My entire life has been informed by the space between us. 

There is the distance of my language and there is the distance of my touch.  Across the room but glowing. The warmest I’ll get is further away. 

They’ve memorized the muscles of my back

my pout and the echo of my cry-filling cavern
carved by the sound of my heels tapping;
retreating. Longing, and the way I succumb to holding, or allowing touch; recrudescent and poxed by them after a period of silence. Tarred by them after a period of respite. Not long enough. A period of cavern. Them, memorizing the color of my shoulder blades in the sun: tall and olive and taut from tension. Desperate for the light of distance. Spoked.  Tall, and wrought with tension.

 I am strolling. I am even sauntering.  Til I see them, I am strolling, then nothing, then tunnel vision. Emptied, but not quite that: automatic. Spurred by instinct. The pervading eyes and I am (smiling) seeing the space close in around me again. Lifeless, watching the move of my hip go from enriched by dance to torpid.  Dragged by shell. 

I am a shell.

Clench your jaw. Tighten your shoulders.Hip goes from bouncing to dead frozen in nervous. (That means it might shake).  The way there was once twenty feet between us. Suck in and walk straight. Swaying til I saw them.  Don’t trip. Ticking from nerves, looked gaily upwards til I saw them. Don’t look.  A pleasant thought crossed me right before I saw them.  My most pleasant thoughts are false memories.
Reverie.
That means I imagined the most pleasant experience of my life. 

Suddenly there was ten feet (I am smiling), then five feet (in reverie), then one foot. Suddenly the hand on my shoulder, on my middle back, the ubiquitous trail
towards my coccyx.  He towers,

“you’re too pretty.”

  I am smiling. They are a huddled mass.. So many of them with their fingers out
filling the space between us. I am smiling. Smile. They are reaching for me–
trailing their scummy fingernails down my tucked in blouse
and there is nothing underneath or inside of me.
I am vacant but I can hear the chorus, from
my safe distance.

“You are too pretty to frown.”

“the men”

we see their happy posts today and we see
their allyship and we see these men dispose of us.
get rid of us when we become too difficult.
we see their mulish faces back away
when our fingers get too close
pointing out an egregious fault.
or asking them to stop,
asking them to stop interrupting us.
asking them to stop when we say no

(no then they come closer, when we say no, no is an opener)

we see their gaslighting.
we see them ogle us then shun us when emotion starts to spur
and we see them watch us with a wolfish, only half repentant smile.
we see them lurk around our houses.
we see them agress, encroach, make sure there is no less than 1 foot between us at all time,
even three inches as we try to pass them on the street.
see them grab our friends.
feel their fingers up our skirt.
we see them rehearse their favorite line “not me”
“not us” shh
but you just ghosted me and you assure her,
she is different. not like us. we see their time more valuable,
presence more valuable,
we see them publicly rate our bodies.
suddenly disappear in the midst of making plans.
we see their little holes mouth slut and we see
their devil red eyes when we cough the seventh no.
(because no means come closer. remember that part of this
poem if you remember nothing else. to men, no is a conversation starter).

we see their well meaning business advice, health advice,
they are experts at everything we are not.
we see them never donate.
we see them never tip.
we see them not give A FUCK about something called
painful bladder syndrome or PPMD or
anything that doesn’t affect a dick so there is no
funding, and no cure, and no reason why five million
people suffer daily, monthly but I have once rolled in a literal pile of
free Viagra and laughed. it was so plentiful
his swollen cock and balls in me for hours.

we see them interrupt us.
we see them follow us home.
we see them neg,
leave airtags in bags and under
cars and we see them trail their fingers over palms
at bars when she didn’t mumble a word. and they love to
(honestly)
troll, stomp their feet–
littly baby bulls!
and snort.
little baby pies.
we see retorts.
(not all men.)
oh sure.
not you.
not us, they say in chorus.
a real shrill choir of sorts which
they saw shrill is reserved for girls.
but when a bunch of a babies scream at once,
I’d say that’s shrill. or at least not tough.

I see them come this way always mouth open
and always the triumph.
(you’ll never meet a man with this kind of verse).
oh, sure I nod to the 20 million waiting in my backyard.
I’d kill to lose a few. (laughter from one side).
They say ill never land a man with my
CAUSTIC BITCH ASS TONGUE, YOU UGLY FAT HAG DYKE LOOKING SLUT.

there must be some kind of
lack of mirror in the world
as we have to tell them where they are wrong.
it seems we are all they see
but they have never in their life
taken a look at that unkempt part in their head,
or that unkept part of their amends:
we will treat you as our daughters and mothers.

(no.)

I fear for their daughters and mothers.

happy international day of women! may we file our nails
into sharp points, and kinda do a come hither and then let em
sit on em,
dig into em.

I can’t define myself–
she’s not rigid,
not any kind of structure.

Several parts.
has been symphonic
& discordant. 

now
I feel like I am coming together.
it’s undefinable.
but not misery.

A breakthrough from misery.
the other side of misery. 

happiness but more than that.
triumph like i walked very far for
very long long.

             ketamine,
and can sit
and drink.
and even fumble.

“ketamine”

This is my sixth time being locked out. This is my sixth pop up when I go to log in that says “______” instead of taking me directly to where I need to be. This is the sixth time someone reported me to retaliate against me. And then my email was banned.

My dad died December of 2020 ten days before Christmas. A couple weeks before that he had been given two years to live. two weeks before Christmas I sat in front of our dwindly Christmas tree and cried, begged, pleaded for one more Christmas. Four days later, I got that 9:30 am phone call and you know it’s just a blur after that. The following summer  was when my mom finally agreed to move. The house was in terrible shape but we managed to sell it and that September I went home to help her move.. On the way I was rear ended by a guy going 55 mph while I was dead stopped, totaling my car. After the shock wore off, I got out to check to see if he was ok and the first thing he said to me was:

Could you let me go please? I don’t have license and insurance. 

I gestured to my car and said, look what you did. No. Also, I added are you ok?

FUUUUCK!

That’s what he screamed. He didn’t ask if I was ok or if I needed anything. He didn’t console me. I had rubbed my hand on his arm and told him it was ok. He screamed near my ear and walked away leaving me alone in front of my totaled car. Leaving me completely alone on the Virginia highway to think of what to do, where to go–about an hour and a half away from my mother still. The second thing he said to me, the last thing he said to me, can you move my car?

That’s what it feels like when I get an error logging in. That’s what it feels like when I receive some nebulous excuse as to why I can’t access my email anymore. That’s how it feels whenever they tell me I am no longer welcome on their platform. It feels like a man just hit me and devastated my life screaming fuck in my ear without asking if I am ok. How are you going to get to your mother’s? I am sorry this happened.  I am of no consequence. I am somehow interminably wrong. I have now ruined his day, therefore I am the villain of the story. 

I needed that car to move my mother. We were able to hold my mom’s stuff at my best friend’s house and drove up together. She had to return a week later with her sister to retrieve it. The whole way I lived in sheer panic. Getting in an accident scars you. The body remembers that it can happen at any given moment; the thud, the hit, the damage, the shot forward and had the car in front of me not moved, had the light not just turned green, I could be dead. I suffer from great panic already and now the highway has become an even scarier place. I just think of him. I know if I get hit, I’ll still be the problem. Everytime I am logged out of an account, the same fear takes over. My stomach tenses. I sit straighter. Braced.

It’s the disposability of it. That I am someone who is disposable.For women, safety is an illusion. For sex workers, that safety is removed entirely. It’s not just the accident or being banned, it’s the hundreds of trolls on tik tok that told me what they thought of me. It’s the constant catcalling and street harassment. The punishment in school for wearing a tank top. The backhanded compliments. The carrot dangling. The pushy clients. The actual rape and assault. The what were you wearing? The damsel sidekick I grew up reading in English, forced to read only male authors. Only male athletes being celebrated. Only male artists. Only males. Only males. 

It’s that women are seen as interchangeable orifices. They don’t exist to feel so they don’t need a platform to be seen. They guest star in a fantasy and then our shuffled away once the fantasy is over. We are disposable and silenced. When we speak out, we are silenced. Maybe I should have started with this but I wanted you to read the whole story to get a picture. Everytime I am banned or locked out, it’s because I have stood up for myself. This time I reported someone making phishing attempt after phishing attempt. Mysteriously after I was banned. Seems like they read the email to me and realized Tryst was an escort site, or the man reported me after I told him I report all his emails as phishing. Or they made a grave mistake and lumped me in with a phishing attempt. But every time I am banned, it is after I call someone out for doing something predatory. 
Like being hit with a big truck yelling fuck at you as you ruin his day. Better to hide me away then face it. Let’s face it–what I do is relatively innocuous if not godly–I change men. I break men, I save them. I confront them and teach them consent.  I hand their ass to them. I train them and I give them pleasure. I am relatively innocent but powerful. It is of no surprise that I have been banned six times when I am constantly telling the world the bad things men did. They will always silence the most powerful and they will always make us feel interchangeable so we don’t fight back. It’s the weariness they bank on. They never expect me to keep getting up.

Starting a business in the middle of a recession?

great idea!! not but really….

I want everyone to have access to everything that ever helped me heal. That’s why I’m here.  I want everyone to have their moment of silence without all the idyllic white washing we have to perform for the public.  The moment of silence that brings them to a core truth or core resting place where some entropy is necessary. I have written many things about my life across many channels and the thing that shocks most people is I have watched thirteen family members die. I lost both my brother, dad and childhood home by thirty-six. I moved twenty times, including across the country twice. I ran head first into a cement mixer when I was drunk. I spent eight years heavily drunk. Got rear ended by a guy going fifty five while I was dead stopped when sober. Survived the pandemic while being handed stressor after stressor including a lease termination three months into grieving my dad.. Changed jobs like clockwork. Watched friends and clients die too and changed.  All the while changed, changed, changed. Panicked, but changed.

Put a stop to harmful things to pick up new harmful habits.  Found better habits. Found more addiction. Found solution to addiction  and changed. Ad infinitum.

This chaotic carousel  created  anxiety and stress, manifesting as a constant stasis of nervousness and volatility. This transferred into not just  panic attacks, but a feeling of dread. The general malaise of winter. Physical ailments surrounding my stomach and bladder. Food issues. Obsessively sticking my face into a sun lamp. Too much caffeine. Obsessively stimming with straws til my hand hurts. Counting vitamins. Sighing.Walking the block endlessly. T r y i n g so hard to have patience and peace with myself. I don’t take advice from folks who never walked across coals about how to handle the heat. I never ask anyone who wasn’t once poor how to make money. 

 I have been seeking solace my whole life.  The only true solace I receive has always been sleep. When I get it, it is filled with lucid or vivid dreams. And foretelling. I don’t rest much during the day. I need a full eight hours. 

It started with chamomile. Well, it started with studying herbalism for a year after deciding I didn’t want to pursue my Master’s of Social Work afterall. Another incredibly trying time was being a mental health case manager for four years and trying to go to grad school.  Helping  thirty-three people through crisis regularly will knock the literal wind out of you.  So, it started with taking care of myself and leaving that industry. Moreover,  learning about chamomile and how to make infusions. Chamomile is the first herb I played around with: making tincture, infusion, and skin balm. The sedative and nervine effects are manageable and gentle and it is the herb I recommend first. Felt a sense of calm come over me. Began to fall asleep faster. I moved less and less and became content with sitting still. It wasn’t a miracle herb by any means but a slow building one.  I used it more and more. A cup of hot chamomile became an evening ritual. Then I moved to valerian which gave me such intense dreams and such deep sleep. (Forgot to mention I suffered from insomnia for about four years).  I felt a bit groggy in the morning but was able to tamper with that dose to find a better solution. Waking up became easier and my night was restful.  Valerian also showed me my creativity through an active brain at night. My dreams were patently premonitory. Often what I wrote down would happen that same day or shortly thereafter. It felt like each herb was building on where the other left off and taking me deeper into a recess of mind that was allowing me to access deep knowledge. And I’ll devote another blog to my dreams about my dead dad and brother.

Then I used the whole apothecary: marshmallow, slippery elm, St. John’s wort,  lemon balm, holy basil and wormwood to calm myself and aid my stomach; a budding problem starting from years of too much acid including coffee. I started using jasmine and geranium oil to set flowered boundaries. Lots of ylang ylang, black tourmaline, cayenne pepper, charcoal salt, smoky quartz, sigil and mugwort.  Oh, mugwort. My favorite of favs. Connector to gods and thinner of veils. Mugwort and my intro to divining deserves an entire second blog as well. But I became more calm. There were periods of panic that I shared on my website, but I found solutions. Breathwork. Learned how to manage my day. And I am humble nenough to admit I still need work, but I found aids. I took baths nightly. I sprinkled my oil, lit my candles, lined the tub with stones and sipped my chamomile, my nettle mix, my mugwort tincture. Immersed myself in salt, votive, and prayer. I spent an entire winter in the bath once just to feel my body sit. 

I resent the notion that people don’t change. People need change and they do change. They thrive in it. But they need slow incremental changes. We have forgotten the word slow. We judge things based on output–have they received an accolade for their accomplishments? No? Then they didn’t really try or succeed did they? Did it happen in this short year or this short lifetime? Can we touch the new and different body? Change isn’t palpable or measurable all the time. It’s invisible. It spans decades and generations. We change with the help of others cheering us on, feedback from the community, guidance and aides. Optimism. Tools.  I hope to help bring all of that—from tinctures to tarot— to folks struggling with all things that stem from anxiety and trauma. Research has proven that those with childhood trauma are more than 50% likely to develop a sleep disorder, and if someone is able to sleep after a traumatic event, they are more likely to recover faster. “Compared to adults with few or no ACEs, adults with a significant amount of childhood trauma are more than twice as likely¹⁹ to have trouble falling asleep and are also twice as likely to feel tired after a full night’s sleep. The effects of ACEs on sleep can last for up to 50 years²⁰, with each ACE experienced in childhood increasing the risk of not getting enough sleep as an adult by 20.” (https://www.sleepfoundation.org/mental-health/trauma-and-sleep)

Insomnia, interrupted sleep, fidgeting, nervousness, digestion issues and a general feeling of tension and muscle aches are all hurdles to quietude and the amity we so desperately deserve to give ourselves. We deserve rest. We deserve a pain free life.  We have all experienced so much in this short life. We survived the pandemic. We survived so many wars, death and political upheaval. I also hope to connect people to their dreams, premonitions and to the spirit world if they so desire. This apothecary’s main focus is helping to regulate a dysregulated system, as well as expand connection to the liminal and beyond. I recommend chamomile to start. Then lemon balm and marshmallow. Then mugwort.

Work with various herbs to find which one works hardest for you. Godspeed, and I am here if you need me.

I carried little pieces of God
everywhere;
whittled pine needle,
robin feathers,
a baby garnet for luck.
besides the
straws, I liked
natural things; Earth

to touch during
sedentary moments
quell the fidget inside.
today, a pint-sized celestite
entertained my skittish fingers.
it was a part of a larger cluster,
but I liked the cyan sparkle
so I broke off a piece.

I am surrounded by repentant men
with wolfish outlines.
my “allies.”
fellow addicts.
I nod when they say
they feel a guilt greater
than their desire. I having
consumed an entire night’s portion
before walking here.
when they want my approval,
they usually begin with things
like
I took advantage of her.

feel a poke in my index finger
and I cross my legs.

I am wearing brown tights, brown
heeled boots and a cream turtleneck
sweater dress.  my hair is
short, uncombed and strange.
I am mostly plain.
save light blush, mascara and
chapstick..
it is important as a woman
to catalog what you were wearing
and how you generally look
in any moment.
also I had gained some weight
before I  rediscovered
starvation.

when you tell the audience the story
they can gauge their reaction better.
were you homely, girl?

I was neither homely nor
exceptional, a frozen
brown blob blending
into the cream walls
and watching the blue chips
of nail polish flake onto
the floor. as he spoke
of his life of
trespassing,
I suddenly found my hands
to be urgent.

and remembering the whisper
of the woman who shushed
the last girl who shared her rape
in a room just like this,
I watched a speck of light blue
crystal join the floor,
saw the red swell and trickle
into a dot capping my finger.
blood      I
watched the tiny celestite break.

“fury”

I blow
when charged.
not always fit for ground.
when standing,
an unbearable pressure.
more reasonable in
flight– even in
vehemence.

I kiss her fingers and
say:
you are a jungle.
I stretch,
yawn
and out falls a
knuckle.

What does love feel like?
she asks.
I turn to
cough
and out falls another.
kiss her flowered mouth
through my tight teeth
and say

like a wet machete
ripping through
the jungle.

“camouflage”