Cigarettes will kill you, ya know

By Jenn

You’re like a cigarette
One of those reeeeallly GOOD cigarettes
Like a menthol one
They were always my favorite
But anyway
You, you know the ones
Those Menthol smokes all inviting
Smelling good
They make your whole chest warm
Or maybe you’re like
One of those long old lady cigarettes
You know,
Those old ladies that smoke the long skinny cigarettes
Judging everyone as they walk by
Holdin their smokes all classy like
Like they just stepped out of an Audrey Hepburn movie or somethin’
Like they’re better than you because their smokes are long and skinny
Inhaling like it’s a lost art
Blowing out like they
Just had the best orgasim of their lives
Or maybe you’re a cheap cigarette
You know the ones
Those ones we use to buy
When we had to scrap together pennies between us
Just to go to the liquor store
Just to buy one pack of smokes for 6 people
I’m pretty sure you’re not an expensive cigarette
Although they’re all expensive now
No wait, you’re like a clove cigarette
Remember those Prime Times
You know those ones that leave
Your lips tasting like berries or vanilla or mint
Those cloves have a smell like freedom
They smell like sunshine
They smell like snow storms
They smell like you
They smell like friday nights
Sitting on the couch with you
Playing video games and smoking weed
I like those ones
They make me think of us at that little house
Crazy kids
In your car
That giant car
You know the one with the giant hood?
They make me think of you sleeping on the floor
Just to be next to me
Me on the couch
You on the floor
You use to be a gentleman
Because neither of us paid rent or actually “lived” there
But really we slept like that because all the beds were taken
But you know what really reminds me of you
The smell of those camels 99’s
Or maybe the smell of bud light
Or maybe even the smell of the fresh residue
That we scraped out to smoke
No but I think I’d like you better as a memory
One I’d like to keep
Because if you stay as a memory
I can’t be hurt by you
I can’t be mad at you for walking away
I want to keep you safe
2 kids
Sitting on the couch on a friday night
Playing that dumb video game
You know that one
The one with the bunny named jenny
The only game I could beat you at
Remember she spun and turned into a bunny
Because in that 1 room house
Nothing’s happened
You haven’t touched me
You haven’t held me
I haven’t felt your breath against my neck
I haven’t listened to your heartbeat through your chest
And I didn’t notice how you looked at me
And I didn’t feel butterflies when you looked at me
I didn’t even know you looked at me
You look at me like maybe I was magic
You have since day one haven’t you
I can’t be mad at myself for not seeing it
Because I didn’t see it
You see?


Make Believe

dead rose


By Jenn

  • There once was this little girl
    Who sat alone in the dark
    Wishing she was anyone but who she really was
  • There once was this little girl
    Who made up her own little world
    Safe in her little blue room
    She twirled, she spun, she sang then she’d bow
    And all the pretend people cheered
  • There once was this little girl
    Who just needed someone to love her, though she didn’t know that’s what she needed
    She searched her whole little life, looking to fill a void
    Searching for that one little place that she felt truly safe
    Somewhere she could just be her happy little self
  • There once was this little girl
    Who lived inside this big girl, with big dreams
    But both girls were filled with fear, self doubt
  • But one day there was this boy
    Who instantly understood that little girl and made her laugh harder than anyone else
    He was kind, handsome and full of life
    With his crooked smile, dimples and his crooked way of looking at life
    He was everything she didn’t know she needed
  • One day this boy showed this girl what life could be like
    They fit together like puzzle pieces
    Making a beautiful picture full of color, love, laughter and sunshine
    The thing is, when you’re a broken little girl
    You always think love comes with strings
  • There once was a girl who fell for
    A boy who didn’t expect anything from her
    Who looked at her like she was magic and made her feel safe
    Who made her laugh and smile harder than anyone else
    But instead of letting him love her, she pushed him down and ran away
  • So that little girl lost her handsome prince
    Because who wants to love someone who doesn’t know what that means
    Now she sits in her room, imagining
    Playing pretend in her head to fill the void
    Knowing she would never feel that safe or happy again


Wait, who the hell are you?

Hey lovers!

So, we wanted to make sure we gave you a better intro into who we are. So, here’s more about me. I’m Jenn. I’m originally from Oregon, well, that’s what I claim. I was born there, so, really, I can. 🙂

My parents are both from Nebraska and moved us all back when I was young. I grew up in a traditional German/Russian home, although I didn’t know it was any different from yours because all my friends were all part of the culture as well, which says a lot about me. I’ve been through a lot and most of my life, I’ve detached from any feelings. I’m not good at them, really. So, as an adult, I’m finally learning what all those are, and I HATE it. How do you people go through life feelin things?! I don’t get y’all at all, I mean, really. I’ve done things I’m not proud of and had more life experience than most and the consequence of that is anxiety. I semi delight in my complex PTSD (repeat and prolonged traumas). It helps keep me safe, dark and allows me to dissociated, but also brings just as much sorrow. I’ve been in therapy a couple of years working on all the things that have happened and as I said above, I’m just learning to actually have feelings. It plows me over most days. I’m an all or nothing kinda girl, so either things are ok or they’re not. Sometimes I think I’m more in love with my darkness and sadness than the idea of actually being happy. I don’t understand things like when someone likes me, when someone really needs my help or anything having to do with connections with people.

I’m obsessed with boxing and it has been the best outlet I’ve ever found. There is nothing better than hitting a heavy bag or better yet, hitting those mitts with your trainer. 🙂 Finding Title Boxing has been the best thing I’ve ever done. 

My son is 15, I had him young. He was born with complications and was left severely disabled and developmentally around 2 years old. But please, don’t ever tell me “you must be super woman” because I might punch ya. Isaiah and I are a team, he’s my ride or die, only because he doesn’t really have a choice…haha. We love to travel, go to concerts, drive in the car and laugh. He’s got THE BEST laugh.

I can’t think of a better way to spend a weekend than binge watching Friends or Greys Anatomy. I have a super hard time staying away from salt. As I said before, I’m obsessed with boxing and go at least 6 times a week (shout out to Title Boxing ) I’m pretty obsessed with all things gangsta rap and can recite almost any Eminem song verbatim.

I look forward to sharing my thoughts with you, some recipes with you and maybe get to know you all as well.

Bloody Fucking Hell


It’s Monday…

if the title didn’t clue you in…I curse…a lot. I use “Fuck” not just like it’s a conjunction, verb, adverb, or adjective…I use “Fuck” like it’s a bloody fucking comma. I’m honestly a little in love with that fucking word. I pepper it throughout my speech and writings. Even a lot of my poetry.

If you’re not comfortable with cursing you likely are not going to like 50% of my posts, and I’m ok with that. This blog will not be for everyone. Despite our cute little about me pages, Jenn and I are pretty dark and gritty people, and this blog is going to be the relief valve for our darkness. We’re drowning in it, showering ourselves in it’s gripping hedonistic blood like Carrie at the prom.

I’m not resigned to the darkness that lives inside, I’m not just accepting of it. I understand it, I seek it out and pay it attention, I relish in it. One thing you should know is that I don’t identify as goth or emo, or whatever the fuck else we’re calling moody all black wearing angsty teens these days.

I’ve had a few anniversaries of my 29th birthday. I wear colors. I smile, I joke around; I listen to bubble gum pop (and country, classic rock, alt rock, hard rock, folk, jazz, blues, etc), watch chick flicks (and action, drama, thriller, comedy, and documentaries). I work in Corporate America and I LOVE it. Most people who casually know me would never think of me as goth/emo.

Yet, I love the darkness inside. The scars I carry continue to teach me lessons, continue to show me my weaknesses, continue to show me how strong I have become. They help me to know that I can survive anything because they are living fucking proof of all the hells I have already survived.

I suffer from PTSD. I have lived through a lot of tragedy, dealt and been dealt a lot of fucking pain. Some days it is nothing more than a story. Most of the time, to most of the audiences I have…it is nothing more than a fucked up story. Ninety-nine percent of the time it’s a story I brag about. Because I’m that kind of fucked up. Some days though, some days my soul is crushed under the weight of that story.

I have always been creative. I have always been inspired by pain and misery. I have always been a writer. Ever since I first learned to take pen to paper. My mom still has the cutesy things I wrote as a child. Twelve years ago started a series of chapters in my story that sucked the creativity out of my soul.

Fast forward to last Friday. When Jenni wrote some awesome dark bloody fucking poems that spoke to me and unleashed a longing in my soul to write again. She was in a similar spot, having her own share of darkness and tragedy. We have very different stories, with very similar outcomes. So a long phone call later, we are creating this blog, a Facebook page, typing out and scheduling our first weeks worth of posts and planning the first month.

Some of my content will be new, some will be the remnants of my past; it will be dark and brooding, bloody and messy, bright and cheerful, sweet and loving, goofy and whimsical, dirty and sexy. It will be me.

And in true me fashion, I hope I slip and slide against your skin, pour into your eyes, snake my way inside and spark a fever in your heart. Check back in a couple hours for my first touch on your soul. Will it be a gentle caress? A hungry kiss? A teasing bite or a hard slap?