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1:34 am Ramblings

I’m beginning to hate you. 

I’m becoming less apologetic. 

I’m… growing?

I’m not really sure if that’s the right word. 

I’m still not good with my words. 

I’m exploring my sexuality and it’s amazing. 

I’m not letting you stop me, anymore. 

I’m in control.

I’m happy.

I’m not so happy on other days. 

I’m dreaming again.

I’m writing again. 

I’m living. 

I’m spitefully wishing you’re reading this.

I’m confused about life.

I’m afraid I don’t know how to love. 

I’m disappointed with myself. 

I’m trying to be honest.

I’m trying to be normal.

I’m not very good at being normal. 

I’m scared to meet new people.

I’m meeting new people.

I’m not letting fear shape me.

I’m… I’m a lot of thing.

I’m… growing?

A Series of Haiku’s for the Giant Rabbit at Bert’s Petshop


Spine curved, rounded

like the moons gray smooth edges,

so beautiful.


Thin, white whiskers

drape over his cotton pelt

like tree branches.


I’ve never tried

to look a rabbit through

a poet’s eyes.

                                    My head’s always in the clouds. 

                                    My head’s always in the clouds. 

It don’t gotta be the walk the, baby.

                                  I’m not a girl, not yet a woman.

                                  I’m not a girl, not yet a woman.


Nothing says daddy

issues the way your smile

speaks to every fiber in me.

Ten Daily Thoughts

1. He’s not looking at you.

2. Actually, he is. *Cues gravitational pull of my head to my shoes*

3. Why can’t I keep eye contact? What’s the scary part?

The obligation of smiling? The mutually received half smile?

The possibility of a ‘what the fuck are you looking at’ look?

4. Make eye contact. 

5. Regret eye contact, because holy fuck I am awkward. 

6. Apparently it’s cool to be awkward now. Everyone is so

eager to say I’m just so awkward. Awkward selfie. 

Hashtag awks. Omg awkward. Stop. You don’t know awkward

until you’ve said thank you when you’re supposed to say

you’re welcome. Or when you face plant into the ground because

you missed a step. One step. The one moment when I’m

not looking at my shoes. THAT’S AWKWARD.

7. You ruined James Blake for me. Such a pity. Fuck you.

8. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck, why am I out in public.

9. I should probably stop cussing so much. 

10. Fuck that. 

Ms. Daisy

He hugged her curves

like squealing tires against

the bend of round roads,

unable to yield, no matter

how much the passanger

pleads, he doesn’t press

the brake, but he instead 

tells her to lean into the

gravitational pull but she

continues to fight it, to push

against this force on her chest

hoping to feel the ease

of slow breathing, but all

she feels is hot breath

sticking to the shadows

of her small neck, where

she’ll find bruises 


Watch "Rachel Wiley - "10 Honest Thoughts on Being Loved…" on YouTube →

Rachel Wiley - “10 Honest Thoughts on Being Loved…:

A Love Poem

Hot pavement
cooled with the
bottoms of rubber
soles, but for
only a moment
until the chilly
night arrives.


I’m not quite sure
if I discovered sex or if
sex discovered me.

A Different Kind of Sad

Weary tears anchor
poetic words like a sunken
ship stuck at sea;
& I am no sailor.

Counting Crows

—Round Here


Step out the front door like a ghost
into the fog where no one notices
the contrast of white on white.
And in between the moon and you
the angels get a better view
of the crumbling difference between wrong and right.
I walk in the air between the rain
through myself and back again
Where? I don’t know
Maria says she’s dying
through the door I hear her crying
Why? I don’t know

Good Head

I didn’t care to be your 

one head stand, in fact,

I didn’t care about anything

when I laid in your bed,

mostly naked, strewn

in blue sheets. I don’t 

know why I didn’t care 

about being a bootycall

when the thought two

months ago would have

mortified every streaming

sentence within my brain.

I don’t regret feeling

the strongest passion I

had ever experienced. 

I don’t regret referring to

myself as your whore.

I do regret every single

thought and temptation

to make something, this

something, into what it 

was not. You know, like

making mountains out of

mole hills. You know, like

over analyzing what you

meant when you said

you would miss me. I

should have heard the

emphasis in his words

when he said, you shouldn’t

over and over. Shouldn’t

feel that way. Shouldn’t

feel obligated. I should have

questioned your motives

weeks ago, because then

I would have seen the answers

before they were staring me

in the face with eyes that

could melt your clothes off.  

1 a.m. Ramblings

His family always thought
of me as being undeserving.
I was white and privileged,
lazy and uncultured-
What did I know? They
would say these things
behind closed rows of teeth,
quiet and grinding, while praying
for my release of their son.
They got what they wanted.
This poor, uncultured
Appalachian girl who didn’t
know their world released
his soul in the hopes that both
his and her own would
grow and grow and grow.
I never wanted to be white.
He never wanted to be black.
It showed.
He went to a private school.
I went to a public school.
His family has money.
My family has food stamps.
I wasn’t from his world,
and he wasn’t from mine.
We lacked identify and at
one time that was perfectly
fine. We were never just
skin pigmentations to
one another. We were
each others people. One.
I set him free, because it
wasn’t my hands who
shackled him but his family’s.
They cradle him and feed
him his necessary needs
while I read and study and
try to make something of
myself. I don’t feel privileged.
I don’t feel white. I feel poor
in the context of money but
rich in knowledge. I know
culture, especially my own.
Kentucky. His family didn’t.
I’m getting tired of all things