OUROBOUROS 

 

I’m a serial killer–

Im no dahmer or gacy,

Nothing so simple.

My target is always myself

Killing my past in

Attempts to achieve

A blank slate and

Start over again. 

 

When shame is so natural

It feels like a second language

It’s only fitting to bury the bodies

To hide the damning evidence

Of what you were.

 

I’ve spent my whole life

Knowing how I want to live

But not knowing how to  

Give birth to myself.

Thinking the only way 

Was to slit the throat

Of my now-past self

To make room for a new me

To show off my self flagellation

In an attempt to justify my

Potential for growth

Thinking I was so unlovable

That the only way I could

Change that was to hate myself

Enough for the both of us

To save you the effort.

 

Maybe you’d think we had something in common,

Now that I can’t stand myself, either.

 

And what a judgmental viewpoint,

That I would believe so little of others

That I’d think they could never forgive

Me for my past simply because

I could never forgive myself.

 

Absolution is all I ever craved.

Redemption, the name of the game.

Why else have I held the whip to

My own back for this long

Why else start over so many times

I’m on my second name

My third Facebook profile

My fourteenth attempt at love

My five hundredth time

Apologizing for my survival

My six thousandth selfie

Deleted to hide my flaws

I’ve thrown away so much

Of my past, people even, 

And all I have left

Is a bitter present and 

The enduring lie that love

Is something I had to earn

And I am always short a

Dollar fifty for the bus fare

To the outskirts of the fact

That I deserved grace for

What I didn’t know before.

 

Survival isn’t a crime

But it sure feels like one

When it is so messy

That other people have had

To survive YOU.

Our growth is never fast enough

And makes killers of us all

Leaving trails of bodies

In our wake, and not just ours.

I haven’t always been the easiest

Person to be close to. 

I don’t know how to live with that.

But these versions of me

I want to hide were what let me

Stay alive long enough to 

Make it here where I can finally

Admit all of this and not

Immediately want to destroy

Every part of myself that

Still isn’t where I want to be.

 

You can’t hate yourself into loving yourself.

You can’t kill yourself into being born.

You can’t receive forgiveness 

You can’t give yourself.

I am learning this slowly.

 

I want to formally retire

From being a killer.

I want to stop with the violence

Against myself hoping someone 

Else would reward my pain–

I want to be a gardener

I want to sit with the knowing

That these pasts I’ve buried 

Aren’t shameful secrets

But seeds, waiting to be

Watered with my own grace 

So I can finally give birth to

The me I always wanted to be

 

A lover of all things I never wanted to see

Till I can forget that unearned dollar fifty

And open my present like it’s Christmas Day

Surrounded by every part of myself

That I no longer run away from

But instead hold like a long lost friend

Till I am blooming in the honest trust

In my own good heart trusting in the

Good hearts of everyone else

Knowing that they never asked me

To hate myself all this time–

Knowing that love is best received

When you feed it to yourself first

When I say I want to forgive myself–

That is what I mean.

​

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RINCON 2025

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“You have so much potential”

These words from my childhood haunted me

Followed me endlessly as I hurtled myself

In high heels through the farmers market

Wearing my miniskirt, rain or shine

Frantically looking for the best fruit

Like my life depended on it

Like my future depended on it.

 

See, I was entering my late 20s

And still didn’t scratch the surface

Of the prodigious potential I was promised

And the tip of the iceberg I did touch

Brought me down the same it did the titanic

I was supposed to get a degree

And a career and success, but

 

The weather was wrong, and instead

I went from drop out

To detained in psych wards

To destitute, derelict

To disabled, 

To deadened drug use deceived

In dead end delusionally draining relationships

With deadbeats depriving me my drive

 

There are times when your life

Is not on the up and up.

 

All I knew is I wanted

To stop proving everyone wrong

Who thought I would amount to something

And that the clock was ticking down

Like any traumatized person

I felt helplessly behind everyone else

And as I inched closer to being 30

All I had to show for myself

Was nothing but some leftover training

From a chef with a Michelin pedigree

When I was 17, the still persistent

Dream that I still could be something,

And a sense that it was too late

To start from scratch, so 

 

Flash forward back to the farmers market–

I’m manic reinventing myself 

As a wannabe food celebrity

Sexified like an even sluttier

Version of Giada DeLaurentis

And more pretentious than

Any of the iron chefs

If I could prove myself now

Maybe my life wasn’t a failure

Maybe I didn’t waste my time surviving

Or I could at least make up

For the time I lost..

 

Maybe if I chose the very best

Ingredients for my dishes

I can prove I didn’t forget

How to make good decisions

Maybe people wouldn’t see

That I have been failing downwards

Ever since I was able to vote

That my potential was a sham 

And I had nothing to offer

But empty promises

And a broken future

And then

 

There it was.

 

A cherimoya.

 

Green scaled dragon egg of tropical custard.

I haven’t tried them yet, this season. 

I buy one and take it home.

Let it patiently ripen on my counter

Until it has a gentle give to the touch.

My knife slides through it like butter–

A floral perfume sweeter than lilac

Envelopes my entire being–

The flesh melts on my tongue

Dripping seductively down my throat

Teasing me with notes of passionfruit

And pineapple wrapped in a cloud

Of vanilla cream and decadent succulence..

 

I’ve had hundreds of cherimoyas

But never one anything like this

Honeyed gem sweet enough

To make me forget the pressure

I had on myself to instantly achieve perfection

Because I already found it.

 

I go back to the market

And grab the farmer by the shoulders

Just to scream and cry “HOW??? WHY??

HOW THE FUCK WAS IT SO GOOD!?”

He chuckles and simply replies

 

“The weather was wrong”.

 

I give him a puzzled look

I had no idea what he meant

 

He chuckles again.

 

“The weather was wrong

So the cherimoya couldn’t develop properly

The cold patterns were so off

The fruit took two extra months

On the tree to ripen.

Because it took so long to grow on the tree

The flavor came out more complex and rich.”

 

He pauses, then adds one more note.

 

“Slow fruit is better than fast fruit”.