On your knees

Hands on your lap

Assume your position

On the floor

Head down towards the mat.


I want “yes sir” only

As I do as I please

Never shall you directly

Look at me.


Your opinion, your mind

Becomes moot under me

My rule is final

In this one sided hell.


Give up




Under my strong grasp

Never may you have any room to thrash.


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The Last Nice Thing

The Last Nice Thing


If you don’t stay

I’ll –

kill myself.


You’ll have pushed me

off the edge.

It’ll be your fault

if you don’t



So this will be

the last nice thing

I ever do for you.


“Hey… this is his –

now ex

I guess.

I’m not expecting anything

[since you’ll probably take his side]

but he did threaten,

to go off the deep end.”


“I’d hate to see him do that to himself”

“So don’t let him”


King of the DS

King of the DS

You once told me you didn’t like piercings.

You once told me you didn’t like tattoos.

And that you didn’t like painted hair and nails.

You once told me I shouldn’t wear makeup even for myself.


You once accused me of having double standards,

but what the fuck happened there?


Dear King of the DS,

I should kick your ass.


Tell me the difference,

That she brought to break that which you once told me.

Tell me, please.

I’m all out of analyses.


You’re the one that’s tattooed.

And her gauges are larger than mine.

Her face is caked in a nice thick layer…

Who the fuck is this new little faker?


She made it to your profile picture,

A hell of a lot more than you did for me.

Even when I asked you,

There were double standards instead to work through.


Fuck you,

Dearest King of the DS.


Flaunting double standards as if they’re a show.

You’re gonna get caught one day,

And I’m gonna laugh as I turn to go.


No more accusations there will be on that day,

As your harem of whores dissipates.

And I’ll be glad I don’t have a part when that all goes askew.

Boy, that will really suck for you.


And all thanks to your fucking double standards,

King of the DS.

Grasping three months I’d like to repossess.


Speak of the devil,

It’s as if as soon as I speak your name,

Speak of the devil,

Another message came.


It doesn’t matter if I don’t answer,

Despite the response I’d like to send.

There’s still your blinking message there.

You’d think it would know that I don’t care.


It used to be okay when you never answered me.

So why’s not okay now when I do the same damn thing?


Dear King of the Double Standard,

of the DS.

You sure are the fucking king.

And a least now you’ve got your whore of a queen.

“What did you do?”

“What did you do?”

I gave you kisses.

I gave you hugs.

I played with your hair.

I paid for dinner.

I invited you over.

I went where I’d later tell you I didn’t want to go.

What did you ever do?


I paid seven hundred dollars up front when you went and crashed my mom’s car.

I went and took the blame for your disrespectful mistakes so far.

I went and lied to protect you even if we still got caught.

I paid an extra two hundred dollars when you cared naught.

I paid thirty-six dollars each weekend to see you, arriving on the train at one.

I paid with money when both of us had none.

I was the one who left my home.

I was the one that did the traveling alone.


I gave you back rubs.

I gave you a protein shake.

I never gave you gas money,

But I made up for it with “love”.


I gave up my comfort.

I lived weekends out of a suitcase.

I put up with traveling migraines and backaches.

And all in a strange place.


I gave you dinner (three weeks old).

I gave you kisses and affection.

Seriously, “What did you ever do?”


I put up with other girls coming around.

I put off my trust issues like you’d asked with a frown.

You’d never travel the distance, never offer an apology.

And I put up with your drunk-ass mother in her name calling of me.

I put up with tattooed and gauged double standards from you.

I put up with fights beginning anew.

I put up with it when you yelled you didn’t want to come out.

Acting as though I’d forced you somehow.


And I put up with you blaming me.

For fights.

For squabbles.

For your inability to time manage work and school and practice.

A call isn’t a lot to ask for. And I put up with complaints about that too.

I put up with sleepless nights.

I put up with two and three am phone calls.

I put up with you not wanting to fix it so you’d stall.

I had to put up with your demand to approve my wishes of activities to do.

I had to put up with your other suitors coming around you.


You weren’t the only one getting no sleep.

You weren’t the only one who had a bank account to watch closely.

You weren’t the one watching a reenactment of the same wreckage.

You weren’t the one dreading the next morning’s message.


So you never knew the paradox that occurred when I was relieved to not get an angry message that morning,

But only because I hadn’t gotten a text at all that day.
As if you’d somehow forgotten.


I had put up with another relationship I’d tried to avoid a second time.

I put up with pressures desired in only your mind.

I put up with your nasty habits,

I put up with your wanting a break.

“You’re either with me or your not,”

And I put up with it when you disapproved of that thought.

I put up with it when you wanted me back.

“I tried to get over you”

As if that was a plea?

How many chicks have you fucked to try and get over me?


And you’ll retaliate.

She lied. She hated. And now she’s writing this.

But Social Media has even more proof of your disrespect for me.


I emptied my bank account.

I emptied a previously broken heart.

I emptied salted tears.

I emptied three valuable months but it felt like years.

And you’re upset because I wasn’t affectionate in the midst of our fights?

When instead I emptied every bit of waking strength I had into a relationship that would end with a vice.

I emptied three months of work,

I emptied three months of travel.

I emptied one month of fighting.

And I poured out a liquefying me,

Exhausted from your sick reality.


So I know exactly what I did for you, and I’ll ask:

“What the hell did you do?”



“I checked on my friends”

“I made sure they were OK”

“They were the first ones I found out on the field”


And then there was me.

Hiding under a desk.

Everyone else giggled, their last moments spent in the stolen safest corner surrounded by their friends.


“I checked on my friends.”


What about everyone else?

who in your popularity you’d forgotten about.


“I was the protector”

“I knew everyone”

but what about those who dealt instead with it by their selves?

who never asked?

I bet you never knew he who was bullied into silence.

I bet you never knew he who was to shy to speak out in class.


And I bet in your lockdown

you did check on your friends.

And I bet on your haste

you forgot about the quiet one alone under a desk.


And still you think yourself a hero

Breaking the rules by running room to room

and room to store and back again.

So cool you were,

and a hero among your friends.


And then there was me.

Who watched you come running in.

you checked on the girl you liked.

you checked on your buddy(s).

asked if they were okay.


And I bet in your haste

you forgot about he under the desk

following the rules,

when I’d refused to speak out. yet.



I’m not that one

I’m not the one.


The one that blows kisses

The one that dances out the night

I’m not the one smiling bright.


I’m not the one in pink,

I’m not the one in heels and dresses

with love finding many ways of expressions.


I’m not the girl you ordered,

I’m not the girlfriend of your dreams.

I’m not here to please you by all means.


I’m not the one that says all the right things,

I’m not the one that does all the right things.

And it’s a fear upon me that constantly springs.


I’m not the girlfriend you ordered.

I’m not the girlfriend you dreamt of.


I’m the one of real life,

The one that’ll wake you from that damned sleep

Because I’m so much fucking upkeep.


I’m the one from whom you’d better get the hint.

I’m the one that’ll make you work

With the texts and calls each day,

“The desire to see you isn’t too much to ask” I say.


When it is I’m the one that throws a cow

Because I’m the one with more than one emotion

And sometimes I’m the one that becomes a mess

When I’m the one looking over the edge.


I’m the one that wants space and quiet,

I’m the one that’s moody

All of the time.

I’m the one that’s high maintenance with double standards set in a line.


So when you get scared –

And I know you will –

You’ll back off and it won’t be a big deal.

Just like everyone else who couldn’t handle me for anything more than sex appeal.


Because I’m not like the girl you saw in the mall.

Shopping bags full of dresses, her never-ending smile topping painted nails and heels.


I’m not.

And I’m not.

I’m just not.


So here’s my fine print,

My warning if you will.


I’m not the stereotype you perceived me to be.

And I’m the one you won’t can’t foresee to keep.

Being Serious

Being Serious

I don’t remember the point at which I stopped being serious.

But I know I did stop.

Wrapping my ideas for life around this one boy,

a boy who wasn’t even a man.

Getting high around the clock was his plan.


I debated and contemplated, depending on us,

but his plan was thus:

too different, too self-centered.

He was no longer taking part in the life we had entered.


I was lonely.

I was tired.

I was angry.

And I was defeated.

All my morals had been drained and cheated.


He was that guy in the halls,

listening and taking part in the lewd cat-calls.

Friends with everyone and strutting as if he were the priest,

High and Mighty, popularity consumed him while everything else had ceased.


“I can feel it, I’m going to be big this year.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring you with me.”

I thought of him as if he were a living hyperbole.


I was left behind, outdated.

the one in the halls that felt understated.

Underfoot and overlooked in his shadow.

Writing escaping into Voyager was my loaded crossbow.


And in the end it was movies and movies and not much else.

I was barely in the mood to see him

when his demand for sex became a threat of its own.

His clouded mind truly was sitting upon a throne.


He called me scared, he called me a bitch.

He told me “I hope you suffer in your next relationship like I did!”

while I met with fury for not giving it up.

Then he asked for me to take him back like I might turn and say “yup”.


There were days of begging and days of serenades, one last chance with his love to “show”.

Yet I said no.

“You should have known the stakes,”

taking me for granted with broken promises is not what it takes.


And still I don’t remember the point at which I stopped being serious.

But I know I did stop.

All thanks to my morals being drained and cheated.

And now I’m done being the one who is mistreated.