The Puzzle Box

There is a box

An ordinary box

But inside that box is me.

Through masks I hide

But locked inside

Is what most don’t get to see.

The submissive me

A clumsy dancer in the wind.

A crashing wave against the sea.

It isn’t much

But she is me.

And she wants the world to hear

She has a voice

And it is loud…

So that when on her knees

People know,

It was HER choice

And she is proud.

Because submission is a gift

And it’s meant to be received.

But only by a Dom who sees

She needs to breathe.


There is this box,

A puzzle box

That nestles deep within me.

That holds a gift

so treasured

By the Dom who holds the key.


Checking In

I call to check in

And gauge your tone.

(An excuse to hear your voice through the phone)

The words, “I miss you”

nearly escape my lips,

As you reminisce

About a girl you once knew;

And still do.

(My throat tenses)

We’ve never actually met

Yet I recollect,

The feel of your skin, the way you touch…

Somehow I miss this so much.

(I miss us)

Before this…

Before the guessing, withdrawing,

And the moodiness.

(My heart clenches)

Silence sets in.

“How’s being back home?”

(I say to keep your voice on the phone)

The words, “I love you”

Nearly betray my lips,

As I dream of a kiss

From a man I once knew;

And still do.


I often think religion 

Is a way to control the masses.

And though I’m not quick to say it 

I’m quick to think that,

Those who impose God onto me

Are doing so hoping to

Save themselves.

But nights, when 

I’m naked and alone

And peering into the darkness 


I feel someone watching me.

And I think to myself…

God would be the only one 

Who could truly know the

Breaking within me.

And If there isn’t a God 

then I truly am 



I sit here,

beer in hand. And an

Invisible Tom,

Waits in the mirror.

One more cheers!

Before the tears

Start sounding nearer,

I cry.

And in drunken sadness,

I smile into a memory,

Then fall apart to madness.

Wondering how the hell

He couldn’t tell

How much he meant to me.

The Feather

The feather sweeps and swirls
Down a windless sky.
Landing, lightly spinning
On the curve of an empty swing.
A womb-less mother stops singing.
Lost in the vastness of a thought
Of a dream…
Belonging (once) to the nursery down the hall.
Beyond her sun-dusted drapes
Snakes slither
And herons glide.
And time,
Like the short wave of your hand
(to part ways)
Slips away…
It slips away.