Ugly II

He posts pictures of you and him everywhere

changes his skype picture every day


he blocked me on facebook,

won’t pick up my phone calls,

so my only choice

is to watch the new pictures

smile at me


if I want to contact him


I only have two thoughts

  1. Here he is sheltering himself in a woman, again
  2. You don’t make him feel ugly


He refused to take pictures with me the first five years

we were a thing, ya know?

and every year I let myself go a little more

stopped writing, unless he could co-author

stopped drawing because he would judge it

stopped painting because I needed space for that

and he couldn’t mark that territory


what was mine was his and what was his was me


I refused to play any instrument or sing for him,

I didn’t want to be his muse

because he suffocated mine


but I still gave myself for 10 years

shaping myself around him

trying to be his world, and comfortable, and not pretty,

not something anyone would look twice at


what was mine was his and what was his was me


but you…. you have him taking pictures with you

smiling, and not caring how ugly he is

in comparison


so I can’t help comparing myself

to you


I got a text from my friend today,

asking why I have been M I A


I put my phone down,

hug myself–

arms limp

like two white flags draped over my shoulders

cease fire-



can we stop pretending

I am okay?


pretense is not a language I speak

but M I A

mia was learned recently


mitigate ill assumptions

move intentionally along eggshells

marinate in acceptance of self




just trying to spare you from my Emotions

because they are always hungry

for bridges to burn

and we are not inflammable


so yes, I ignored your text


I am not missing,

on nights like this I find myself

in our memories– recognizing myself in late night

debates, shared meals, long hugs and promises

not to judge-

because love is not good or bad,

and I love you

you are part of me, the same way a tree grows

in rings,

I spin your words ’round in my head

when my skin feels thin,

yes, I ignored your text

I am busy

not pretending

I am ok



mia is not a bad thing

and you are never missing from me



I can’t be his anymore


he is hollow,

filling himself with a new woman

who is telling him how to exist,


I imagine her whispering foreign folktales to him

lips planting plots of happily ever after

black hair curling around her chin, inviting him

to indulge his ego – that broken


it would love to wrap itself in her

she doesn’t know he loves long hair

the kind he can braid, run his fingers through

and hide his face in at night


I want to tell her — keep her hair short,

to be vigilant against his hollowness,

to reject the idea that two shall become one,

because if that is true,

he will never be hers anyways


I can’t be his anymore,

so he might as well lie about loving her folktales,

her old traditions,

he might as well lie about respecting the past,


She doesn’t know the years I spent recklessly

knocking on his squares,

insisting the world is not flat

showing him how the brainwashed– love, feeling clean

and he was afraid to get messy…

so I spent years taking him inside me, when the moon was high

insisting love is not abstract and he can come

to new conclusions,


I spent years unraveling his past,

using pillows to thaw the cold heart

that confessed violence was always an option

that warned me to behave


I promised that I loved his devil face

enough to kiss it,

to cradle it,

to whisper the truth in his ears

I loved him enough to match the intensity

of his inner demons, and oh I made them



I conquered all of his fears

with myself


feeding his mind

with scraps of my own

using my body as a playground

for his insecurity,

soothing his spirituality with persistent

logic- administering debates like medicine

for his toxic way

of existing


he called me a force of nature because I preferred

basking in the sun instead of him


he used to call me his world too,

as if he could never live apart

as if he needed me to sustain him

as if my whirlwinds kept him breathing and my landscape

filled him up, as if my valley was the only fertile place

for him to pollute


but I can’t be his anymore

he is not a god

I am not a world

I am not sustenance


I want to tell this new woman

she is not sustenance

he is not a god or a king or even noble

he just loves long hair,

the kind he can braid, run his fingers through,

hide himself in at night

Rough Love

My hurt was your hurt,

every explanation about how I was stolen from

gutted of my muse, that was your story too


so you knew how to comfort me,

strong arms wrapped around my body like a shield

warm and promising not to move

as long as I could be like you, silently loving


as if not talking was the secret to escaping

heartache—and then I quietly bit you

on the chest








I just wanted to play

Truth Monster



I miss what we had

and then I remember the monster hiding inside you

plucking at your wrinkles every time I’d wound

that tender ego,

the way you raised your eyebrows

trying to run away from all my honesty…

we still cannot have a conversation

because I gladly hang myself from every crease

in your face, and you don’t have a stomach for the horror

do you babe?

Friends Can Break your Heart Too


It took awhile to accept

I was hiding

in your silence,

clutching icy words to my bare skin,

like frost clings to a flower

I was always welcoming you into my delicate places

and you stuck your fingers everywhere they don’t belong,

desperate to bury your bitterness

in something sweet


I let you in

you- frigid, afraid of people

me- filled with enough personality for three friends

I was your all in one – option.

disposable because you deserved someone

like me, right?

I believed you for awhile…

hiding in your silences, telling myself

of course people get busy,

but you were worthy of my attention,

effort, concern.

And your silence?

I deserve

that hurt

because every action has an equal and opposite

reaction, right?

I loved you so damn much…


I wrap my broken pieces

below the blankets, head bowed

reminding myself what warmth is,

that I can generate it by myself,

heart like a turbine– hungry for all that

wet silence,


and I just wish the crying would stop…

but I stay curled up reminding myself

what warmth feels like.

Not Interested

I felt like sketching a man today, so I found a reference image from New Masters Academy(which I subscribe to as a resource) and I also wrote a poem 🙂

Happy Saturday!


Not Interested


A sales man called today

he asked to speak to Mr. or Mrs.



… and I said “speaking”

then I told him we are not interested,



I’m really not sorry though,

I hang up with a smile

knowing I no longer have to announce

“we are not a we anymore”

I don’t need to say divorce or separated,

it’s not complicated anymore


I just stopped–

no one has to know

my status, our status, which is really my status,

I’m not interested

in what you have to offer, sir.

Wild Flower


Wild Flower

by Amanda Rose


They say I’m wild,

a force of nature,

but I don’t want to be a hurricane,

or a tornado, or a tsunami… I don’t drench,

drown, kill.

I grow.

I give.

I cling– like vines on the side of a giant wall,

you can keep building with all your excuses

I’ll follow you all the way up!

Try me, love.


I believe in us, love.

That I have what you need and you have what I need,

we belong together, toes planted in the soil

dirty and alive and beautiful

I know life is messy,

mankind’s brightest minds don’t have all the answers

and we can’t agree how our story should be told

because of all the hurt, the slaves, the slaughter by religious order,

the idea that man has divine right over women and children,

atheism, christianity, nihilism, existentialism, radical left, radical right

radicals always fighting over whose story is correct…it’s 2017

can we just admit that manifest destiny was really permission for genocide?


I hear the lies

about how killing is not killing if it is conquering

and war is not war if we evoke God

that sometimes there is collateral damage to have the best outcome,

but– if everyone is using everyone else as collateral

well doesn’t greed leave everyone dead, hurting, hollow?


They say I’m wild because I don’t want to live inside their stories,

because their stories need revision and I am a red flower

on their white pages, roots strangling the lies, fighting to cling to the nature

in our humanity.

I understand nature. It adapts, it is self healing, and it refuses to be ugly…

so do I.


They call me unstable,

because I let the liars lie,

the cheaters cheat, the needy? I let them take.

These people are hurting, hollow, dead inside from the stories they tell themselves

I will keep giving Love,

until I have nothing left because I am a force of nature

adaptable, self healing and never ugly.


I have a secret ache.

It sleeps in my bones

trying to escape all the throbbing,

pulsing, and constant beating


the filling

and emptying of air,

the thumping of each foot step

is too much.


It doesn’t want to be felt,

rolling through each vertebrae

trying to get away from anything vital–

this is not a heartache

it is devastation

unanswered questions,

self doubt, and a lot of twisting

in the gut,

it feels like tension has possessed my body,

everything is hard, when it shouldn’t be hard

….and I want to break down,

cry it out, dry heave, curl into a ball

let it all fall down


I don’t.

I don’t fall down.

I scream, I yell, I complain and complain and


I vent to anyone who will listen

like my soul was in the ICU

and everyone can see the extensive care

I have taken to wrap myself in words

and attention and love,

eyes constantly shining

sometimes in excitement!

It is a new chapter in my life after all…


but sometimes they glaze over

like sheets of ice, and I hope strangers will skate

on top of the glassy expression I wear…

not ask too many questions…

I wonder when my friends will stop asking

why do you need SO MUCH?

what is wrong with you…


I want to explain

years ago

I gave all of myself to this man

who never put anything back,

and so I carry this ache

deep in my bones


I wrote a poem today about someone I care for and I had a lot more emotions to get out, so I painted and sketched based on the poem too.


Please don’t leave.

Please, please don’t go.

What about two more minutes?

Can I? Can I just feel you

for a little while longer…

so I don’t have to feel

anything else?



Anxiety, fear, they never get tired.

You challenged them anyways,

even at 4am when I’d wake mid sleep cycle,

You responded.

You knew how to meet each fear head on,

and tried so hard

to rewire me.

Rewind my mind to a time when I did not have to doubt

if I was worth caring about,

you fought to reset parental controls

to rebel.

Be a rebel! You’d yell at me…


When that didn’t work, you sunk in the muddy banks

of late night conversations,

we talked pop culture and Disney movies,

you said you didn’t like the Little Mermaid, and I never told you

I used to sing “Part of your world” at the top of my lungs

when I was 7. It was my anthem—“bright young women

sick of swimming, ready to stand!” – I wanted a new world,

so I spent my life treading water.


I remember how I doused you in my current,

dragged you under and watched you struggle…

and you loved me like you didn’t need air

repeating yourself


hey love, you don’t need to tread water –you can swim.

You can swim

you can swim



every day, alternating loud and soft reassurance.

hey gorgeous- you can be a mermaid, don’t worry.

You can swim in that giant ocean of worry

you can breathe in the depths of doubt, and make magic

out of all that worry, plant flowers

in all that worry

and grow

like a lotus





I see it now,

you waded into the thick of all the bad stuff,

the stuff I don’t even want to write out,

in private, in my room, I told you things

I don’t like to admit to myself…I see it now-

how hard you tried to make me realize.

and now I am going to go be a “gorgeous princess mermaid lotus flower”

because rebels can have all the labels – who cares…


you were supposed to stay.