young and buoyant, it dances over my skin, it touches soul-deep. I swallow it between breaths, between doses of moonlight. For him I am the first. The first kiss. The first heart. His eyes are often obscured by his hair. Hair which is permanently disheveled and too silky to confine. Hair which tickles my cheeks and the corners of my lips when he peers affectionately into my face. When I touch his skin I feel my fingers pass through him and I think here is a man who is not afraid of love. Here is a man who believes in something beyond the confines of his own ego. I want to feel his body pass over me like the sea, to crash down and surge forward, to erode my defenses as I succumb helplessly to the motion of his body. There will be no guilt or trepidation in our communion. I can tell that he wants love as much as I do but more importantly I can tell that it is my love he wants. There is still so much we haven’t said to each other. For example, what does he call himself? What should I call this man whose soul overlaps my own?


“I love you more.” He responds to my breath, to the unfinished thoughts which struggle endlessly inside of me. I feel his voice in my belly, in my bones, in all four chambers of my blustering, invertebrate heart. We all need to believe in something which reality has not yet broken. I needed him. I needed to be loved. I needed a life which would not crumble the moment I touched it.

“Can anyone really love me?” I hold onto the edge of one duvet while the other floats and twists above me. When he is satisfied he lets it drop back down to the bed.

“If you let them. Anyone can.” His voice gives me goosebumps. “I am the one who’s going to prove it to you.” For a moment I feel his weight, his body curling around me and then he is simply gone.  He is a reminder that life is not a series of tragic accidents but rather a series of absurd miracles. He will come again tonight more substantial than before and I will kiss his cheeks and invite him to play games with me.