I’m not going to lie and say this is my best work. I’ve had trouble writing for a while now, but I just needed to get some thoughts, some things out on the paper tonight. If you couldn’t tell, I’ve been reading a lot of Ellen Hopkins lately. 



the noise of matches

in the darkest hour

of his existence,

crushed up against

the inner workings

ofa glass tube

hoping to find

the last drop of innocence

oozing in the empty buzzing space

that lies


brain matter.


Teenage doubt

is not the only stench in the air,

wafting from alcoholic lips,

emotional fingertips

and too much cologne

hoping to cover the sweat

of too many monsters

found under the bed.


There’s a party going on

in bedroom closets

where sevenminutesinheaven

has tick-tocked into

a life-time of regret

and the reek of need

is stronger than the

perfume of confidence

and holy things like

his lips on her curves,

toes wedged in floor cracks

as they rock back and forth

in the celebration of too many

canvas paints

spread together into one color.


Rainbows have come

from more haunted spaces

than the cavern

that dwells beneath

aching atriums

and twisted tongues,

clinging to the mass

of the last shipwrecked


America fed him,

mama singing nighttime

lullabies between


trusting this time

willbe better,

that his smile

wouldwreck the world

wash wicked souls

into the ocean

of fire.


I wish I could tell you

that at least this part

was true,

butI still

have not found yet

who decides

what holes need plugging


when a ship is quickly sinking

into the sunset,

leaving memories burning

in the opening of your mouth,

shattered in the scent

of his high-

tened need,

crawling into the teeth

of the monster. 


Chem(i)cal (React)ions and my plan to write a book. (part 1)

So, I’ve been planning for years to get around to writing a book. I took a creative writing fiction class a few years ago at my local college, and many people in my class said they loved my writing and hoped to be able to find my books in bookstore shelves at some point in the future. I very much enjoyed writing for that class, and developed a character I fell in love with. But I’m not sure if they were just being nice or if they really enjoyed my story.

I’m feeling risky today, and will a part of the story I wrote that will inspire the book I will write in the future. Here is installment number one.

Chem(i)cal (React)ions

I wonder what it would be like to be involved in a horrible car accident. Flames would protrude from my car, dozens of people would gather around the scene of the accident, and as the ambulance carries me away into my last living moments those passing by would send frantic prayers to the heavens, haling Mary as the tears stroll down their cheeks. Despite all of the tragedy my funeral would not be well attended because I am damaged goods, I’ve always been damaged goods, and so far nothing I’ve ever been able to accomplish, to love, or to hold has ever been anything more than that. Except her. But not even I could save her. I remember her beautiful freckled face, with long black locks that could entrance even the crankiest, senile adult. She was the sweetest child I had ever met, my whole world. And within seconds she was shattered. My world collapsed. I will never forget that moment.

All of these horrible, overwhelming memories make me need to see the stars. I climb out of the worn, brown chair that occupies the corner of Sly’s tent. I’m staying here for now, no one in town wants me anyways. I gather the little black bag that contains my syringes and spoon. I pull out my heaven in a plastic Ziploc, pour it smartly on the spoon, add a drop of water, and fllliiccckk!  my lighter sizzles and pops against the stained bottom of the spoon. I tie off my arm with my seductive leather belt, fill the syringe, flick the needle a few times and in goes heaven. It’s greater than any toe-curling orgasm I have ever felt. My heart beats faster, my pupils dilate, and I am numb. Her memories always bring the horrible shakes for a fix, the need greater than any want. Into the neck of my friend vodka I go, toppling head over heels in its intoxicating love for my body. It smooths out my rough edges, tingles down my spine, and plays games with my brain. I’m on fire.

There have been many times I have promised myself I would end this never-ending cycle, but self-medication has not let me down—yet. It’s not like I’m hurting anyone. Mamma has long been gone, Father, too. They both died thinking they were the Lord’s personal angels, sent to do His work. I never understood that.

I grew up in New York City in a small two-bedroom apartment. Mamma was an artist, but was far from a freethinker. She and father made sure everything I did was down the straight and narrow, for all eight of their children.  You would think after they ran out of beds at night their selfish need to procreate would end, but there was always another mouth to feed, another diaper to change, and another child to love. I was the first, therefore I was the most capable to raise my many brothers and sisters, and I always felt forgotten. My parents measured quality time by the books of the Bible and affection by the type of spanking I received. There was never any praise; love was a four-letter word never spoken, even in the darkest nights.

I tried to follow my the wisdom of my parents, listen to their strong words of advice, but when I saw the way they treated each other, complete hypocrites to the word of the Lord they promised to follow, I decided their religion was nothing but a heap of garbage, it meant nothing to me. After all, their religion was the reason I hurt so much, the reason my heart had more holes than a sieve, but they didn’t bother to care. It was Mamma’s duty to bear the children, Father’s to make the money being the best preacher he could be, and ours to take care of us. Picasso would’ve wept at some of Mamma’s delightful paintings, when she felt well enough to bring the brush out and smudge it against the canvas just until the world came to life upon it. That’s the only thing I could love her for.

When I turned sixteen there was an incident. I was on my way home from the small Christian high school my parents forced me to attend (they said it was a privilege). I had turned the corner near the house when I saw our weekly grocer approach me from the shadows. He told me that he had something to show me and lead me to the alley, his grip so strong my little frame could barely resist. His dirty fingers were all over me, in places I had never dared to touch, rough all over. Before I could scream loud enough to be heard over the traffic of the busy street he was in me on me all over me. Tears welled in my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. He was suffocating in his stench, his blue eyes darker than the storm clouds raging overhead. When he was done he zipped his pants and walked off, his trophy lying on the ground a battered girl of sixteen. I ran home afraid to look at anyone, afraid to be.  I thought about telling Mamma, but what would she say, what would she care? I was a nuisance to her anyways, my presence in every room nothing but a shadow, lurking in the corner.

A few months later my body started showing signs. There was no was no hiding it anymore, I was pregnant.  I had prayed that the fucker who he raped me was shooting blanks. I guess I was wrong. Father would have nothing of me keeping it, and living in his house; there was no explaining my way out of this mess. They didn’t believe me when I told them I was raped; they did not care when I told them I was not whole anymore. Instead, they kicked me out with not a single place to go. I left an outcast in my own home.

I spent a long, long while looking for someone to take me in, praying someone would love me more than those who should have did. I travelled towards the Midwest, hoping the peaceful farms would lull my broken spirit and make it whole again. One day, in Omaha, Nebraska, I met Sly. He caught my interest because he was, at the time, a nomad like I. He had no family, no one to love him but me. We had plans to get married, he called my baby his. In my whole life I’ve never felt more loved, Yes, he was a little rough around the edges, but nothing my tender loving couldn’t fix. We were young in love, and I was due to expect a baby anytime soon. We moved in together and spent what little money we had on a cradle and clothing. Life, for a while, was good. Nothing we had came easy, but that just meant that we were more thankful for it, happier because of our trials.

In three months I had a little girl and we named her Autumn Lily. She was daddy’s little sweetheart, with sparkling crystal blue eyes and sandy brown hair. Her giggles constantly filled our tiny apartment with smiles, making life important for the first time. She made life worth living. All three of us, we were a family, a bond no one could break.


To be continued…

Inner City Hauntings

This one was just published this last semester in my community college writer’s publication. I was blissful, as it was my third official publication. I foresee many more to come in the future. Again, sorry about the stupid spaces between lines, I’m still becoming familiar with wordpress.

Inner City Hauntings


At age fifteen, Diandra knew all too well

the frustration that came

when she couldn’t get her baby

to stifle its cries for her loving

at two in the morning,

after she’d spent the darkness

at her best friend’s house,

putting her nose to too many

countertops, hoping to find her sanity

in a life full of mistakes

and midnight makeout sessions

in the back of his car.


She wishes she could rid herself

of too many demons

floating around in her bloodstream,

making her veins heavy,

and her heart slow.


But when she looks into the mirror

all she can see are the bulletholes in her eyes

left the day she saw her father

writhing in the street,

the blood around his head

a perfect halo

painting the muddled image

of the thug life

he chose at eighteen

as the only way he knew how

to provide for his family

on the streets of Brooklyn

when all he wanted was out

of the rat-infested apartment buildings

and the cigarette cloud

of frequent attempts

at amnesia.


So she cries

to the razor she calls a paintbrush

leaving perfect little designs

Picasso would be proud of

hoping to hide the ghosts that pulse

between the temples

where her goddess

is suffocating 

from too much wrong adventure

and not enough breaths

taken in the sunlight.


Last Thursday night,

when she couldn’t stifle

the cries from the baby crib

Diandra figured a little whiskey

in the baby bottle never hurt anyone

so she cradled him in her arms

breathed kisses in his formula

and prayed the Lord to keep

him silent while she slept

the afternoon hours away

in regret,

tangled in the blankets

on an adventure only her brain,

high on pixie dust,

could feel between the memories.


Maybe instead of being afraid

of the monsters hiding under the bed

she should worry

about the spirits dwelling

beneath her fingertips

when all she wants is to find peace

at the bottom of her wine glass.

 (c) copyright by Rose Kendall