Wishing for Death: 2

I knew for certain I was pregnant three months before my eighteenth birthday; I was a high school senior. I wanted to die. Or at least I wanted her to die, though I couldn’t show up for the abortion my step-mother had arranged. I just couldn’t bring myself to take an active part in the death of a life growing inside me. So, I prayed for a miscarriage; my conscience could rest easy if my body naturally rejected the fetus. Or, I’d hope for an accident. Standing at the top of the stair, any stair, I’d invite a good trip and tumble. But as self-absorbed as people can be–as unaware of their surroundings–they always were aware of me.

Wishing for tragedy was equally sickening, but I could not silence the obsessive thoughts that beat against my eardrums. Until the time came when I first felt my girl kicking and pushing against my womb. Magic. Absolute magic. My little sister was the first to witness this delight.

Nicole moved, and I was in love.

I was in labor for twenty three hours–without an epidural. I was given a magical liquid in my IV drip to help me sleep between contractions. I actually DID sleep. Toward the end, I was legit conking out in sixty second intervals. I can’t recall being so delirious as I was those hours leading up to Nicole’s birth.

I was in a lot of pain; and in duress instigated by Adoption Lady. Adoption Lady had come into my room during the most wicked contractions, and wanted me to sign some paperwork. Jeff had called her after we’d arrived at the hospital, per her request. Jeff had decided during my sixth or so month that he and I were not capable of raising a child, so we met with Adoption Lady at Adoption Place, and made arrangements for a closed adoption. I went into labor a few weeks early, before we’d finalized our case.

My contractions were so fucking severe, I couldn’t hold the pen to sign the finalizing papers. Adoption Lady said, “I’ll come back later.”

I didn’t want to give up my baby.

The pain though, transcended comprehension. I wanted to die. I actually said at one point, ” I want to die.” And my mother said, “Don’t say that!”

I did, for a while during labor wish for death. My contractions were so strong, they were off the charts–literally. How the fucking hell have women managed to survive childbirth for thousands of years?

At eight centimeters dilated, I said, “I have to push.” And my nurse said, “You can’t yet.”

I’ve never been good at following rules. I began pushing before my doctor was even scrubbed and in position. Nicole was born at 5:04 p.m. After twenty three hours, I only pushed for like, five minutes.

When Adoption Lady returned, my attending nurse took the pleasure of telling her she’d be leaving the hospital without my baby. I didn’t give one fuck whether or not Nicole’s dad wanted to be a part of her life. All I knew was that my girl was MY GIRL.

And I haven’t wished for death since.













10 seconds

Son of a bitch, this is fucking cool.


Driving through the Village of the Damned earlier tonight, I happened upon a family of three

a father

a mother

a son

each of them wearing a pair of oversized headphones. They weren’t conversing, but were clearly together.

The radio was playing an electronic masterpiece by Aphex Twin [I didn’t catch the name], an appropriately bizarre soundtrack at that moment. I cranked the volume up.

An alienesque road sign




took my eye… whilst overhead a helicopter was circling through tree branches and wispy clouds. I craned my neck awkwardly to look up at it, through the glass roof of my space ship – like a clean, cocaineless version of a neurotic Henry Hill.

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I am in constant awe of Candice.



looked up in to sky

saw there

her future

we are cockroaches

she told her husband that evening at dinner

as he sat trying to eat fast so he could check his messages

annoyed and perpetually irritated with her queries and words

he wished momentarily he could seal her in an Amazon Prime box

and return her with a free print it yourself label

if only marriage were as easy as that to dissolve

okay I’ll take the bait, why are we cockroaches?

he replied eventually with a weary voice, if only to get her to stop

standing with wet hands from washing in the kitchen center

unaware of how absurd and unattractive she was

with her rolled shoulders and sagging bust line

why can’t she look like the girls I subscribe to?

a lazy thought passed behind his eyes as he vainly tried

and failed

to show a…

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RamJet Poetry


the ashes of the undertow disperse

leaving us feeling futile

agnostic reintroduction

to the divine

caring for the lost

we strive to fill the loss

with cherries and hand grenades

I blame you no matter the cost

insouciant male pedigrees

dilapidate our once treasured

stories of peace and pieces

there was a forest

now no more

only scenic noir

fostered by hell’s children

advent the process

of elimination

and strangle my foothold

with your bony fingers

the touch of squirming eels

incarcerate the canon of dust

fall further into the frontier

of nothings and distaste

my Shadow looms above

my soul in someone’s soup

and all of these intangible

paradigms are strewn

on the trees as if

they were Christmas lights

my bucket list is full

of bullshit and lamentation

my heroes have all fallen

to the backchecking of heroin

I’m asking for the chronic

and getting the nostalgic


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