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Nia Nottage. Nineteen. in NYC, from Detroit. astrology Cancer. Gender is a myth. I like people. _______________________________________________
insanity (again and again and again)

if we’re going to be smokers,
we still need to get an ashtray.
if we’re really doing this.
if we really don’t care.


dark pink clouds two hours
past midnight, blowing smoke
into rings. as close as the
kitchen window. as far away
as consciousness.


i’ve finished, i’ve finished them.
i’m making myself sick.
i take my pleasures slowly, take
too much, and get me sick.


faintly reaching out to solitude


sick of you. sick of being sick
with you. sick of being sick for
you and making us more sick.

There is literally absolutely no way to make someone love you.

OkCupid Love Poem

I wrote this poem with a girl named Milena via OkCupid messages almost a year ago. It was pretty much our only communication, we stopped talking soon after and we never met in person. 

Happy Valentine’s Day


"Illuminated and eternal 
furious and tranquil 
we’ll sleep on a bed of autumn leaves 
flying into the moonbeams of May 
I’ll dream of new ways of kissing 
and you of beaches and arms 
and that silence 
that same impossible silence 
muting our lives with a je ne sais quoi 
that will surprise us with its perfection 
and when I awake I’ll think you a shooting star 
and wish….”
…that time would never come 
to fling you from my sight. 
winter remembers 
being spring 
her lustful fever 
haunts its bones 
and even in the darkest storm 
mirage is memory’s light. 
and when the season comes 
my love, 
i’ll hold you close 
and melt you warm 
and memories that you’ve sustained 
no longer will suffice. 
"And i, miles away 
find myself tinged by gin 
smiling into a void. 
noises of strangers keep me tense 
and i am bound to peace only by the sound 
of rose and lavender flavored petals shining through 
and ice 
wavy hints of blue. 
a pretty french cocktail glass. 
We then have named ourselves, 
we found ourselves in the drifting of the particles which were once 
merely dust. 
We mad prisms in the light and danced… 
All while they, being so grounded couldn’t see 
the grandeur 
the flux in ebb and flow, the transitioning which is life 
the humanity which we brazenly call home. 
Our crowns have made us beautiful, 
pierced and purified by the thorns which were rays 
of light 
even through the tears of hated blood 
we bled along the way….”
with time, we marched through city streets
we prayed
to pry ourselves from god
we danced
in oil, fallen rain, 
lights beckoning from cars.
we fell, were fallen
made a wish
to idols, in the place of stars
which blinded, overwhelmed by man
had fallen into dark.
soaking in the 
puddled ground
through calvary wounds, let poison flow.
they led us to: ‘the only way’
we furies
took our charge.
index, pinkie, interlaced
our damaged lips
our moonburnt tongues 
lapped mantras, coded
from below,
burning until,
insides gone and
warm hugged close for
head in bosom
breast in hand in
hand in stomach, pawed
scratched, clenched
and clenched, and clenched…
aware of our mortality
in two-way streets
we were still one.
questioning on mortal tongues
what are we searching for?
I am going to get an animal
and I am going to fuck it, with a strap-on
on my haunches
over and over
over and over
an “it”, a mass of throat
warm thing to take my elbow’s jabbing
loves me like a cocky child
and most of all it will be mine.
February 1st

warm milk


and church steeple


i am mommy’s little boy

Affection Starved [Draft 1]

Here’s a chance. I know we just met, date me. It’s a really dumb idea but –

I woke up this morning overslept for everything, masturbating, winter lit and missing out on sun,

affection starved.

With you honestly I think I could get more done.  

Being Tamed 6: Love and Self Love

I’ve been thinking about weather or not to write this one for a while. Maybe I’m ready.

I always write these after cigarettes.

This morning I woke up three times. 2am, 9:50 or 10:20, and 1:15 but mostly 2p.

I didn’t have to be anywhere and I couldn’t stop falling asleep. I needed to get up and work and be productive, but when I finally did get out of bed I rationalized that waking up so late was ok because sometimes comfort needs to come before being productive. Sometimes it’s okay to take time. 

I haven’t had sex in three weeks and I’ve been thinking about the politics surrounding that a lot. How much I want it vs how unfulfilling the type of sex I’m used to has started to feel. It’s getting cold. My emotions are becoming more linked to my physical expressions and I’m craving more; from others, and from myself.

Lately I find myself going to a place that’s a lot more desperate. Less like what I’m used to and more like making necessary and exhausting love to myself, giving myself everything and still needing more. I’ve gotten lost. Sometimes there’re tears. Every reach starts with a claw at desire or satisfaction and ends digging for a fulfillment than I can’t necessarily give myself. I usually get there by idealizing those who haven’t been relevant in my life for a while. Experiences that weren’t exactly “positive” for me when they happened but in the recovery I feel a closeness between my attraction to self, an emotional affection and intense self love, and a tangible emotional desire that i’ve been trying my best to ignore. I don’t even know if my conscious, practical side even really wants it. Why would I want to fulfill desperation. I don’t want that kind of dependence. I’m just getting completely comfortable with myself, why would I want to invite someone else with unsure ideas, aspirations and futures of their own come in and unbalance whatever I’m trying for?

Lately it’s become a sure way to fall asleep, but on weekends when it’s  an accessory to waking up I am more aware of my un- and subconscious. I’ve been pretty cruel to them lately and they’ve gotten back at me. They’re full of desires that I enjoy being overcome by and I don’t particularly want to erase…I just need to maintain full control over them. Over it. Over all parts of myself.

And when I finally get what I came for and pull my shaky legs out of bed, I can pour myself back into the complete consciousness of physical reality. I can give in to the monotony and deal with being over-worked because I’ve acknowledged it’s connection to everything else that’s there. The parts of myself that I’ve strong-armed. Put on the back burner in order to seek a fulfillment that’s both linked to the familiar and the foreign. Something more permanent, a solid communicable confirmation of what my unconscious has always known. 

journal entries of a queer polyamorous human being attempting to tame themselves. je suis ma premier, mais le monde est ma seul. 

where the wild things are.

in the urban countryside:

there are fields, old churches, and stripped houses

the deer are coming back, they say

or wolverines

or other indigenous things…we’re giving back to earth!

in parts of town,

more like bricks have grown from pastures

structure cohabitates with turning soils

people watching documentaries

of future urban farms?


they say something smells like burning hair,

that’s really burning flesh.

but is it really that dangerous?

as i’ve been told in other lands?

where i’m from

they say, “unfortunate”

from mouths of bitches from manhattan

or long island

even massachusetts…and there’s nothing there.

i say come see for yourself!

live with me and wild things that i grew up with

who could fulfill all their wishes

because they simply had the space.

i mean…have you even been there?


of course.

nobody’s been there.

so maybe we’re the only ones to which

it all sounds so poetic

those whose ears were tuned

in places so exotic, they’re naïve

to all the people on the outside

who never knew for what to listen

to some, i guess this is all babble.

and it’s sad we can do anything

but they cannot believe.

and to the pole that marks the bus stop

the guy across the street outside my window just picked his nose then stepped out of the street, over the curb and to the pole that marks the bus stop. he wiped the boogers on his jeans and then scratched his ass in one motion while i stared at him in my underwear through sheer curtains & thought “that’s talent”.

i really hate girls. [revised].

i bet you told them all i was a psychopath.

who can’t handle her alcohol

and sings when she drinks.

a sex addict

who only wanted in your pants.

an emotional liar.

an emotional mess.

an emotional samsonite

nothing but baggage

and crazy, depressed ambition

who was obsessed with you.

is obsessed with you.


when you stop answering my texts,

i’ll scour the internet for months

for hints

i might even stalk your spotify

i’ll get my fix 

on clit flicks 

courtesy of your facebook pics

and swear by the ice

of your loins

it was love.


sophomore year of high school 

i dated a boy

who broke up with me by letter

that got lost in the mail


later that summer

when i couldn’t find him

i kissed other people

i thought it was cheating

it actually wasn’t

because of the letter

but i still enjoyed it

because of the mail


last night or something

i looked at his facebook

he’s dropped out of college

still got that depression

i admired so well?

a bit of a gut now

his dad’s creepy smile

if he still remembers

the times that we dry humped

in rooms between classes

then i wish him well.

sad isn’t the word.

you’re the kind of girl who makes me

wish i had a boyfriend.

because i love dark things

and hold them close

until they make me cry.

& then somehow it’s winter

& i’m laughing hysterically at how

terrible i feel

and how i still

have no idea what it is

you want

from me.


i’m getting bored
of drinking wine after work
watching cigarettes turn to dust
watching headlights blurrreflect and
biking home so fast
my knees
start to ache
in the morning.
making faces at strangers
making faces at manhattan pedigreed
listening to the same songs about the
lower east side
making faces for people who
pay me.
making faces for people to
sate me.

i’m getting bored.

Being Tamed 5: My Day

painfully logical. logically pained.

               and aesthetic.

the kind of day we wish we didn’t have anyone to tell about

journal entries of a queer polyamorous human being attempting to tame themselves. je suis ma premier, mais le monde est ma seul. 

Being Tamed 4: Blood On Sun (& Sun On Blood)

When you close your eyes, you won’t see blood from other people’s eyelids. Sun on blood & blood on sun. It’s a comfort all our own.

journal entries of a queer polyamorous human being attempting to tame themselves. je suis ma premier, mais le monde est ma seul.