These are my writings. Ideally, these are the most honest expressions of myself that I could give.

In Descent from a Second-Story Apartment

Man in Descent

I laid in bed all day when I should’ve been working.

My alarm clock went off, and I looked at the clock, knowing that I had important things to get done, but I couldn’t pry myself from the safety of my deep slumber.

I should’ve been an anxious clusterfuck, springing out of bed like a cat discovering a cucumber, but my head plopped perfectly into the indentation that my cranium had formed.

People always get lonely in November.

“Why’d you leave your last job?”

“Well, it was the Holiday Season™, and there was this bullshit with this girl, and I just didn’t give a fuck about anything, including my life, health, happiness, or welfare. But what kinds of benefits do you typically provide entry-level employees? And honestly, I have some management experience that I think you should consider because I don’t feel like sucking dick and doing shit work for the next six months, if you don’t mind.”

I laid in bed, thinking that I should be working on work stuff. Even if I don’t go into work, if I at least get some shit done, that could be fine. I can’t really miss today’s meeting, but I mean, if they think I’m sick but still getting my shit done, maybe they’ll be impressed. Maybe I’ll get a raise. But instead, I laid around, doing nothing, thinking nothing, trying to get my ass fired.

I watched videos about how to get your meringue to stiffen up just right. Even after watching the videos, I still don’t know how they make meringue, to be honest. Something about eggs, right? As far as I’m concerned, it’s some culinary magic, and I’m happy to let it remain that way. I’m a curious person, but I’m also lazy. Let there be some magic in the world.

I haven’t visited her Facebook in six months now. How? I think about doing it everyday. A few weeks ago, I used the company computer and accidentally ran across her YouTube channel. I thought that I was going to go into cardiac arrest. I didn’t even watch any of it. I just saw that she had recently posted a video. It felt fatal. Cardiac arrest.

Maybe that’s wrong. I don’t know what “cardiac arrest” means. But I could feel my pulse in the ends of my appendages and I was worried that someone could see my heart violently pumping, causing my shirt to expand and contract. I was cold and sweaty, and I knew that everyone around me must be staring at me, wondering how long it would take me to die.

I collapsed into my rolly chair and stared at my computer screen. If my boss had come by and asked me what I was doing, I would’ve done one of a few things: I would’ve cried hysterically, I would’ve punched him in the dick, I would’ve vomited on his Kenneth Cole loafers (fucking dickface stupidass boss), or I would’ve simply staggered out of the building and waited for the cops to meet me near the door.

I didn’t do anything today. I barely moved. My bed and my body started to fuse. My ass hurts, to be honest.

I grabbed some snacks after a few hours of looking at Facebook, YouTube, and YouPorn, and I brought the snacks to my room after taking a long piss. Are there crumbs in the goddamn bedsheets? You bet your ass there are. But I bought these sheets at Target, and I think that the threadcount is a negative number. I don’t know shit about threadcounts, but I guess that’s probably pretty bad. It’s probably impossible, but that’s how shitty these stupid fucking sheets are.

I did one productive thing, actually: I discovered this band while YouTubing. Does “YouTubing” mean something? Well, you know what I mean. I looked at a video, and then got railroaded into watching some other suggested video, and then, that became hours of wasting my life. Anyway, this time wasn’t as wasteful.

I found this song by this band I’d never heard of and I played it on repeat for a few hours. It was kind of a shitty little pop song that sounded like it was recorded by a drunken band at 8am. I mean, the singer sounded like someone woke Rod Stewart at 8am on his 29th birthday, and had him sing this song twice and then just settled for that and let him go back to sleep or something. Like, you know when there’s no reverb on anything and the guitars aren’t even really tuned? Maybe you don’t. Maybe they don’t even make songs like that. I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying, but I try to sound like I do.

If you talk about guitar tuning and meringue, then stupid people can be impressed. Some people will fuck you if you talk about guitar tuning and meringue. Those people are very stupid. Which is stupider, though? Which is more pathetic? It’s a tough call, really.

At work today, they’ve probably already filed 12,000 TPS reports. I think I’ll skip tomorrow, too. I didn’t mean to just make two references to Office Space, but I guess I’m okay with it, since the second was incidental. I just meant that I really don’t ever want to go into that nauseatingly stupid, oppressive place again. Maybe Peter Gibbons was right, somehow.

I might be behind on my electric bill, but it’ll all work out. Somehow. I guess. Maybe I just need to get laid. Maybe I should meditate. Maybe I should pray. Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t know who to pray to, and by this point, I doubt it would help.


Dark-Eyed Serpent

My skin — a melted, bubbling, radioactive sheath —
pulses to the rhythm of my fearful, unfocused heart.
Reptiles and serpents,
with opaque eyes, souls, and scales,
permeate the sheath
between disjointed pulsings of my heart.

They enter the same way
she slipped through my walls that night,
cloaked in something wicked,
robbing me of options,
robbing me of dignity.

We stood in the cold,
and she heard my words
but didn’t listen.
And she kept blowing little clouds at me.
They’d vanish in the cold night air,
just as soon as they’d appear.

Unwitting Abraxas

Sad Woman Leaving Alone

It wasn’t the end.
I had thought it might’ve been the end.
I was finding footing
on rotating, undulating mountains:
the notion that these feelings might be planted in the past.

And ours was so shallow,
so short-lived.

I feel like a teenage girl,
poring over Nicholas Sparks,
crying to indie music in her dimly-lit, poster-covered room,
writing someone’s name in a notebook
complete with little hearts
and disemboweled hearts,
waving and crusty from where
teardrops pocked the page.

I didn’t think you’d do this to me,
and some part of me is glad you did,
but another part of me wishes
that we were 20 months into the future,
and that this didn’t have to be fucked up.

And I wish this could be the feeling
20 months from now,
but honestly,
I’m writing you a sad, stupid, pathetic breakup poem,
over what was a blissful, perfect weekend.
All because we want to be responsible with our futures
and we don’t have time for love right now.

A World’s First Moments of Coldness

Sad, quiet child

I still remember the acridity,
as the cold, hard cobalt floor
slowly collided with my cheeks and jowls.

My face shot around like one of those old cartoons
and up – way up – so that my eyes could meet my mother’s face,
distorted, scrunched in the bottom of the front of her head,
moving about as if sounds were to come from it.

I lay, sucking in long, low breaths,
perched up, but unmoving,
apart from the steady tremors of my breathing,
waiting for something to change
in that acrid air.

The last thing I remember from that isolating moment
was the early betrayal I felt
as the pitch of the gong of my head
met the pitch of her voice,
and she said,
“It doesn’t matter why! Life’s not fair!”

Body Count

Crying, smiling girl

Another dead body sits on the pile,
reeking of cigarettes and gin,
half-smiling up at me behind smeared makeup,
its eyes rotating, trying to lock into mine.

The threads of your little cornflower date dress
stretch – barely making it – from one hip
all the way to the other hip,
and you smell like roses and acetone.

I fumbled over microwavable cliches
and feigned confusion
of the exclusively internal sort,
but in the dark corridors of our “romance,”
I was really just reaching into your chest
like in the Temple of Doom scene,
only to swallow it whole
without anyone noticing,
including myself.

I’m really very sorry. I didn’t mean it.
And yes; I ate your ice cream.

You’re not the first.
You won’t have been the last.

The Disaster of Invincibility and Other Illusions

Not So Superhero

Snow-topped mountains that scratch the sky’s surface were made for
bounding over.
Edgeless oceans offer satisfaction from
landing on the other side.
They placed the stars for us to pluck from the sky and swallow whole,
so that brilliant rays can shine from each of us.

A child is born to an unsuspecting world,
and she can grow as tall as trees
or have a 300 IQ
or make enough money to buy a continent
or give peace to all the world.

Some children feel titanium in their bones:
they know they’ll always be invincible.
They know only imperviousness
to hate, heartache, darkness, and sadness.
For them, there is only invincibility.
Anything can happen with,
or to, these children.

But invincible children aren’t different from invisible children.
We’re all butterflies in a typhoon; hopelessly frail.

We Are Love


Someone looks at me and smiles,
and their eyes are all I see.
I involuntarily, happily smile back.
I want to look away because that seems like the decent thing to do,
but they project warm love and confidence, wise naïveté and unexpectant optimism.
I want to wriggle free, but there’s no ground beneath me from which to push;
my limbs don’t work as this stranger’s eyes judgelessly read my thoughts
and gently burrow into my mind.

So I surrender to the lazer-focused tractor beam
and feel the safety of their eyes’ embrace.
Their gaze is a warm blanket, a childhood memory, an anchor in an otherwise chaotic world.
And I want this moment to last forever, but I know that it won’t,
so my brain goes dumb, and my body turns to waves of energy,
softly vibrating so that I no longer feel like a discrete thing:
I can’t tell where the frontiers of my body end and where far-off galaxies begin.
And that feels good.

But then, the waves crash into the wall that is reality,
and the most prominent features on my face radiate outwardly,
and I become aware of the heart pulsing in my chest.
And I wonder Do they do this to everyone?
But I realize that if I asked,
I might just hear their heart beating just as loudly.

Maybe we’d yell and flail,
maybe we’d end the cycle of negativity that’s characterized my previous relationships,
or maybe nothing would happen at all.

But in these seconds,
as we’re standing here,
not saying anything,
innocently wondering,
we are love.

University Break-in


Getting into a competitive university was a little like going into a fancy restaurant, ordering the most expensive dessert, and failing to pay before leaving. It’s decadent and liberating, like a fantasy, but you feel out of place, and you get the sense that everyone’s staring at you. At the very least, you realize that you don’t belong. You feel a little guilty because you know your friends would never dream of being there, but for that same reason, you also feel like you’d damn well better enjoy the shit out of it.

It was never supposed to have been that way. To say that I came from poor white trash is an understatement. We were poor, but not the poorest. The trashest, though? We were a Stepford Family driving my grandparents’ hand-me-down Buicks, while my crazy parents were losing the house thanks to 900-number-bills, in between beating the shit out of us and each other, avoiding the truth about psychological diagnoses and engaging in creative forms of abuse and neglect. Trash. Yes.

But here I was, secretly much older than I was supposed to have been (I didn’t go to school until my mid-20s), sitting in Medieval History behind a sorority girl with perfect boobs and 3/20ths of her ass residing below the frayed edge of her denim shorts and next to a boy whose ballhair was just months old. I could grow more hair off the end of my nose than he could in his whole groin. That’s a weird thing for me to have said. Excuse me. This has been the part where I slightly loudly say something salacious to the worldly waiter while the middle-aged couple next to me cuts off their conversation about summer plans for the portico so that they can scoff at my faux pas. It feels good, honestly. So fuck you. I’m excused. I excuse myself.

It’s a break-in, really. You’re in this insulated club, where everyone’s giving each other smiles that are so big and so self-congratulatory that, if you haven’t gotten used to it yet (and I sure as fuck haven’t), it feels something like a cross between a white supremacists’ meeting (because that’s really what they are) and a mutual masturbation session. You half-expect them to wink at you from across the room and mouth You’re welcome. In a way, it feels good. It’s empowering. But you also know that, one day, your’e going to walk into a situation where you’re supposed to remember where you came from, you’re supposed to remember your friends who stunted their potential for the sake of loyalty, you’re supposed to remember that you’re representing the adversity, the grit, the determination, the realness, the humility of the people from whence you came, but instead, you fuck everyone in the ass and you drink some Chandon while tears stream down your face and you can’t figure out whether it’s because it feels so bad or because it feels so good. Maybe it’s both.

“What’s Between Us Pt. 2” by Adriana Thomas

Lyrics by Shaun Terry

“What’s Between Us Pt. 1” by Adriana Thomas

Lyrics by Shaun Terry


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