Welcome to the Mercurial Muser

I used to be

something.

I used to

love art.

Now I get angry

dusting

the same landscapes—

no closer than

my living room.

My husband likes

to remind me

how I used to fuck

like a bad girl

underneath the sun.

His friends used to have

group chats

dedicated

to the bathing suits

I wore

in the summer heat.

Like I was

supposed to

never degrade—

only bloom

for the love

of a man.

Now I have

a favourite spatula

and trade

in Rae Dunn

collectibles.

I used to

believe in

uprisings

and pixelated dreams

pasted to

a poster board.

Like I was

supposed to

grow up.

But instead,

I’m growing in.

A muzzle to wear

over that pretty

filthy mouth,

a tiny, beaded noose

from a craft kit

kept high

in the cupboard,

a fading light

kept alert by

a persistent

electronic tether—

all it’s good for is to check the weather.

(all it’s good for is to check the weather)

But the sky

ain’t blue today...

Birthmarks and Brazen Vulnerability: Reclaiming the Parts of Me I Once Hated

Birthmarks, once concealed, now free to live on face and foot. My mother tried to tell me they were beauty marks—small declarations of my uniqueness. Only took thirty-odd years to see them as such. Carefree, dark waves with streaks of sunlight, once tamed, now left to their own devices. An over-identification with feelings and a tendency toward ‘cringe’ vulnerability and volatility, now seen through softer eyes as authenticity, honesty, and emotional courage.

Full Circle: The Years Passed Like Scenes of a Show — The Professor Said to Write What You Know

Uh-Oh Sparks

My friends, divorced or drifting, swipe for company. If it were me, I could never— I’d probably just die alone. I don’t believe in soulmates that arrive by algorithm, matching hobbies or a list of curated books on a profile. (How pretentious.) I believe in accidents— the uh-oh spark of recognition in a public place, two beings colliding like stars across the galaxy.

Contact Me!

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Send 'em here.