Angst · Poetry

Theocracy Theatre

you seem to think you’re so divine
climb on in and devour my mind

drowsy with animosity and you
weary with tears, my view askew

tend to this garden i sow for humanity
weeds galore i reap for my sanity

something’s missing from this riddle
and keeps me trapped here in the middle

offer redemption, offer destruction
let’s get on with this absurd production

Angst · Heartbreak · Poetry


Photo by Will on Unsplash
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Should he wake up one day with so much regret
So much regret that fills up his head
And his head gets so heavy he falls off his bed
Wastes away his whole day, stuck seeing red

Then and only then will he have just a taste
Of the woe that I’ve weaved from the words that I waste
The time that it takes to plot out a stanza
This shit that pours out which nobody’s fans of

Switching up the narrative was no small feat
Everyday felt the same- rinse and repeat
Showers melt dirt yet memories came through
Try not to be petty but I’m a stubborn ass too

I put on fresh clothes, get my eyebrows just right
And I finally gave up on him seeing the light
That’s fine, it’s his loss, though it coulda been grand
If he hadn’t declined to meet one small demand

Support me, encourage me, lift me up when I’m down
But he passed on all that, guess I’ll see him around
Sent so many olive branches I used the whole tree
But no plea could change that he never saw me

This heart that I carry, the one that makes its demands
The one he swiped right on just to block in the end
It’s heavy, it hurts, but he doesn’t give a shit
I asked for too much and he called it quits

You ready for this? A shameful confession
is that I saw the red flags but did not heed my lessons
And if he showed up today and asked to be friends
I’d still forgive and forget every iota of cringe

So I’m saying goodbye, rest in peace, to what I imagined
Adios to the muchacho with whom I had planned it
He’ll carry on pretending like none of this happened
And though I wish him the best, he already had it



She can’t be impressed by your best; but yet, don’t fret!
Her high expectations are paralleled by low, low standards.
Surely there’s enough room for you in this room for two.
But a box needs four walls to grow.
Square pegs bumping into black holes.
The sum of you and her makes three, and so you see, there’s no room for me.

Smile, honey, that’s your cue.

Horror · Poetry


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She felt she was enticed here
Fed bait until she drew near
Met by a gnawing, jagged mouth
Her gnashed up throat becomes a spout
Scrape for scrape, nails breaking off
Drag for drag, with ragged cough
Bloody stumps show crisp white bone
Exact, retract, metronome
Tick tock, tick tock
Cuckoo, cuckoo
She gasped until her face went blue 

Angst · Heartbreak · Poetry

Ancient Evergreen

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I select the most peculiar of events
To execute regression and express laments
I push instead of pull
and then I have regrets

Pursed yet split, I tongue my iron-flavored cracked lips
Every now and again thirsting for that sip
Cycle never-ending;
First the rise, then the dip

I used to be a wreck- a hopeless, helpless mess
Now I just drink coffee and smoke my cigarettes
I reach for the notebook
to help me decompress

I pine like an evergreen rooted in lost loves
Some still alive, some below, and those up above
Perennial grieving;
When will I weep enough?

Fiction · Horror · Shorts · Unfinished

Princess Dollface

project intended to be a collection of short stories by various authors.

Peering out the window from the safe comfort of my desk as dense, black, and awesomely ominous clouds crept over my house, I witnessed these clouds coating the neighborhood with early morning darkness.

Leaning forward and extending a cautious hand, I flicked the latch on the window unlocked and propped open the splintery wooden frame with an old college book of mine. Mathematics were finally serving a purpose in my life. A gentle and cool zephyr discovered my open window and enveloped me in invisible tendrils of affection, causing me to hug myself and rub the backs of my arms. I could feel the goosebumps creeping up along my arm and stopping just short of my elbows.

For a few moments I allowed the curious and chilly breeze to embrace me before scooping my sweater from the floor of my den and tugging the thick woolen fabric over my head.

The clouds passed within a matter of minutes as I gazed dreamily out the window, lost in reveries and a deliciously childlike feeling inside. Soon, droplets of rain began to sprinkle on the ledges of the parapets surrounding my little windowed alcove. I watched them make contact with the old planks, splashing in their miniature tempests, as though waging war on the ancient balcony. Never hostile, I noticed, just persistent. The delicate drops eventually found themselves dissipating as well as the clouds which took them to the west.

Lacing my fingers through the deteriorating cloth bookmark’s fringes, I was again lost in thoughts from someplace buried long ago in the pit of my being. I then grasped the spine of the book with one hand and used the palm of the other to tenderly lower the window into it’s original resting place, careful of the rebellious splinters protruding from random knots along the edge and the sill. Letting the book tumble back onto the desk with a mild thud, I slid the latch locked once more on the fragile window. Leaning back in my desk chair, the lids of my eyes grew heavy and I fell into a peculiar sequence of dreams…..

The first dream, of which I’m not particularly fond, has always held an intriguing amount of curiosity. In fact, as I focus on the details which I’m about to unfold for you like a nice present on Christmas, questions still linger in my mind as to what provoked the beginning of this adventure. I take you now to a place that is not entirely unlike our world today, perhaps the reason for my dismay in my arrival.

Sky was blue, politicians were wankers, and cereal bars tasted like they should.

Princess Dollface

by Jasmine Weston

I couldn’t conjure a way to clean up the blood. There was just such a vast amount of it. Increasing every second, little rivulets winding down her face spilled into pools which collected on the linoleum like syrup. Luscious locks of blonde curls were tainted a strawberry color and matted against her cheek as her dead eyes stared into mine, asking, “Now that you’ve got me, what are you going to do?”

What a terrific question she posed with those inquiring eyes.

Being my first killing, it was untidy work. Sloppy footprints tracked in and out of the red puddles. Musing to myself, I considered eating her flesh and discarding the bones. Maybe burning her hair. Then it occurred to me- what a waste that would be! Such gorgeous tresses and what an awful smell twould cause to burn it. Lovely jewelry fashioned from her bones could adorn my wrists and throat. Fabulous!

Still, cleaning the mess and disposing of evidence was a pressing matter. Much as a housewife debates dinner while washing dishes from lunch. However, I did find the urgency of my own dilemma had a slightly higher caliber of importance.

Why couldn’t I have waited to carry out my devilish handy-work until I had her in the safety of my own domicile? I suppose I could blame it on passion. Yes, it was a crime of passion. She looked so delicate and lonely sitting there. Posing while I committed her portrait to canvas. Every stroke of acrylic paint with the brush drawing me deeper into the rapture of her beauty.

Admiring the way she lay crumpled on the floor in a heap of burlesque gore, I was awed still by the gracefulness in her limbs as her body lay prone in that horrific and unnatural juxtaposition.

Almost all her blood had drained from her open wounds, which now began to crust over as I had stood so long adoring her. The floor was so delectably soaked with her DNA, I couldn’t help but kneel beside her on one knee just to be closer to it. Swiping a curious index finger through the mess and lifting it to face level, I watched the excess liquid form a crimson trail leading down to my knuckle. Craning my neck just so, I tilted my finger to where the blood now flowed the opposite direction and a single drop splashed upon my taste buds. Delicious.

A sharp pain near my kidneys caught me off guard, forcing me to jut out my palm and make contact with the floor in order to steady myself. Blood lubricating the linoleum removed all friction with which to become steady, and I soon found myself lying face down.

Just perfect, I mused as I collected my wits and pulled myself into an upright sitting position. I could feel the mass of blood splitting into streams like a delta across my jaw and chin. Drops fell into conformity with the majority of its former coagulated self as I leaned over the body and promptly spit on the girl’s face.

Immediately apologetic, I tried to wipe the spit off her face. What I succeeded in doing was smearing blood down her cheek. I looked at her for a moment, cocking my head to one side. She looked quite like a porcelain doll with her translucent and bloodless shell of skin accompanied by that gaudy rouge on her face.

This girl was now my greatest masterpiece, was she not? Or at least the first of many. And all masterpieces have names, do they not? Or at least the ones remembered.

“I dub thee…” I trailed off in thought for several seconds, then focused directly on her dead eyes, spread wide with fear in her last earthly minutes.

“Dollface!” I clasped my hands together joyously at the idea. “Yes, Dollface!!” with my excitement growing rapidly, “You, my dear, are the loveliest little dollfaced girl I’ve ever seen! We shall make royalty out of you, my little diamond in the rough. It’s only fit to seat you in a throne of your own, dear. Ah, my little Princess Dollface!”

Princess Dollface looked happy just then, as I spoke to her corpse with accomplishment in my voice. Delightful, almost. I had to look twice to make sure I hadn’t seen her smile.

Then I remembered the pain that erupted this volcano of elation, and just as I began to wonder why…

“Eh… Comment t’appelles tu?” (What’s your name?)

Finding my body frozen at the sound of the voice, it took stern volition to turn my head. I directed my attention toward the voice, which was soft and barely audible. Frigid muscles in my neck bulged in shock and then from the shoulders down I felt paralyzed as I fixed my eyes on the speaker.

Lifeless, but utterly undead lips wavered and spoke again, “Qui-est’ce que tu veux de moi?” (What do you want from me?)

Jaw dropping and with mouth agape, I gasped hoarsely. Yes, these fluffy French words floated out of the young girl’s throat like music to my ears. A classical symphony blanketed us. Quietly at first, but then it began to crescendo with the pace of my heartbeat. Clearly the music was not inside my head.

Princess Dollface’s chest convulsed, causing blood to gurgle up from the man-made blowhole in her ribcage which I’d given her earlier, much as cetaceans expel water and air. These wounds must have been previously unknown to her as she herself appeared quite dazed at the sight. Obviously not overly alarmed, her empty eyes glanced at me and she asked in that sweet flowery voice of her’s, “Je suis mort?” (I’m dead?)

Then it struck me how positively rude I was behaving. Here I was, doused with the poor girl’s blood and all I could do was stare at her in awe.

“Uhh….” I stammered, struggling to find the right words, my brain desperately trying to formulate a sentence properly. I was so rusty with my French. “Oui, oui. Je m’appelle-” I shook my head, my face displaying a befuddled expression. “Je ne parle pas le français bien, mais… Mais… How are you talking? You’re dead!” (Yes, yes, My name’s.. I don’t speak French well, but.. but..)

My dollfaced little princess must have been a familiar with English because she had that look of satisfaction you get when someone answers your question, regardless of whether or not it was an answer you liked.

“If you can talk, can’t you move? How are you doing this? Aren’t you upset that you’re dead?” I demanded, confused by her nonchalant reaction. She has a languid nature about her.

“C’est pas grave,” she answered gently. Other than her eyes, only her lips and jaw appeared to have life in them, or at least some form of motion. (It’s not so serious)

Wonderful, she was keeping it simple and using familiar terms, but I was still lost as to why she was saying this, not what she was saying.

Oblivious to the mess of blood on the floor through which I slid in order to hear her more clearly, I inquired, “N’est-ce pas?” as I drew closer to her. (It’s not?)

“C’est la vie…” trailing off, she paused and pondered her last verbal thought, “Ou c’est la mort, je dirais!!” A colorful giggle came from her little pouted lips, that facetious mouth of hers. (That’s life…. or that’s death, I suppose!)

Fascinating! She was both quippish and decently optimistic for a talking corpse.


In retrospect, she had died long before the day I killed her. Our many conversations had drawn us together in a bond stronger than breastfeeding. My beautiful little Dollface illustrated her short life to me in a verbal tapestry of adjectives and verbs. How tormented her sanity had become, withered and decrepit. Virtually nonexistent. Cascades of torrential depression had flooded her mind and consumed her soul, she said. It seems that in the end my selfish and homicidal deed had wrought clarity for her in this maelstrom.

Diligently, I strove to clean up the blood and mess. As I stooped to sweep her entrails into the dustpan, I couldn’t help but wince and look at her apologetically. She continued on with her story, telling me of piano lessons and her instructor.

In one perspective, our murderous romance had become a great relief to both of us. Princess Dollface seemed indifferent mostly, but copacetic nonetheless. She praised the incidence of our encounter as one would show gratuity to a college professor for a passing grade on a final exam.



My special interest, my muse

One of the things which has brought me immeasurable satisfaction over the years is learning. I have been enthralled with researching topics to the point of becoming adept. I love to become the expert on something and be able to share that knowledge or those skills with others who show the same passion.

I was a huge fan of the musical Cats, I guess I still am- I love musicals! I learned all of the names and the back stories of every Cat. I read the original book by T.S. Eliot, and I wrote fanfiction about the Cats in the Jellicle junkyard. 

This habit of engrossing myself in things was not limited to Cats. I was hugely into Greek mythology for a spell. There was a period of time where I was obsessed with Sailor Moon, and I watched it on Toonami everyday after school.

I taught myself HTML from a book when I was 12, and I went on to create websites on these topics. I built one for Cats, and my middle school teacher was so impressed that she shared it with the entire computer class. I also built one about Sailor Moon which included fanfiction and a small role-playing group of online acquaintances. 

Like many other women who were undiagnosed autistics until adulthood, these special interests weren’t indications of anything in particular for parents and teachers. All kids have special interests, but it was the extent of my tenacity and voraciousness with which I consumed and fixated on these subjects that’s actually quite an autistic trait. I would really become quite upset when I was told to get off the computer or stop an activity to do a chore or join the family for dinner.

Over the years I’ve had many special interests, including crafts of all kinds. I had phases of researching and becoming obsessed with various kinds of art. Painting, crochet, sculpture. When I became involved with the Burning Man community, I immersed myself in fire spinning and learning everything I could about fire safety and the various flow props. 

Now I find myself extensively researching autism. 

This trait/behavior is what they refer to as hyper fixation. The fun part about hyper fixation is that it isn’t limited to topics and hobbies. Autistics can hyper fixate on other individuals. Yes, a person can become a special interest to an autistic individual. 

Without the obfuscation and self medication of alcohol, my sobriety has allowed me to identify patterns of behavior in my life again. It has become exceptionally, resoundingly clear that these days I am hyper fixating on a person as a special interest. I want to learn everything about that person, I want to understand him and how he works so that I can better cooperate and coexist with him. I want to be near him even if we aren’t interacting. And most recently, I want to understand why he doesn’t want me to be in his life anymore when the things we got upset about were trivial in hindsight and would become non-issues if I could just get to the point of being an expert on him. I just needed more time. More research. Trial and error.

Some days my world seems bleak and grey without that person, and all I’ve done with my time off work since the breakup (over two months ago) is write bad poetry, jerk off, and cry. To stare at the wall for hours in a mild catatonia or watch television which is another version of staring at the wall

It is also common, when autistics develop a special interest relationship, that some of the other things that they struggle with such as anxiety and depression can become alleviated in the presence of that person. When the autistic individual is with their special interest person, they don’t use up the same amount of social energy that they normally would expend with other friends or even family. So it tracks that the things that I typically struggle to do on my own, such as go out to the grocery store or run errands to take care of adulty things like appointments, are made easier by doing that activity with the person who is my special interest. 

Alone, I can put off going to the grocery store for great lengths of time because modern services such as Amazon and Instacart allow me to avoid interacting with people or driving a car. I will avoid it until I absolutely cannot put it off any longer. 

However, I become quite fearless when I’m with the person I’m fascinated by, and the normal things that other people don’t struggle to do become much easier for me. I can drive or be a passenger and feel safer than I typically would by myself or with anyone else. I can go to the grocery store and dawdle through the various departments. I can go to the convenience store and pick up an energy drink. I can go to Vintage Stock and peruse their aisles aimlessly. Not only is it not a problem, I actually WANT to do those things with them.

The trouble with this is that it can seem clingy or codependent to friends, partners, and family. It can be confusing for people who don’t experience social anxiety and therefore don’t understand why I really don’t enjoy being by myself out in the world. A world which has been inhospitable and unkind. I would rather stay at home with my smol dog for weeks at a time. A luxury which working from home has afforded me.

From early childhood, I never wanted to play in group activities with other children. In fact, I was sent to the principal’s office everyday in Kindergarten for refusing to participate. I didn’t understand how to make friends, and to this day I am consistently concerned that other people are going to see through me and realize that I don’t belong. 

Efforts I made in school were often met with backlash. A boy I liked had a locker next to mine, and one day I saw a picture of a dog taped inside. I took the opportunity to find a commonality with him but overshared. I told him about my family dog and how it had caught ringworm and passed it to us. He later twisted this information to taunt me in front of several other boys in the classroom, saying that they had better stay away from me because I had rabies.

After a few experiences like that, I began practicing selective mutism in school. I was already shy and seldom tried to connect with other kids, but now I was verifiably unlikeable. And if I refused to engage, then maybe they wouldn’t find out. Maybe they would just leave me alone.

All it accomplished was changing the reason other kids didn’t like me. I didn’t give them a single inch which might be used against me, so they then disliked me because I was too fucking quiet.

With the help of developing research and information on autism, and a string of online evaluations, I’m open to accepting that I very likely am on the spectrum. I confess to the significant number of autistic traits I possess, and it’s corroborated by 35 years of being me.

Self-diagnosis in adulthood is becoming prevalent for my generation, largely because there wasn’t a clear understanding of high functioning autism in children when we were that age. If the child was verbal and wasn’t hitting their head against the wall or doing some Rain Man shit, then your kid was probably a-o-fucking-k. Special interests, shyness, isolation, being a picky eater, and having a meltdown in the shoe store probably just seemed par for the course.

It’s natural for us to look for answers and to seek meaning. Knowing what to do with this information which is now in front of me is another question.

I wish that I was an expert on repairing with my special interest person. I wish that I could read a book and know just how to care for him in the ways he needs. I wish I could reclaim my grocery store buddy with his intense gaze, knee-driving, and roll-your-owns (which is just so punk rock it slays me every which way from Sunday💘)…

While I doubt this revelation could help me fix that which is still very much in the present for me yet very likely in the past for another, I want to believe it can be instrumental to doing better in the future. I have to believe I can improve and things will get better.

I understand this essay is breaking away from my mainstay of poetry and short stories for which I began this website. I thank you all the same for taking the time to go on a short virtual stroll with me as I process some very heavy realizations. Reading and learning about undiagnosed autism in adults has been nothing short of revelatory, and it looks like this is only the beginning.

Heartbreak · Poetry

Zeroed Out

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Beyond attempts for earnest thwart
Scarcely could my heart afford
Your withdrawal and closing out
Of our joint romance account

Borrowed against the hand of fate
And mediation came too late
Our future’s credit took the hit
Rendered bereft love’s benefit

I bargain to restore the balance
Allow us progress without malice
But the ledger’s red and so it seems
My love’s only solvent in my dreams

Angst · Poetry

Pointless Pogoing & Other Distractions

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sixty squats everyday
going outside to play
the tension in my knees
a whisper on the breeze
whittling poetry
my free psychiatry

hoping to distract me
feeling so intensely
demonstrating patience
meeting such resistance

efforts not to flounder
buy a small rebounder
just pogo up and down
and lose this fucking frown
making my way around
to turn it upside down

six syllables today
tomorrow come what may
something more substantial
more complex to handle

don’t you misconstrue it
I can fucking do it
it’s just I’m wasting time
on dumb and easy rhymes
to feel more productive
but it’s all reductive

is this even helping?
doesn’t seem compelling
all I’ve done is kill time
counting letters and lines

Inspiration · Poetry


Photo by sydney Rae on Unsplash
Listen in…

For my bathroom I bought a cheap little scale
It arrived just today by way of the mail
I put it on the floor right next to the potty
It came with soft tape for measuring my body

With gusto I can now fixate on my waist
Be obsessed with this booty in lieu of a mate
Eating lots of fiber and doing all my squats
Got a neat little vibe which hits the right spots

I’m well on my way to doing okay-
Mmkay, well, bye! I’m off to play!