hello world, it’s me, slave

I took a break from blogging about being a slave to focus on my writing and applying to MFA programs. I really miss this as an outlet to share and process my experiences, to express myself. Of course, I am still Master’s completely. Our relationship is stronger than ever and I am happy to be pursuing creative endeavors of my own while still serving Him. Our two-year Master/slave anniversary is coming up in May. Time flies.

I’ve decided to create a new blog dedicated to my writing and to keep this one for its original purpose. I think it’s better this way. Much love to all.


This poem is about a woman being made to feel unsafe by a man’s advances and the resulting rage/confusion


Don’t Wait For Me

Don’t wait for me in the parking lot,
between the cars, in drastic headlight
shadow. Don’t wait for me

for an hour, thirty minutes,
or five. What made you stay
here on the emptying asphalt,

when I told you not tonight?
I want to know why you lingered
as the others pulled away,

as the warm rain broke
the dripping air
into cooler streams soothing

my skin, slick with oil
damp with sweat.
I was finally free,

then you pulled my comfort
out from under me and relief
turned to nervous pinpricks.

I can’t help but think
about the time when
I was young I sipped

my mother’s drink
what I thought was tea
turned out bitter, burning

liquor. The shock choked me,
expectation of quenched thirst
replaced with unfamiliar fire.

I get the troubling feeling
it’s too late to tell you
not to think of me at night

or worse, in the morning.


 photo from polysynthesism.tumblr.com


Sneezing While Driving


I don’t walk anymore
we don’t fuck anymore
I get my kicks
at the grocery store

no red meat anymore
2 for 1, she’s a whore
to the tags, to the shelves,
to the white tile floor

why am I so afraid of
this everyday life
nothing wrong with
routine nothing wrong
with a wife

I’ll work on my habits
until I get bored, and
when I get bored I’ll
get scared and I’ll run

straight into traffic
right into the heart
of another one’s
something another

man’s cart. I’ll sneeze
while I’m driving
and in that one second
I’ll kill something special

a story, I’ll have it.


photo: theshinyboogie.tumblr.com




They lock you out,
the churches, the temples, the mosques,
they leave you thirsty on the sidewalk,
clutching a cross.

Staring at the doors,
heavy, gilded, adorned
with the names of old gods
and the gold of the poor.

The road bubbles black beneath
your feet as you’re swallowed
among the saguaros, into the heat,
a stumbling straw-hat skeleton.

Mineral wind weakens knees,
just to reach the green tree,
wild-armed and thick-skinned,
bursting citrine blossoms.

Your eyes blink open: yellow,
somber fluorescence, the plastic smell
of masked disease and rubber gloves.
Prickling thirst momentarily dosed.

Opening the drawers
filled with bottles and volumes,
healing doctrines and values,
the tried and again.

Thorazine, Clozapine, Seroquel,
Jainism, Islam, Baha’i. When
did your neck start to curve
to the right?

Dyskinesia clutches
your tendons and tugs
at your bones. One eye
blinks and one side smiles.

There is peace in the desert,
in the open mouth of the sky,
at the foot of a cactus crucifix,
in the shade of the palo verde.


photo from lavenderrmoons.tumblr.com



I invited you to come
but I’m hoping you won’t.
Maybe I’m afraid
because I want you to.

I’m afraid you won’t
remember what I look like.
I’m afraid the coffee shop
will close and you will be

beautiful. I remember
your eyelids, turquoise,
and your hair, waves
of light and dark.

And your voice, loud,
deep and smooth
as wet concrete spilling
down and spreading.

You gave me your cigarette
to hold while you showed
me the ways you could
tie up your hair.

I haven’t washed mine
in six days. When I think
of you, I picture a girl
with a big, rosy mouth.

But I don’t know
what your mouth is like,
besides open and filled
with teeth.

photo from http://sfromtheraspberryfield.tumblr.com/


You crush cloves of garlic, turn the knife
sideways and press down with the palm
of your hand. You disrobe them, the skin
slips off to reveal tender ivory flesh
buckled from the pressure, yellow
insides. Thick, fragrant juice sticks
to your fingers.

You taught me this trick your mother taught you.
I would pick at the flaky white outsides,
piece by diaphanous piece, a gossamer mess.

This way is easier, more aromatic. When a green
stem grows through the middle, it’s going bad.
Still usable, but you toss it into the garbage can.
My selective germaphobe. I see you thinking

The word is mysophobe. From the Greek
musos, uncleanness,  phobos, fear.

I like the green shoot in the center.
Fresh and bright, parasitic. Penetrating
from the inside, becoming the heart.

Pecan Waffles


Can you. Come later today
with everyone around four?

Business-like, logistical, robotic,
(just exhausted). Me, I’m free
Friday morning, anytime Saturday.
What time is best for you?

Anyway, I don’t want
to just come with everyone else.
File in, hover around, no, I want
my own visiting hours.

I want to feel the way I felt
when you read us out loud
to a room full of people.
You spoke to just me,

punctuating our scene
with loud, circular snaps
in perfect time. You insisted
on the pecan waffles.

I had my doubts, especially
about the strawberry jam,
but it was tooth-aching,
leg-shaking heaven.

You asked me who I was
and really wanted to know.
Green vinyl booth confessional,
sugared plastic certainty.

Diner, bistro, ice cream parlor,
I thought your appetite was back
for good. I didn’t know
what hospice meant.

Now it’s Monday morning,
someone else tells me you’re gone.
Standing on the gravel, frozen
in the eleven o’clock sun.

photo from abp-photo.tumblr.com.