an open letter

Photo by Gwendal Cottin on Unsplash

Dear Individual Who has Found Themself Perusing My Medium Page, Please, if the intentions behind your presence fit within any of the following:

1) You’re on this platform for the exclusive purpose of self-promoting without supporting other writers;

2) To offer cheap, poorly written “self-help” or “self-development” advice, not out of the goodness of your kind heart or a desire to encourage those around you, but to increase your following;

3) You have come to my Medium page to follow, respond, or engage in any other fashion, for the sole purpose of plugging your website/software/service/product/patreon, etc.,

OR


a poem

Photo by Dori Bano on Unsplash

Trigger Warning: This poem includes depictions of assault and may be distressing for victims of sexual abuse and/or stalking.


at least, not in this instance (a poem)

Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash

Foodlion parking lot, I remember
the first time my mother told me
I didn’t have a home
Not with her, at least, not with
pill bottles stacking up like
stone sculptures, multiplied
by a bathroom mirror and
I wonder why I always
have to leave

There may be a box in this dumpster;
then it was search for food,
Hardee’s midnight drunks always left a sandwich,
No, I say, I’ve no issue getting dirty
No issue with a three month bender of various fixes and vices,
No. …


a poem about chronic pain (inside and out)

Photo by Rafay Ansari on Unsplash

Sometimes, I think, if I just lay still enough,
quiet , motionless ,
the pain won’t find me
where I sleep.
Well ,
external pain (of course).
Inside, I’ll forever be an empty echo
clanking about a steel hall.
I’ll always feel it rushing out,
redacted,
like a breath,
lost in a vacuum.
Depression is a wiry, black hound
that caught my scent
long ago.
I am hers. She is mine.
Two drops of the same anima
I know, memorized in the fibers
of my being, the sweet perfume
of her musky fur,
her eyes, iridescent, in the night
looking for mine
the pat-pat, pounding
of her paws
pressed on my throat
muffle my…


a poem

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

Pluck, baby, bend me
like one of your guitar strings
I say, I never seen
someone quite like you —
blue, them baby blues, you
got a fire that got me
hot, bothered; I can count the
breaths on my neck
I can feel the circles around
my head, whisky spin —
I am fifty shades of fucked up
on that face, your steady pace
strumming me soft, softly —
your body is jagged
smoothed by my hands
I don’t need your name
to be your altar
reverenced by smoke, burning
light me a cigarette
breathe in slow, slowly —
like, goddamn, you thought
I was cool but now
I am holy —
in the curve of your shoulders
I’ve no problem…


a poem

Photo by Yousef Espanioly on Unsplash

There was a time when I
hated my sister for blowing
the candles out sooner
Now, each March, I recall
shared birthday parties
never worth attending:

Not in my father’s eyes
nor my mother’s, again
I remember what’s it like
to have never been wanted.

I trace the ebbing of a
hypothetical: I wouldn’t
be here listening
to a ventilator.

They call it meth, we call
it escape, but how many
pills do you actually need
to forget your name?

One- two- three- god, it’s
really not enough; you
need a cocktail, sip, shoot,
how many lessons are
learned per cc of…


a poem

Photo by Aarón Blanco Tejedor on Unsplash

I do not want to converse right now.
I want to be angry.
The bottle is filling, filling up
Accumulate until I finally explode.

BAM! POW! BANG!

The guts of my thoughts

SPLATTER!

Change not content
for the sake of measure
I have grown faint from adapting

My eye is in the future
but I feel a failure now
I’ll be building sandwiches
at thirty-three

My head, my chest, on fire!
It’s too much pressure, too much pressure.
Like squeezing air from a beach ball

I simply need to deflate

diffuse

Not enough air within, but too much…


another love poem

Photo by Nicolas Ladino Silva on Unsplash

A voice that blends
from cool and quaint
to bold and brave
Soft and smooth
in all he speaks

With cigarette in hand
hope in my pocket
I finally felt
his ribbon mouth

His hands found
the small of my back
and the nape
of my neck

Black, purple,
whisped locks
shades of grey,
sun-licked leather skin

I grabbed his clothes
pulled him in
consumed his air
then breathed
out
smoke

Moving, shifting,
fleeting spark —
he is a vapor
on my spine,
a faded flavor
on my tongue
he evaporated
quicker than
he puddled

He is…


a poem ‘cause we’ve all been there

Photo by Syarafina Yusof on Unsplash

Honestly, I’m a bit satisfied
that your beer belly
came back with
vengeance . . .
And, I’m not sorry that
I don’t feel
[not in the slightest]
guilty.

No, not after you used
the callous of your veins,
your “generosity”
as woolen clothing,
[hiding your teeth]
to coax my spine into an arch,
a curve, gasping,
a sigh that said
you wanted me.

And, honestly, you could have
just told me: [I am small but
I am not weak —
my bones withstood
wolves before
you.]

I was a project
you could work
between your fingers,
clay, malleable to the warmth
of your…

Stephanie Blossoms

Poet, writer, artist, gardener, devout reader, former chef-wannabe, using words and paints to figure out her place in the world.

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