“So I must say it quickly:

Whoever is in your life,

those who harm you,

those who help you,

those whom you do not know-

let them off the hook,

help them off the hook.

Recognize the hook.”

— Leonard Cohen, S.O.S. 1995

I don’t want to hang you up

but I have a lot of stuff

It’s everywhere and then it’s somewhere

It’s on a hook.

I didn’t want to put you there

but i didn’t want to lay you on the ground

It’s easy to put the coats with the coats

and the scarves and the belts with

all of the other stuff that’s long.

It’s just it’s been a while since I saw you

and since we talked and

It’s not that I love you

It’s just that I had to clean up.

I could throw you away

because you don’t have a spot

but i wanted to keep you

like that boa I got from Mardi Gras.

I can see you everyday

next to the shit that’s stayed

through snowstorms and college and fingerpainting

I want to take you down

but if you’re in a basket or the back of my dresser

I might forget you

and I’m scared.

If i take you down

You have to promise you’ll be found.

I’m doing it now

because its addicting:

Us hanging out.

I’m not saying goodbye

It’s just that I’m making some room in my closet and

I really hope you like it.

To my ex (-BOYFRIEND of two weeks)

How did I feel when you just called me?

Like I wanted to cry.

Tonight, I thought about breaking up with you.

Last night we were broken up (in my mind).

Tonight, the decision was contingent upon other factors, if-then situations that would work in my favor.

We would survive.

Last night was panic, paranoia, a torrential disaster.

The hurricane that would ruin your life.

I want to talk about the latter, the rationale behind my philosophical inquiry about us. It’s an anecdote of fact- a fact that I predict, you will not like:

The other summer, when I was still my same height, only I was twenty pounds more light, I went to a bar with my friends. The bar is gone, but the memory persists. It was just us eight girls, and one older guy. He was fine, I am NOT an ageist, but he obviously wouldn’t be first on my list. Very complimentary, he encouraged us to stay (with him), when we decided it was time to leave, he told us that his place was just down the street (he had coke). It was us eight and him (I forget his name, my friends and I call him ‘Daddy’), at his bachelor pad. A couple of my friends threw up in his sink or passed out on his couch while me and Daddy flipped through a book of explicit photos of old celebrities. His hand inched under my skirt until he grasped my entire left cheek.

I did not mind.

We shared a few kisses after I received some information. See, I’d been snapchatting with my ex all night, and had hopes to meet up, finally, after months of me trying. My friend, Marla, still in cahoots with his roommates, [over]heard (I wish it was a scenario of secrecy), him referring to lines of a letter I sent him, laughing, in a make-fun-of way, in front of a filled living  room of frat boys. I felt betrayed and afraid; naked and invalid.

The night ended, I didn’t see my ex, and don’t worry, I didn’t sleep with Daddy.

I thought about this story, from the other summer, on my walk home tonight. I thought of it fondly, like a defining scene in my life. I didn’t think of my ex, or really of Daddy. I thought of my girlfriends, and our decision to permit Daddy to come into our night. Our voices over our music, our noses on his granite; it was the power of our mystique that allowed us into that particular void. Retelling that story, just now, felt different from how it has manifested in my mind, and I think that that’s a good sign. I never felt shame or guilt, not even from myself, but then again, the only people that knew were my friends, and they were with me, so, I wondered, on my walk:

If I told you that story, would it make me feel dirty?

Would it be the same as the picture of the cum shot? The one from Britt? Oh yeah, you don’t want to talk about it. What kills me is your lack of curiosity. I understand that you don’t want to see it, but when I tried to explain, you wouldn’t let me talk about it. Your policy seems clear to me:

Don’t ask, don’t tell.

Like when you read my poetry. You don’t understand it, after the first read, and then you blame it on me. As if, I’m the one who doesn’t see. You don’t ask me what it’s about, or why I’m pulling certain tricks and I don’t know why, I can only theorize.

Tonight, when you called me you asked:

“What are you writing about?”

Tonight, when you asked me, I said:

“A story from the other summer that I just remembered.”

You seemed surprised at my secrecy. I wonder how you rationalize the fact that the secrets I’m willing to share, you cannot read.

How many poems have you read, or how many poems have you liked, that you’ve understood the first time? I guess what I’m getting at is a lack of your respect. Only if I’m Browning or Dickens or Plath do I deserve to be read without instant flack. When you read authors like that, it’s your fault that you don’t understand.

This philosophy that I inquire, you hold, would fit in nicely, to some scenarios surrounding our sex. You like me a lot, and I wonder if it is because I am being complacently shy. After I taught you how to make me cum, and I came, you asked me:

“How many times have I made you cum?” and I said: “three.”

You were surprised then, too, only not in the way I’d been expecting:

“Oh! I thought it was only two.”

We have sex and you cum (pretty much every time); it would be a funny question for me to ask you the same thing. Yet, after I taught the lesson; they key to my pleasure, you again, didn’t understand. You didn’t ask before reverting to your hardcore disavowal of my sensitive clitoris and after you finished, you kept on kissing my neck. Each peck was a stinging reminder that you like me laying there, silent, unsatisfied, not telling you the not secret thing that was secretly anguishing my mind.

My body doesn’t pique your interests, or not enough to elicit a second read.

What first turned me on to you was your willingness to dive deep. Remember the time you told me that you looked at yourself as the narrator rather than the character in your story? When you said it, it sounded so selfless. Upon reflection, I now realize that what the narrator has, that the characters don’t, is


I promised myself that the next time I tried something like this, I wouldn’t hide, and just think about it, about all that you missed in the supposed story of Mr. Rochester and his detained wife.

All I’m trying to say is this:

If you were curious, you would question our world together, you would try to understand, you would help me be vulnerable to understand me and then we could both be characters who are both trying to be narrators in the story of our life.

But these are expectations, and this hypothesis is a fantasy. I know better than to hang you up.

When you just called me, and I wanted to cry, it was because

I don’t want to breakup with you.

I wonder if it is because I am weak.

If You were thinking about fucking me, read this first:

I am a 21-year-old white woman. I am hot, and I like to fuck. I was exposed to the Power of the Erotic by Audre Lorde during my first real relationship. I absorbed the intellectual material about sexual oppression, yet I felt oppressed by my relationship. Soon after our relationship ended, with the support of my friends, I took my now-ex out of my sexual equation and began going at it again. It was important to me that women know that sex isn’t bad, heck it was important to me that everyone knows it! I began getting really interested in feminist porn directors, and institutions promoting the spread of female pleasure. I felt personally called to this slew of information about sex and sexuality due to the emotional resonance I felt with discourse surrounding female sexual oppression that was based in my own experiences with hook-up culture. Here are some theories I have:

-If a man is never taught how to pleasure a woman. He will not even try. 83% of heterosexual porn on internet does not even feature a woman finishing, so, men must learn from women. (Betty Dodson shared that statistic on GOUP).

– And if, the man is more attractive, then women are less likely to risk the repercussions of explaining that the man does not make them cum. The hot man has more sexual privilege in that way, and as sociology informs, the more privilege you have, the less access you have to knowledge of the oppressed. It doesn’t matter how nice and open and beautiful the hot male seems, they cannot know because they have never learned.

This is where it gets tricky, because if the hot male cared, couldn’t they seek information out? I think yes, but as a woman myself who is viscerally effected by the results of my endeavor into female pleasure, it’s nonetheless been hard for me to dig up accurate information. I was extremely implicated in the results, so it seems that the stakes aren’t as important for the hot man, seeing as coming-up short in the areas of female pleasure does not sacrifice any of their pleasure.

So, I rest my case: it is up to women, to teach men how to navigate a woman’s body.

I’ve often thought, if it isn’t working then it just isn’t working, and I shouldn’t waste the effort on him because he sucks because he can’t make me cum, or if he really wanted to know how to, he would ask.

BUT that may be a hard question for some (hot males) to ask, especially some with so much privilege. I want to empathize with both parties in this situation because I want to figure out a plan that will produce the best and most effective results. I want to formulate some ways in which to help prompt this conversation to whoever you’re sleeping with, no matter how hot!


Go down there, I’ll lay on my back

Look at my vagina straight, breath in my stench

Put your finger at the opening

Do, you feel that? I’m wet.

Your eyes wide stroke me before you act

You are a painter painting a volcano,

God carefully ingraining a

timeline over its cathartic life

You’re the rhetor, obscuring your moves and your intention

You are dancing with the old queen

Slow and careful not to go past your step

You’re whispering your secret imprint, the message you want to send

To me


Those are just some general ideas, but I’m here to get to the meat!

my personal mechanics:

Your easel is full, now paint! I want you soft gliding over my left inner lip, cross to the right one before you reach to my clit. Go down again to refill and then travel up the middle, pause in the space between my vagina and my clit. Massage, add some pressure, and take the pressure back down. Stick your finger inside of me and press it against my upper wall. Take out your finger by pumping it a couple of times, really slow, don’t remove your hand from my body; slide it out and let it travel, softly up, softer, the higher you rise, don’t pause at the space between this time, and barely feeling me, above my clit, tickle me ever so gently. In a circular motion or a U shape around the top, the less direct the contact, the more uncontrollably you get me wet. If you want to bring in your tongue, this is the best time. But don’t forget, light, barely making contact. If you’re feeling passionate and you want to press down direct, go to the place between my vagina and my clit, you have permission to devour, suck and all of that. Doing a little bit of both is never bad, it’s a transition that helps, if your looking for the time to pass, but regardless of the job up top, I want one of your fingers inside of me. You can keep it in there and massage my wall or you can penetrate me with it. Eventually, I want you to put another finger in, and you’ll know, I’ll trust your timing on when you think i’m ready for that. Soon, Probably after about two mins of that, I’ll be ready to cum. I’ll just need it another min or so to make it the best ever. Here’s what you need to do. Press a little harder than you were before, on my clit. Maybe try wiggling it, or jacking it off like a penis, and I want you to take your fingers out of me, replace your hand with mine, up top, and bring your dick to my mouth, I will suck it until you are able to fuck me, with your full potential, and then you will, and I will cum on your dick, so that you can feel me pulsating on you. You did that- you helped me feel that. You might cum unexpectedly, at the convulsions wrapping around you, breathing you in, so you need to wear a condom before it happens because I need you to stay inside me for this. Seriously.

The Function of Multiple Dimensions (for me)

To me, the existence of an infinite amount of other dimensions has always been somewhat of a comfort. I began researching the likelihood of these far out phenomena after my first breakup. I wanted, or needed confirmation of another realm where my ex lover and I could coexist, a realm where we were still together, where he still loved me. A coworker of mine was a clairvoyant, and worked for people as an intuitive councilor. She encouraged me to trust my intuition and ask for help from the healing energies of Archangels, Micheal, Raziel, and Chamuel. This marked my inauguration into western occultism, and my fantastic transition into creating my own idealistic reality. It was here that I was able to manifest so many of my goals and play around with my beautiful and promising reality. At the start of my next semester in college, I was in for a rude awakening. My curriculum seemed to directly attack the view of the world I’d adopted in my hallucinogenic summer. I learned about the perils of hegemonic power, and it’s way of systematically oppressing marginalized people. I wondered how to reckon my optimistic fairyland perceptions of reality, with all of the evil in the world, and wound up defeated. Reality set in, and I decided to devote my life to being a social justice warrior, in order to make-up for my privilege and naivety.

Since then I’ve realized a lot about myself, most importantly, that although my life’s purpose is helping out others, it would have to be in my own way; I simply can not follow institutional guidelines. I must find a way to help through avenues that I myself have found to be true. I have to truly believe in these avenues before I can urge others to partake in their healing effects.

All of this self-discovery caused turmoil in my inner-world. What was my purpose? Fuck if I knew. How was I supposed to help others if I was in such turmoil? At this point I had trashed the angels as agents for my personal well-being because believing in their power over my life would have to extend to the world around me, and my studies had proved that belief wrong: there is still so much suffering! I decided to switch up my track and major in English. Once I landed there, I realized that suffering is reality. What made literature important to me was my ability to empathize and apply words stuck together, existing in a canonical time-capsule to my own insignificant and melodramatic life. In this sense, suffering isn’t something to avoid, it is something beautiful.

The universality of emotions was something I could work with. This realization was the truest thing that I have ever known to be ‘real’. The duality encompasses my initial draw to the angels; it was how, for instance, archangel Raziel effected my life so much. Raziel, you see, is an eccentric wizard that comes to those who’ve just experienced trauma. The guy who sends blessings of creativity to people struck by heartbreak, loss, and ultimately change. He allows people to harness these raw emotions into something tangible. I understood the angels to be harbingers of promise amiss suffering, and at the time that I first met them, I was flowing with ideas, writings that turned to manifestos that in my mind, allowed me to be a theorist.

Now, I’ve landed in my final semester of college; a death of exploration on the horizon, trying to milk every last lesson. Although it is a death, of my institutionalized rearing, my mind is running so fast to the future. In the wake of social interactions, from the threat of the corona virus, my classes have become virtual and I’ve found myself fading off from my usual inspiration from the curriculum and my professors and have experienced a shift in it, moving home into the inspiration that comes from myself.

Instead of working on my thesis, I’ve been exploring my subconscious mind. I’ve been working on maintaining consciousness while I dream, otherwise known as lucid dreaming, and looking into the work of Terrence Mckenna and Ram Dass. Of course, this has brought me back, full circle into the considerations of multiple dimensions.

One would hope, that after all of this life experience, I would come back to the multi-threaded fabric of our reality in some way than having it function as a control mechanism toward the men that do not love me, yet as I was watching a Veritasium YouTube video called “Parallel Worlds Probably Exist. Here’s Why”.* I imagined filming a part of the video describing the evidence behind these parallel worlds to my Snap Chat story, and adding a caption: “see you later ;).”

This creepy sentiment was submissively aimed at about four of my friends of Snap Chat. It was essentially the same thing as being comforted by there being other dimensions in which my boyfriend still loved me– it was control. If i could get control over my consciousness, I imagined, I could then, insert myself into whoever’s reality I so desired.

Here lies my issue: how do I shake my innate desire to control those around me. Whether it is through helping, or metaphysical intervention, I must halt this business if I want to trust that I’m in the dimension that carries the version of my highest self!


Lauren (me)

one day, I’ll graduate; I’ll be a ‘good’ person.

Do you ever just feel like you’re insignificant, like your brain has stuff to say, all day long, and it is pretty funny sometimes, but you’re stuck between a place of trying to be someone and accepting that you are no one?

Me too

I’ve always loved to write, and find that my number one piece of advice, when my friends come knocking for it is: try to journal about it; explore what you’re feeling, and what you want to do.

I find that it is a lot easier to guide others in that direction, to idealize the power of writing into a panacea.

I am an idealist, so it often functions that way for me, but what I’ve found harder is: determining what I actually want.

I know that I’ve been itching to share my ideas for a long time because the clearest thing that I know I want is to be able to help others navigate their own issues through the framework of my own.

My issues, I’ve realized always come back to me trying to control a situation that I have no control over. Whether it’s having good sex, trying to lasso in a lover, or planning my future to a T, something innate inside of me wants to carry out a scheme in order to materialize what I think I want, or need.

I’ve graduated from being an ‘i’m-sorry-girl’ that morphs into whoever she wants’ tastes, into a wanna-be ‘go-with-the-flow-girl’ that pretends to be unfazed when things don’t go her way.

My goal here is to translate some of those frustrating plans into plans to take control over my own emotions, and hopefully inspire women like me, to do the same.

Some stuff may get soppy

Some stuff may writhe with self-pity

Some stuff may be vengeful, as fuck.

My hope is that in consolidating my shit into one place, that is visible to whoever wants to take a gander, I’ll be able to reflect and slowly take those lower vibrations out of my equation.

I love writing poetry, fiction and non. I’ll include you in my dreams, in both senses, and I can’t wait to see how they evolve!



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