Rain batters calm shores,

Great waves take boulders to sea.

You are the sharp wind,

Blowing through my blood like ice.

Sharpened siblinghood cuts through.

Lightning flashes bright,

The air alights and thunder rolls.

I am the tree hit.

They did not ask why you struck,

Only why I grew too tall.

Safe in the dark cave

She waits for the storm to pass.

I sit in the cold,

Scorn seeps through my wounded pride.

Remember, I reflect you.

My favourite poems: “Lady Lazerus” by Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it--

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?--

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot--
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

‘A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart--
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--

A cake of soap, 
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air

The Abyss

I fell in love with the abyss when I looked into it.

I saw myself in the darkness

And it saw me.

For the first time,

I felt something colder than the person I’d become.

I did not want to ever look away

Because that’s what true love is,

When something captures you so perfectly

And you feel it creep into your soul

Like little black ants onto a park bench

And you dare not squash any of them.

The Rape Joke by Patricia Lockwood

The rape joke is that for the next five years all you did was write, and never about yourself, about anything else, about apples on the tree, about islands, dead poets and the worms that aerated them, and there was no warm body in what you wrote, it was elsewhere.


Can any part of the rape joke be funny. The part where it ends—haha, just kidding! Though you did dream of killing the rape joke for years, spilling all of its blood out, and telling it that way.

I couldn’t find the author’s reading of it, but this poem needs to be read. It needs to be shared. The original that I found is here.

The Supervillain

The Supervillain.

Sometimes I hear that voice in my head,

Clearly they don’t love you, it says.

We’ll just have to kill them all.

A little violence never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it, it says.

Hurt them back,

Hurt them hard,

Hurt them worse.

Hit where it hurts, where it doesn’t heal.

You’re the one assessing them for threats, it says.

You’re the one who sees weakness first,

Like the lioness ready to pounce,

Or the rabbit ready to run

So tell him he’s just like your parents,

Tell her she’s immature.

Pick apart physical defects,

Shove your fingers in the wounds,


Pick apart neurological idiosyncrasies,

Twist harder.

An eye for an eye, it says.

I lost my vision long ago.


I sent emails, made plans for phone calls.

I was never very good at connecting, but if written word is to be seen I need to give voice to it.

Not just a face to it,

Or vaguely sexual posing.

I wish the world ran on a teenager’s schedule,

Now now now because we’re double fisting immortality and death,

We have too much life but enough time to lose it.

I plan my blog posts out in advance.

I wonder how the ladies in the television commercials, selling barley or fiber

See anal retention.

At least I’m regular about it.