Confession: I love going no contact out of the blue. I love to burn a bridge. I love to avert my eyes, not even look at what's going happening on the other side. I love to walk, not run just walk with purpose, away from the shore and marches. I love not giving a shit if anyone jumps in the river trying to swim across. I love making sure they'll never reach me.

We all got a lil demon in ourselves—and we've all fallen in love with the devil at some point. The problem is when we deny it.

My Own Undoing

Yet again, I dreamt of captive whales—  

orcas circling the tank, their black backs  

breaking the water, then vanishing,  

their tails trained to lift them  

from one side to the other,  

while my dead mother holds my hand  

and assures me,  

“Oh, don’t fret. They really like that.”

I wake to the fear still gnawing,  

a beaver worrying at a trunk,  

wearing it down by instinct—  

the fear that I, too,  

have become the loyal, fervent servant  

of my own undoing.

I could count, but don’t,  

the times I’ve made life-or-death decisions.  

Somehow, the deaths don’t stay with me.  

It’s the lives—the living—  

and the endless circles,  

the hoops held low enough  

to jump through,  

high enough  

to make the crowd applaud.

all homes are temporary housing when you remember we are mere mortals

 What if, in trying to become a good person, I lost all the parts of myself I liked?

What if fucking just to feel sensation was the last honest thing man did?

What if the appeal of a relationship with a woman, for me, is simply the opportunity to be the man in the relationship and behave as selfishly, inconsiderately, and entitledly as all the men I’ve been in relationships with have?

men, in theory

Lately, I’ve been interrogating my beliefs and feelings about men. Not the men I know or have known—I have a pretty firm, unshakable understanding of those men. I mean the general concept of men. Men, in theory, are actually…perhaps okay. Maybe even nice.

It’s kind of like high-end designer clothes. There’s an appeal. They’re pretty on the runway—gorgeous and flowing. And there’s an underlying desire to be like the gazelle-svelte model who wears the $10,000 gown so well. I suppose that if I had that body, that team of stylists, makeup artists, and assistants—and if I spent my life stomping down runways beneath flashing lights while celebrities applauded on either side—it would be a dream.

But alas, that’s never been my life. You know, I *could* buy some unreasonable couture dress from a high-end fashion brand. I could be wearing Gucci pants or Yves Saint Laurent, but I’m not. It’s not even the money, though that’s a factor—I waste money daily.

But look at my life. Does Prada fit into working from home in cat hair? Cutting flour into biscuit dough? Washing a toilet? Squirting a syringe of liquid medicine into a cat’s mouth? No.

Can you imagine a five-foot-tall headdress made of peacock feathers at Walmart? Me neither. Besides, I would have to travel *so far* to even find something like that. And I can barely tolerate dragging around a coat! Even if it were lovely, I just don’t have the patience for any of that. Too much upkeep and effort.

Yes, I could have a $3,000 purse—I’ve got the cash—instead of a bag I got from America’s Best Thrift for $4 because it was the discount color that day. But I don’t. I mean, how would I dare slide it onto a chair covered in cat hair? How would I walk around with a purse worth more than what’s inside it?

I need something stain-resistant, not dry-clean-only. Something durable, practically one-size-fits-all. Something low-maintenance—something that takes care of itself and needs very little.

And maybe it’s nothing at all. Maybe all I need is me.

Anyway, this seems like a bunch of “What the fuck is Caroline going on about again?” Because it is.

But I think men, in theory, are like couture: pretty nice to look at and appealing as a basic idea. But when it comes to putting them into practice—incorporating them into my daily life—there’s just no angle, no wiggle room, no way they could fit, be comfortable, and work.

Kind of like how I love classic cars. The weight of them. The pure steel. No plastic. Purring engines, leather seats, sleek chrome lines—it’s all very, very, very nice.

But practical? It is not. How do you transport a stressed-out dog to the vet on pristine, vintage leather seats? How do you deal with a leaking grocery bag in a backseat that requires a specialist to repair? They’re possibly unreliable, expensive to maintain, too flashy in the parking lot, and I don’t even know how to drive a stick shift.

Yes, a practical new car is the way to go—something in an unassuming color like black or silver. Sensible. Reliable. Easy to maintain.

Which, alas, is an improvement.

There are men I don’t hate, but they cost too much, are a tad too rare, and are too nice for me to mess with. So, in conclusion, I will enjoy watching from afar and not engage—you know, the way I treat high-end fashion and classic cars.

Beautiful to look at. Terrible to live with.

freak 4 freak is a type of true love

Intimacy is more than fucking;

even gooning online

begins with one person

trying to touch

another through glowing glass.

Maybe it's the astrology—but I swear to God this is the baddest bitch I've ever been 

trauma response (self-interrogation)

You say you haven’t fucked like a freak in forever,  

but I think you mean never—  

because what counts  

when you’re barely there?

Even infants suckle:  

the body’s first reflex,  

natural, instinctive,  

seconds out of the womb.

I think you were just a little girl  

rehearsing a movie scene,  

watching from between your mother’s fingers  

as she covered your eyes.

Ta-da—you bowed  

for the applause  

that never came.

Neither did you.  

Everyone else did.

Is that what you haven’t had  

in forever?

My worst mistake in life was mistaking my compassion for passion.

Conditional Play

When the womb is as empty as the bowels
and the sun hangs lighter in the sky,
maybe we can banter and play—
tug-of-war, Red Rover, Red Rover—
can you come over?

but only if I am on top
of the world, which keeps spinning
from one morning to the next night,
regardless of what we say or do.

Out of Season

Don’t forgive me for what I am.

Nor turn away from what it is,
as I have done.

Let it melt upon your skin
like snow falling out of season.

1969 Vietnam ain't so far, is it?

What is your heart taut with, dear—  

what keeps you silent,  

looking over and past my shoulder  

as if assassins wait behind me,  

bows drawn and waiting  

almost as tensely as you,  

perched on edge,  

unsure what to do next?

Me too,  

me too. Perhaps there was no  

next step, no bend in the road—  

only the wet bog marsh  

where I imagine us lying,  

as you once did, patting mud  

around your young body for warmth.

You were somewhere  

you’ll never go again,  

when everyone was new  

and, for a moment,  

the world felt too big for you.

But now your back aches in bed.  

Your shoulder curves  

as you slump in the chair.  

You groan when you stand,  

filling the air with noise  

to remind us you are still alive,  

still fighting—

but no longer sure  

what for.

Vermilion Suite

“Today was like a shadow. It lurked behind me. It’s now gone forever. Why is it that time is such a difficult thing to befriend?”  

—Mary Casey

If you want to love a rose,
you must respect the thorns.
So I flirted with the limits of my humanity,
returned tired but unscathed—
by sunset, divinity, not myself.

Within my mind, I was seeking
a reset—a factory-reset button—
but instead, I only crossed a few wires:
double knots, twist, twist, twist.

The metal thread ends,
but there is no fresh start—
only adjustment, rearrangement,
as if the feng shui were off.

And just like that,
I might fit inside myself.