I sometimes peel myself for fun
forgetting I am dripping
I devour this holy pomegranate
for my last meal
While the world makes love
to cope with flesh
I vow to touch the earth
with the courtesy of life in mind
Through every door
every portal
I walk
fall
burn
and come back
to myself
again
and again
– Freegrandmaa
—
I’ve never been a tidy writer. I don’t write from outlines. I don’t plan.
Because pain rarely makes sense while you’re inside it. Because memory doesn’t arrive in full sentences. Because healing isn’t clean. And neither is truth.
My hands have always been frantic, scratching, scribbling, collaging, bleeding. Before I had language for what I was feeling, I had survival instinct. My chaos moved through my fingers. I drew. I cut. I self-harmed. I wrote. It wasn’t for performance. It was so I wouldn’t drown.
When I finally found poetry, it didn’t feel like art. It felt like company.
I remember sitting alone by a stream in Ohio. I had followed a lover to a place where no one wanted me. Not him, not my family. Isolation cracked me open. Trauma rose in the silence like smoke. I was drowning in rejection, misunderstood and invisible, waiting to feel like someone again.
That’s when the butterfly showed up. It lingered. It saw me. It didn’t save me, but it stayed long enough to let me feel seen. And in that moment, the words came like a river. Unfiltered, unconscious, mythic. The poem didn’t try to make sense. It just felt real. And for the first time in a long time, I felt real too.
I don’t write logically. I write neurologically. I write like the body remembers. Trauma doesn’t give you stories, it gives you sensations. The brain breaks memory into fragments. You remember a sound, a flinch, a smell. Not a plot.
My poetry mirrors that. That’s why my lines come in flashes. Why my metaphors feel mythic. Why there’s no narrative arc, only spirals, symbols, sobs, silences.
Writing that follows the rhythm of memory, not structure. Writing that reveals the subconscious, not logic. Writing that bleeds in a language the nervous system can trust. I didn’t learn this. I survived into it.
I am what I call an underworld translator, a shadow scribe, a nervous system medium.
I write from inside the burn.. I speak from the parts of the self most people try to avoid. The underworld is not hell, it’s the unspoken. The grief you buried. The version of yourself that exists beneath the mask. The shadow self waiting not to haunt, but to be integrated.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m just romanticizing it all. If shadow work is just another addiction. If I’m still self-harming, but this time with metaphors. If I’m scripting pain to feel in control.
But this is also true: there is no light without this walk. There is no peace without knowing what almost destroyed you. And writing is how I know the difference. If I let it be ugly, feral, fragmented, then I know I’m not hiding anymore.
Because when you don’t face your underworld, it doesn’t disappear, it mutates. Into numbness. Into avoidance. Into loneliness. Into cruelty. It passes down. What you refuse to integrate, your children inherit.
I write because I didn’t
Kill Me
Bug On A Wall
“Bug on a wall, doe eyed, pressed to a window, steamed and well, comfortable..
I handled the last storm.
I’ve been meeting people who look like me again. I must admit I’m timid and shy to approach..”
Possessive Eclipse
What will linger when I’m gone
If time erases everything
Are some things meant to stay
I wanna leave an imprint
You’d try to forget me
But where will you ever find a ghost as haunting?
Stitched beneath your skin
A whisper in the bones
When I Go
Hold my love when I go
Sing him tunes of eternity when I go
Heal him tightly when I go
Bless him while rising when I go
Sow him with peace when I go
Promise new lovers who dance till full
Does it exist I wouldn’t know
What feels real is felt low I am told
Hold my love when I go
Source
These wings don’t flock
I am not forced by any wind
Ungrounded from the land and molds
Behold everyone, the individual
A pure source
Pure eyes
A soul who’s unknown
Doesn’t quite belong anywhere
Found in anything and everything; every being
Bone comfort, adored lover
“The things we have in common, probably why we get along and also why we’re no good. The toxic pleasure in the mutual stroking of each other’s egos, shadows, soft spots. We are impermanent, so I can be in coexistence with you until we’re not. I look at you tenderly and will call you a lover for the rest of this life regardless of how, if, or when things end. I genuinely hope you’re able to connect with more compatible lovers. It’s one of the most pleasurable things, and good for da soul.”
“I agree Miss mulberry. Beautiful word choice.”
I wouldn’t call all the people I’ve had sex with a lover. The fate of my lovers and I tend to be bittersweet. I know it all too well. It’s comfortable having the dynamic we have. Like all, I see a piece of myself in X and a piece of him in me. He resurrected a part of me I thought was dead. He got me dancing again..
“He heats up and I lie down with him. Licking skin, fixing our faces.. He is pressure, I volcanic rock and I soon glaze over.”
I know I can’t carry X to the other side when/if the time comes. I’m pretty sure I want to grow, to learn how to relationship, to try wholeheartedly choosing someone and commiting at least once. To face my fears, and cast away my trust issues. It sounds nice, the vision is clear, the work however not for the weak. And relationships are my greatest weakness. Now I’m not weak, I’m just not sure if I can actually do it, if all of me wants to, if I’ll get the chance, if I have the tools..
Because if I’m honest; more often than not, I don’t want him; or anyone else, to be mine. A part of me doesn’t want to be wanted or possessed in that way either. It’s a vulnerability I’m uncomfortable with. It’s a sacrifice I have mixed feelings and thoughts about..I love my solitude and being my safe space. I like him and having him around, and the feeling is mutual, and that’s alright. being lovers is simple, freeing, safe..
“Play with me. Stay with me. Relax here..”
I think I knew this all along, and I know the longer we remain the more bitter than sweet the end will be for me. It was supposed to be a smooth ending, but I threw my hands up and gave X what he wants, what a part of me wants. We’re fairly open and solid with communication so nothing is a surprise. I know him and I know him well. I know our dance like the back of my hand. I am willing and leaning in. I can be here, now. And if we stay fucked up and never heal the parts we share, we probably will wind up dancing much longer than I intended…
I just don’t want another cold goodbye, or to tire. I wanna be warm still, tender still when it ends. I had a chance at a soft clean slate, but he is a charming woodpecker and I’ve never had a lover quite like this so I’ll indulge until I don’t anymore. He’s familiar and also unknown, and well I’m pulled…
“You help me see and understand nothing.. There is no right or wrong with you.”
..All of my lovers have a special place in my heart though..
“Love is supposed to be free not lethal.”
..I wanna be a better lover..
..I’m grateful and I’ll abstractly draw him and write passionate poems when the heartache comes and in the meantime..
“My love comes in all forms.”
Fruit
He poured some passion
Plucked me as fruit
I was healthy; a milky way
His sweet comfort
His wild girl
A bud turned bloom in his hands
Form
She sways and she fades
Condensing as we name her audacious
Sometimes I shout it too
With her I had no clue
.
My love comes in all forms
She’s cold and lukewarm
When she melts I melt with her
I have faith in her rigid lorn
.
Chant and sing these warnings
She is everything
She is nothing within
On the mountain where I placed her
She was my only friend
.
I was free to scrutinize her
She was decay and serpent
Offered me to experience life freely
She wouldn’t dare come with me
I’d repent to see her nearly
Lifted
Hovering by my bedside
With some lips that tucked me in
Nothing special to keep us up all night
We made sure when we’re together we’re lifted
Freegrandmaa 