My self is pink, punk, lush, plush. Deep in the neon caverns of my rebellious mind, a star studded cast of sins and malcontent. Arrange me like flowers. Prop me in the window to catch the sun and spit back out a million savory colors. Make me better than I’ve ever been. Better: adj. Softer and sweeter. Meticulously I tend my blooming thoughts. Relentlessly, memory flees.
Day: February 8, 2026
Beauty, Evil, and I
Hot pink Beauty sips matcha, which I hate, but I love her. She teases my curves and curls and reminds me that the name God left for me under my doormat with a key to His heart has many syllables and rhymes with the way the waterfall refreshes. Beauty is generous and wants only to be loved. Evil cuts Beauty’s face off for his own purposes, wearing it as a ghoulish masquerade mask that everyone else believes. But light shines through the holes her eyes once loved, and she continued sipping her matcha, new, soft flesh growing in again – perfect and serene.
The Files – a Poem
Frosted feminine rage is rosè colored and glittering with diamonds cut into shivs. Children cry out from their unmarked graves. The men are sleeping now. Good men sleep while corrupt men slither around our youth, their fangs aimed at our children’s throats. The moon no longer shines his blessing light on what our nation does in the dark. The sun recoils, then blisters the truth as it sits in the light, beaten raw and waiting to be avenged. I slip a dagger from its sheath, and my reflection disappears from the mirror.
Miniature Moon 