A lot of you know I went to Spain to hike the Camino Frances. Some of you know I came back after completing 175 miles of it. And although I didn’t make it to Santiago due to my knees, I’m proud of what I did do, and, more importantly, of the headspace I found myself in to call it quits without punishing myself for it. I think this is called “being an adult”?

I dunno—don’t quote me on that!

I’d love to share with you some of the pictures I took and thoughts I had while hiking. Would that interest you? Let me know!

But I’m home, producer hat firmly back on my head, and slowly tiptoeing back into avoiding less what I always avoid too much: being brave anyway.

I mean specifically storytelling and stage-wise, of course. Speaking of the stage, here are some upcoming events where I’ll be telling stories. If you’re around, I’d love to see you at any of ‘em. And this first one anyone can attend because it’s right here on Substack!

June 20: Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! brings you KILL THE PATRIARCHY!

The almighty runs this virtual storytelling show with the sole purpose of spotlighting feminist writers and creators. Her tagline? “1 story. 4 minutes. Zero dicks. This ain’t no open mic.” Wanna find out what that means or learn more about this fabulous show?

Take me to Wham Bam!

Or buy a ticket for Saturday’s show! I’d love to have you there! Maybe you’ll wanna do the next one, eh? Oh! What’s MY story? I’m sharing part of an emotional tale called Spaces With Men. If you come, let me know what you think!

Tix to Kill the Patriarchy

July 26: The Monkey House in Berkeley brings you LOVE AND ROMANCE

This will be my first time at The Monkey House. Their Sunday show, What’s Your Story?, will feature stories about Love and Romance and include an open mic component. Details on my show aren’t up yet, but check out their website anyway. What a fantastically weird spot. Tickets are a sliding fee, and seats are reserved. The show starts at 2pm. MY story? Oh, just a little tale about drinking, driving, and falling madly in love, that’s all! (Fun Fact: Those who saw my notes gripe about a producer complaining that I used the word VAGINA in a story . . . this is that story!!!)💜

July 28: San Francisco Punchline brings you IN A NUTSHELL WITH KEITH LOWELL JENSEN!💜💜!

My dearest friend and story side-piece is taking our storytelling show to the Bay Area, and Holy McHell, I’m invited along to tell a story! If any of you have been to a Nutshell show, you know what a fantastic comedic storyteller Keith is, not to mention one helluva host. The lineup for this one is killer (Keith? Kiry Shibazz?? Beau Ryder Davis??? MEEEEEE????), so if you’re around the Bay Area, grab your tickets now, they’re gonna sell out.

I want them tix!

Oh, my story? MOI?? Well, ‘fraid I can’t divulge that information right now, but I can say this: it is Sir Mix-a-Lot approved!

Aug 12: Six Feet Apart’s open mic brings you VACATION VIBES

Since I had “best story of the night” this week at SFAP’s “Plot Twist” open mic, I get to be a featured teller at their next show. If you’re looking for a place to try your chops at telling a true, personal story, this virtual event might be perfect for you! Claire and Regina are accomplished storytellers building a wonderful community, and I know they’d be glad to have you on and talk you through any worries or unease. I’ve heard some awesome tales at this show, and I’d love to have you here to check out my featured story!

WHAT IS MY FEATURED STORY?? I’m not sure yet. Hiking the Camino? Hiking the John Muir Trail? Attending the Maroon Festival in Jamaica? Get your tix now and let’s figure out what we’re gonna tell together!

Aug 18: Corey Rosen’s Simply Said brings you INNOCENCE

This will be my first time featuring at Corey’s uber-popular open mic show in the North Bay. I’m very excited to be a part of it. My show info isn’t up yet, but you can bookmark the site and mark your calendar. There’s also an open mic component so why not shiny up a story of yours and get on stage with me?! The story I’m telling is really fun to listen to because, um, well, I rap a little bit in it???

Heck YEAH I want tix!

What’s that? You wanna know about MY story? Well, um, you saw the whole rapping thing, didn’t you? That’s not enough of a hook? 😂(Bonus: Good ol’ Keith Lowell Jensen will be featuring, too! Two Nutshells for the price of one? Deal!)

OTHER:

I’ll be officially co-hosting WILDCARD starting June 17 and from now on. We’re well on our way to making WC one heck of an event, and if you haven’t been yet, do come. WILDCARD is all about true stories told live by you! Participate in the audience or put your name in our NOT HAT, either way, it’s a ton of fun and full of heart.

TBD: I’ll be telling the full version of Spaces with Men sometime in the next few months at Placerville’s Word of Mouth. Stay tuned!

TBD: I’ll be telling an emotionally fraught story at Exposed Storytelling in September or October. Stay tuned!

And I’ll be on In a Nutshell’s October show, “Dark Hearts.” Stay tuned!

Okay! That’s all! I’m gonna do these shows! Are you gonna hold me accountable? Hopefully, just telling you is enough to get me there. Cuz I may be a scaredy-scaredy, but I also love telling stories and seeing all of you out in the real world. So please come. Please tell me your thoughts. And please tell your own stories! I wanna hear them!

xoxo, Amy

If you're local, I'd love to see your face at one of these shows. And if you're not local, come hang out with me online. Either way, hit reply and tell me what you've been up to while I was wandering around Spain pretending my knees were younger than they are.

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I’m staying at a fair number of albergues, dorm style, which means a lot of worries and a lot of bunk beds. First and foremost, small talk sounds horrendous in this situation. How many people are gonna wanna talk to me? For how long? Will I have to be nice for ten minutes? Twenty?? Nonstop??? What if no one wants to talk to me? What if only the weird one wants to talk to me (honestly, this is usually the case)? What if I’m the weird one and everyone's hoping I won’t talk to them? Will I have to poop while all these hordes of people are sitting on their bunks listening to me? When is the best, most private time to poop? What if I never get the chance to poop? Maybe I should bring a spade for cat holes? Honestly, that would be on brand for my bowels: only pooping when there's no bathroom. Is the number of times I've had to emergency shit outside disproportionate to other people my age?  What if there are no bushes or trees or rocks to shit behind? I'll probably have to make a plan to get up every night at 3am to have toilet privacy. How many other people are gonna have that SAME EXACT plan? So 3am probably doesn't work; too obvious. I need a completely random late night private bathroom poop time. Maybe 1:53am? No one else will be making that plan, right? Or maybe 4:12am, because then I’m getting a decent chunk of sleep. Of course there's no way my bowels will comply with any of this so yes yes yes I better bring a spade and a stack of tp squares. What if I'm on the top bunk? Can I climb a bunk ladder? I think so? Can I disembark one? At 4:12am? Without waking everyone up and causing a mad dash to the bathroom? How do I know a bunk bed will hold me? I don't. I could crush someone. Someone could crush me. What if I’m on the bottom bunk and I have to listen to the dude above me try to surreptitiously masturbate? Why do I assume it’s a dude? C’mon we all know it'll be a dude, they'll masturbate anytime and anywhere. And with anything. They could just masturbate in the shower tho. Like decent folk. What if I go in a shower stall after a dude and slip on a glob of cum? That could happen. I wont know if it's soap or cum. Soap or cum sounds like a game show. Would people think that's funny? Should I try that out on someone? I’m not sure how to weave it into a conversation. How many people will be speaking English, anyway? I shoulda learned a pinch of Spanish. I shoulda stopped saying stuff like "Que Donde? (That where)" to mean whats happening and "Escucha Me (listen to me)" to mean move over to Aaron because now I’m gonna say that to a Spainard and they're gonna be like, what's up with this crazy American? Who goes to another country without learning any of the language? Americans, apparently. I’m probably gonna get lost. I probably won’t make it out of the airport. I won’t make it to the train. I'll get on the wrong train and end up in Austria. I hope I get to see the Christmas markets in Austria someday. But not this trip. And not in April, duh. How will I know where to go? How will I find the right albergue? How did people survive without maps on their phones? What if I find the right albergue and they’re all eating family style? What if they make everyone get up and introduce themselves? I hate that. I never know what to say. Why do I have to say something interesting about me? Why do we have to meet each other? Why cant we just politely smile and furtively eat? What if all they feed me is fish? Will I eat it? Everyday? Will I eventually grow to like fish? Will I come home and be like, dude, Aaron, I eat fish now. Deal. What if my whole life changes because I eat fish now? Why do people like seafood so much? Why do they like watching a chef crack open a shell and scramble the insides with a fork and then they put it in front of you and say bon appetit?? We don’t eat other animals that way, like scramble up the insides and then scoop them out to eat from the pelvic area or the chest cavity. GROSS. I really should be a vegan. I really shoulda learned Spanish. I shoulda booked private rooms with private bathrooms instead of dorm style. I should bought more guidebooks and maps. I shoulda picked an easier hike, a shorter hike, one with less people, one I could just drive to myself, and hike with myself, and be all by myself. Why did I do this? Why did I plan this? Why do I keep putting myself in these situations? HOW DO I GET OUTTA THIS?!?

xoxo, Amy

Hi everyone! I'm testing out writing via phone and app in preparation for my attempt to document some of my travels on the Camino. (Expect way more typos as I have sausage fingers! Apologies in advance.)

I wrote this illustrated essay a few years ago, but it’s been on my mind again as we prepare for this month’s In a Nutshell theme, “All You Can Eat.”

So I thought I’d share it again. This is part two. (You’ll probably have to click through to read it all. While you’re there, I’d love to hear what you think and if/how you relate.) xoxo, Amy PS Fifteen days until the Camino!

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Thanks for reading! xoxo, Amy

If this stirred something for you, tell me about it! And I’d love for you to stick around.

I write about lots of stuff like this (and sometimes tell it onstage, too). You can subscribe to follow along or support the work if it’s been meaningful to you.

Subscribe now

Miss part one?

I wrote this illustrated essay a few years ago, but it’s been on my mind again as we prepare for this month’s In a Nutshell theme, “All You Can Eat.”

So I thought I’d share it again. This is part one. (You’ll probably have to click through to read it all. While you’re there, I’d love to hear what you think and if/how you relate.) xoxo, Amy

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Thanks for reading!

PS: Stories about food are among the most revealing people tell onstage.
(You’ll hear a few at our upcoming In a Nutshell show.)

Amy Bee here, rhymin’ and stealin’. Okay, no, I’m not doing either of those things (that Beastie Boys doc was gooood, wasn’t it?). It’s more like I’m plannin’ and schemin’ and then hidin’ and feelin’ (generalized-and-non-specific-anxiety-because-those-neuro-ruts-run-deep-and-every-unanswered-email-warrants-a-metaphorical-boot-to-the-head—ooh, another fun song, but wait, what was I—?)

I didn’t finish that sentence, but let’s just let it unspool on its own.

Oh, yeah.

In April, I’m walking the Camino Francés in Spain. Or, more accurately, I’m attempting to walk it. This is important because bad knees, because poor track record, and because attempts are really more my speed than those more fantastical story arcs like triumph, overcoming, resilience . . .

or redemption.

(But I can hope, can’t I? For a teensy, tiny lil’ bit of redemption? For funsies? What if I put it in teeny-tiny font?)

If you’re new to, uh, well—me—a little context: I’ve failed to hike the Pacific Crest Trail three separate times. And I don’t mean “it didn’t turn out the way I hoped.” I mean, I trained, planned, spent money, packed, roped people in, started . . . and then quit. THREE TIMES. Each time for reasons that were very real and also very convoluted and tangled up in my brain. I’m still trying to untangle some of it.

I know more now than I did then. Some burdens have been lifted. Which is why I think I’ve got a decent shot this time.

But still, I carry that history with me. I’m not starting the trail as someone who trusts herself to finish things, much less big physical things. I’m starting as someone who’s decided, what the hell. It’s okay to try. Might as well.

Because through all my adult iterations, one single frickin’ thing has remained true:

I want to start at point A and, hundreds of miles later, arrive at point B. On foot.

Don’t ask me why. I dunno. I mean, I kinda know, and I’ll tell you some of it later if you want (looky-loo 💜). For now, what matters is this: I’m going to try. I’m going to let it be what it needs to be. And I’m going to celebrate the attempt.

(And yes, fine. A teeny, tiny redemption arc. Maybe.)

I’m tackling this hike the same way I tackle most “gotta be brave to do it” things: with a lot of thinking, a lot of rumination, a lot of doubt, and a deep suspicion of my own motivations. You’re soooooo totally seeing how this relates to me learning to perform stories live, right? Okay, good.

I’m not going to turn the Camino into a tidy, performative lesson factory. But I do want to share it with you.

Sometimes that’ll mean the icky interior stuff: fear, resistance, the part of me that wants to quit everything before breakfast. Other times, it’ll be lighter Camino notes: what I’m packing, where I’m heading, stray observations, maybe some photos. Artifacts.

If something feels true, I’ll share it. If all I have is tired feet and a bad attitude, that might be all you get. Silence may also make an appearance. That’s not me being mysterious; that’s just me being me (aka lost in my head).

I’m not promising daily updates. I’m not promising transformation. I’m not promising that I’ll finish, or that if I do finish, it will “mean” what people like these things to mean.

(I’ll take a smidge of redemption, tho. Pleasepleaseplease.)

If you prefer perfectly curated trail content or inspirational endurance mythology, this might not be your jam. That’s okay. Skip over it. I still have lots coming up about performing anyway. TWO SHOWS THIS MONTH. Let the nail-biting commence.

But if you’re here because you know what it’s like to try something without knowing how you’ll behave once it gets hard(although you have a suspicion. But you’re not gonna box yourself in the corner like that, no mo’, nossir. Nobody puts baby in the corner!) or you’re learning to make friends with failure, with trying anyway, with giving yourself a little grace and mercy, then you’re exactly who I want along for the ride.

I’ll see you on the road in April. Or off it. Or back here afterward, sorting through what happened.

Either way, thank you for walking alongside me in whatever form this adventure takes. (Oooh, shivers!)

xoxo,
Amy Bee

(PS—I was gonna post those Beastie Boys lyrics here for some much-needed B-Boy bravado, but um, no. Not a good idea. Don’t look ‘em up. Keep your nostalgia safe and intact.)(PPS-Next post is all about da stories, promise!)

If you’re reading this and thinking, “Oh, hello. This feels familiar,” and you want to validate my story writing AND your well-earned sense of generosity, you can become a paid subscriber.

Nothing dramatic happens when you do. You won’t unlock secret wisdom or bonus bravery. You’ll just be helping me keep on keeping on, trying to do hard stuff anyway, and showing up when it would be easier to just eat a breakfast burrito in bed.

If that feels good to you, thank you. If not, I’m still really glad you’re here. xoxo, Amy

You could stand to be a little kinder to yourself.

Ew. Yuck. I know. I don’t like it either. In fact, even now, even though I’ve been called out as “hard on myself” many times and in several ways the last few weeks, I still, still, STILL have to asterisk my reminder of yeah, okay, I could go a little easier on myself with

*but not too easy, Amy.

Because I want to give myself mercy and grace.

But I also MUST. REMAIN. VIGILANT.

If you do this to yourself, I’m sorry and wish you wouldn’t. But I also understand.

Let’s go take a nap!

Okay, better?

Anyway. I’d been throwing a helluva pity party for myself for the last few months because, well, I wasn’t doing the ANYWAY part of performing anyway. Even though I showed up to anything I’d been booked for, anything where I had to be my own engine, I sputtered out. And once I let myself get away with giving in to anxiety and/or choosing comfort over growth, it just got easier and easier to do so.

Why, exactly, doesn’t facing stage fright work the same way?? Like, shouldn’t it get easier? As far as I can tell, and according to some other worry machines I know who still brave the stage, it doesn’t get easier. The symptoms don’t go away. If you’re lucky, you get better at tolerating it. I hear Nick Kroll’s voice here, saying good at tolerating. Yeah, yeah, okay, fine, imaginary Nick Kroll. I’m trying.

Mostly.

So I was feeling sorry for myself and also like a complete failure, and also kinda sorta correctly recognizing where I was leading myself astray, but also not feeling up to the task of rectifying it, and so, so guilty for everything I was doing wrong and just completely forgetting something important:

How brave I’ve been this year.

Yeah, I’m saying it! I went from ZERO times performing on stage to like, what, TEN times??? Maybe more? That’s not nothing.

That’s something.

I also helped build two live event storytelling shows from nada and threw in a newsletter and a podcast for some good old-fashioned type 2 pain. I’ve never been this busy or in charge of so many things in my life.

PSST: Wondering if you’re a productive procrastinator? Here’s how you find out: Tell yourself you want to face your fear of letting yourself exist in the world by becoming a public speaker. Now, look around. Did a burgeoning live storytelling empire taking up all your time and energy (in the most pleasantly valid way) rise up around you? Congratulations! You’re a productive procrastinator!

Thanks to my buddy Keith for reminding me. And I don’t even think he was shittin’ me, I think he really was congratulating me on all I’ve done, what I have, EMPIRICALLY, faced. And it was nice, you know? Letting his kindness in so I could feel some of my own.

And maybe that’s the surest sign of growth I’ve got for myself. Because, even two years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to hear that maybe I’ve been doing okay, because all I could ever really let myself hear before was that I wasn’t perfect.

(Check out

for funsies).

So, yay.

Progress.

Maybe I finally have the emotional intelligence of an average adult??

I’ll agree to that. With an asterisk.

So, yes, I am putting on the Ladypants and accepting I’ve done a fantastic job and now it’s time to keep going.

And that’s what I’m gonna do!

Lots of brave, brave stuff for 2026, okay, besties? Maybe even *gulp* facing a giant fear replete with umpteen tons of emotional baggage?!? (STAY TUNED!) Let’s do it together, okay? Because you are a lot like me, and that means-

You deserve a little kindness! SMOOOOOCH!

xoxo,

Amy Bee

Dear co-creators, aka Mostus to My Hostus co-host and producer co-host ,

I’m so sorry I hardcore biffed the beginning of our interview with acclaimed storyteller and Pine-Sol Lady Diane Amos, paraphrased and re-enacted here for torture-level personal embarrassment and peak-level vicarious public enjoyment:

Amy: So, you ended your story at our live show with “Joy and Pain,” an excellent and apt song from WAZE . . .

Diane: MAZE.

Aaron: MAZE.

Keith: (rolling eyes)

Amy: Huh?

Aaron: The band is MAZE.

Keith: Not a live map app in direct competition with Google.

Amy: (laughing) Yeah, I know. I don’t know why I said that. “Joy and Pain” by MAZE featuring Frank Bent . . .

Diane: Frank Beverly.

Amy: Bentley?

Diane: Featuring Frank Beverly.

Amy: Um, Frank Bent . . . Bent . . .

Keith: Dude.

Aaron: It’s Beverely.

Amy: (spits it out) Beverly. Ah yeah. I’m so sorry. I do this sometimes. I mess up names . . .

Everyone: (not believing me)

Keith: (smirks and sips coffee)

Amy: (dies a little on the inside)

Diane: (patient as hell, but probably calling me a silly white lady a little on the inside)

THE END (except unfortunately it was the BEGINNING of an hour-long interview, egads.)

Note: Some of this has been dramatized because isn’t that what re-enactments are supposed to do? But also, the whole damn thing is EMOTIONALLY true, so please leave me to my sad blanket burrow now, please and thank you.

Note: Let’s also apologize for my hair in that photo above, and also those nails that need a cleanin’ and a filin’ and a new coat of paint. So sorry. I shouldn’t compulsively want to only share shitty photos of myself. To be fair to ME, tho, well, I don’t take good pictures and I can’t hide forever hoping someday I’ll be miraculously photogenic or, less miraculously, presentable.

NOTE: I had to look up the band and the singer to make sure I had the names right in order to write this.

SIGH.

It’s FRANKIE BEVERLY. MotherFU%#!&$#.

Anyway, dudes. So sorry I flubbed. But one of you is a world-renowned comedian, and the other is an accomplished podcaster—so whose fault is this, REALLY???

Oh. Still mine?

Fine.

xoxo,

Amy

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Hiya besties! Wondering if I performed at WILDCARD? Well, I kinda made a mess of it. After writing to you all, I realized my grampa story (It’s called The Part That Wrote The Poem) was only half-memorized and would def NOT be ready to tell, so I switched it up to a short piece I’ve been working on, practiced that one all that day . . . and then chickened out at the last second. Oh yeah, I had totally valid reasons not to do it (not 100% prepared, lots of audience members anxious to tell their stories, one teller’s story was similar to mine, etc.), but—and I keep realizing this, so maybe I’m learning it?—afterward, I had that pit in my stomach telling me, you guessed it:

I SHOULDA DONE IT ANYWAY

Why doesn’t my stomach tell me this BEFORE I get all scaredy-cat, dangit? My buddy Keith even said to me, “You know you’re making excuses. You need to get your average up,” meaning he’s got my number AND he’s been reading Things Might Go Terribly (because I said recently that I think I’m performing at about 65% of events offered to me), so THAT friendship’s over.

Just kidding. My ego loves it. My frontal cortex did a happy dance. He knooows me! He knows me well enough to know I make excuuuuses. He caaaaaares. We’re best frieeeeends 4eveeeeeer.

And on and on.

This is why I often describe myself as an extrovert with social anxiety, because a part of me really wants the stage, wants to know and be known, but due to no-good-very-bad parenting and poor emotional intelligence (and a deep suspicion that a fully functioning Amy ego would not be good for this world) I’ve stuffed those inclinations down deep into the nethers and the fact that I’m recognizing AT ALL—even too late—that I shoulda done the brave thing ANYWAY is a win.

For now.

But if I want that awareness to STAY a win and not be just another excuse in a long line of excuses, I’m gonna have to move past patting myself on the back for knowing and start doing.

(And I have been doing, to be clear. 65%!!)

Other notes and advice gleaned from 10 months of putting on WILDCARD, my monthly open mic story swap:

• A good host makes all the difference.

• People aren’t always aware, craft-wise, of exactly what a story’s beginning, middle, and end are. Most will nail one and fuck up the others.

• If you’re going to hold the microphone, don’t forget to move the mic stand out of the way!

• The audience mostly wants you to succeed and will help get you there IF you give them clear cues.

• Just like in writing, sometimes what is simple and obvious should be stated and not treated like a treasure in your pocket to ‘surprise’ people with. That said, edit, edit, edit. Don’t drown people in details!

• A strong, clear, measured voice can make or break a story. Too soft, and they won’t hear/trust/believe you; too loud, and you look like an ass. The audience will forgive much from a solid delivery.

• The only way to get better at performing is to keep performing.

• NOTE TO SELF: Pestering people to put their names in the NOT HAT is cute one or two times. Chasing them to their seats, begging them to participate, and threatening to randomly call them on stage (all in a poor attempt to hide your own very acute stage fright)? Not so cute.

What did I miss? Berate me in the comments. But don’t be too mean because, as my husband once cried to his second-grade teacher, “I’m sensitive!”

xo,

Amy Bee

Secondly:

That title’s a lie.

I’m actually avoiding several pertinent steps if I want to become better at telling stories to a live audience.

But the one on my mind today? As I’m trying to prepare a story for WILDCARD? My storytelling open mic show? The place where I’m supposed to be brave and tell stories every month and take advantage of this platform created expressly for this purpose, to grow and learn and evolve (as well as give space for others—like you!—to grow and learn and evolve)?

I cannot get the damned thing memorized! And I know, I know, if I don’t have it memorized, I will NOT perform tomorrow.

That’s what I’m avoiding, at all costs and to my detriment:

I don’t wanna fumble around onstage

aka I don’t wanna bomb

aka I wanna be perfect

aka I wanna pretend

aka I don’t wanna let myself be where I am

aka

aka

aka . . .

It’s such a dumb trick, one I always feel so alone in, even though surely you do it, too, right? Act like there’s such a thing as perfect?

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve come a long way. I told a story a few months ago (do you want to hear it? Maybe I’ll share it) and completely forgot what I was saying in the middle of it.

Actually, that’s happened three times. Hmmm.

(Note to self: That’s three times you fucked up and allowed yourself to go back up on stage—to fuck up again, yeah, but still: PROGRESS! Remember when you quit everything before you even started? Man, that sucked. Let’s not go back to that.)

Hey. Am I forgetting what I want to say in the middle of right now? Pfft . . . . nooooo. *side eye*

What I wanted to say is that I’m working on a new story, and I don’t think it’s gonna ‘be ready’ by tomorrow evening and even though this very adult, smart version of me knows, knows, KNOWS I should go up anyway and flail and squirm and find a way through it, chances are good I won’t because

I’M AVOIDING THAT PART OF PERFORMANCE, OKAY??

At least I’m aware of it, right? That’s good. That means there is at least an opportunity for change.

And I wanna change.

But not yet, oh lordy lordy, not yet.

xo,

Amy Bee

PS I’ll let you know how it goes. Here’s a snippet of me practicing.

PPS Extra points for anyone who figured out this is secretly a procrastination post. Smoooch! You’re my people!

how brief how tragic a death magnet a sun already gone starry-eyed with golden-red locks of damsel distress and a need too big to feed greasy spoonfuls of neglect regrettable stains on her bib and dress fists and facts stack up and fall stack up and fall stack up and crawl somewhere unseen stuck between a war machine and an apple crisp kiss—

witness

my battered breast beating a song long gone a bird bleeding in a tin cup cage my rage wages terse battles of lust and sweat heat swollen meat in a secret place I engage abrupt espionage and wish her frail and failing falling under some murky madness is it sadness is it an ocean of monstrosity and an island of shifting sand where I crush and burn a candle to her cheek too weak to point the finger at me—

witness

such clarity such moments of deceit the sunlight calls the animals to their feet and all the dead fall back asleep retreating to a bitter deep creeping love spilled on the bedsheets and the cracked cliché of linoleum floors a door where the animals hang their heads in defeat the sunlight cuts open the air a fair price she paid swayed by the wisps of dandelion hair stuck in her gaze amazed—

witness

me betrayed by wretched skin worn out and thin lines of regret beget the misfit deeds embedded seeds sprouted the heart on her sleeve a greedy need worming down under the hem of her dress a mess of fists and facts stacked up tall a wall a small bird’s nest where war machines creak and crack her heart a baby blue shell oh well it’s a relentless rendering it’s a pitiful beg it’s a sore sad seeing thing a fizzled end a dying breed a deathly plead to

—witness me.

THE END