The Art of Con, Poem by Kris Jordan

The Art of Con

(c) Kris Jordan 2016

I tricked you.

Made you think I was confident, successful.

I made you see me as beautiful, worthy of being with you.

But you didn’t know it was a con.

Around you I’m just mush.

Convinced one day you will leave.

Scared you may be The One.

Scared you may not be The One.

I tricked you.

But you tell me I didn’t.

You tell me I am as great as I think I am.

You see more of me than I see in myself.

You tell me I can achieve the things I’ve set out to do, even though I haven’t done them yet.

You had me convinced I was more than a starving artist.

That one day I would again eat more than noodles and broth.

That one day love will seep through all my pores like I want it to.

That one day my smile will be genuine.

You made me believe I have value. Worth.

More than what my mind or body could offer,



I am good enough.

I’m not what you see. I am simply scared flesh.

And you deserve better. So,

The con is on.

My race to convince you how unworthy I am and

Your race to convince me how beautiful I am.

Who will win?

Who will convince the other?

I’ve been told love wins.

God I hope that’s right.


Author’s Commentary

I think we all find ourselves as some point feeling like an imposter. Thinking some how we don’t deserve to be “here”, whatever or where ever “here” is. In this poem, I am reflecting on being in a relationship that at times, I don’t feel like I deserve. This really has be examine what I do think I deserve.

What do you think you deserve? How has that changed, or not changed, over time? Where are you a con and where are you con-vinced of something that isn’t true? Is there anyone con-vincing you otherwise and are you listening?


Distraction, Poem by Kris Jordan


Poetry (c) Kris Jordan 2016

I fell in love with distraction.

Grapes that were too sweet, limes that were too sour

bitter fortunes, salty tears.

Looking to fill an insatiable void

I stuffed my mouth full

which only allowed me to not speak

to not feel

to not know myself as deeply as I long to be known.

And discovered only that in knowing those feelings

the depth of my depravity-

only my truth

can fill the hole.


Author’s Reflection:

I feel like I’ve struggled with emotional overeating for most of my life. Food has become part of my soothing. It is something I turn to in order to calm down, to silence my anxiety. As the poem begins, there is this sense that my aliveness comes from these emotional sensations derived from food. Food is my pleasure and also my pain. Food is too much.

Recently I have learned just what a distraction overeating is for me. It distracts me from feeling faith with a Higher Power who is working things out. It distracts me from my true feelings, which keeps me from sharing them, rather, I push them down where they remain un-acknowledged. What am I really pushing down? Upon reflection, I think it is the belief that maybe I am too much.

I’m too much work. I’m too big. I’m a bother.

With these beliefs comes the idea that I am not worth love. I am not worth attention. I am not worth the effort. These have translated and manifested in me lacking my own self care.

I have been adding “lose weight”, in some form, to my goal list- whether new years, mid-year, mid-day, etc., for ever. I have lost weight and gained weight. I have eaten “the right foods” as well as not. I have read, I have listened, I have joined programs and support groups. Clearly, I have not been ready to release weight. But, I feel I get closer all the time. I get closer with every new awareness. Every time I let myself feel my feelings and inhabit my body, I get closer.

This year, I’d like to unlock more of what drives my addiction to food. I’d love to hear what strategies you have used to combat this cycle. How do you really, truly care for yourself rather than ask food to do it for you? Feel free to private message me your answer.

If you struggle with emotional overeating, I pray for you, and request the same. Let’s lift eachother up to create hope and connection for another day.


Empty, Poem by Kris Jordan


(c) ‘Empty’ Poetry by Kris Jordan 2016

I put the ball in your court

let you choose

a friend or a lover

and you chose.

Lover in flesh only. Not in heart.

Partner in name only. Not in mind.

Present only. No future.

Until you were done with me.

Spun me around like a love sick dancer.

I deserved better. I deserved more.

You gave all you had to give. It wasn’t much, but I was willing to fill in the holes.

You didn’t want to be filled. Couldn’t hold what I had to give. I gave my all and you missed it. Every last drop.

Until it was gone.

I left



you wanted more and I had nothing to give.

Author’s Reflection

Sometimes I feel I have a bunch of love to give, and I tend to want to give it to those deemed ‘difficult’ or ‘hard to love’. It’s a joke. I don’t think there are people who are hard to love. I do think, however, there are people who just don’t want to let love in.

I think it is fear. I mean, that’s what it’s been for me- when I don’t want to accept a compliment, it is usually because I am afraid they will continue and give me overbearing unwanted attention. This is a fear from my past when I lacked boundries and couldn’t or didn’t say ‘no’ when I desperately wanted to.

When I don’t want to “put someone out”, that is fear. Fear they may reject me or not like me or call me names like “unaccommodating” or “selfish”. I can’t stand such names. If they saw my heart, they would say, “She is so tender. She is so sweet. She is so scared.” They would coddle me like I long to be. They would protect me and my vulnerability rather than attack. I would feel safe.

Feeling Empty is a Choice

So, what I’m learning all this then is that I must decide to be safe. I must decide to say no when I mean it. I must make choices that fill me rather than leave me empty. I must choose to not pour into someone who treats my wine like the water run off from a sieve full of boiled noodles.

The story in the poem shows that I allowed the other person to choose. I gave up my power to decide. I put the ball in their court, willing to go along, and that left me empty, alone, hurting.

The problem is, yes, that I let them choose, but also that I thought they would fill me with their choice. Silly me- I am not their problem to solve. I choose to be full or to be empty. I choose how to dance, not just allow myself to be spun around. This is the difference between a victim and not.

Yes, I am still learning.


Girl Interrupted and My Voice

As a YA Author, I write realistic (and usually dark) content.

I have been told a few times that my writing is like Girl Interrupted. I did a Google search of it to see what came up. I certainly heard of the movie- and love Wynona Ryder and Angelina Jolie, but I haven’t seen the movie. And I’m wondering if I should.

Would it connect me more with my readers? Or would it change my writing to something less authentic than my own voice and vision?

As a YA author, I have always written from my heart. I guess my heart is more dark, more deep, and maybe even more raw than I originally realized. The truth is, when I really look at it, I believe that challenges create character. Difficulties create who we are- for better or for worse. We can learn from the school of hard knocks, or we can let it take us down. We can be defined by our circumstances as either a victim or a victor.

We get to choose, but we don’t always know we have a choice.

I am a YA author who deals with the hard stuff that makes up real life. I bring to light our experiences.

In my first book, ‘Stain’, my main characters are Debbie and Rachel White, sisters who are dealing with their mother’s mental illness in their own ways. Debbie turns to drugs, as many people do who are struggling with making sense of things around them that they wish were different. I relate to Debbie’s character in that I really wished things were different for me when I was growing up. My mom and dad were married under 2 years- just long enough to get married and give birth to me. They divorced and my dad remarried when I was just 2 years old. My biological mother all but disappeared from my life. A criminal, an addict, a ‘fun girl’, she chose what she thought was best.

My dad had full custody of me- in the late 1970’s, that was unheard of. He and my stepmom were both alcholics and addicts. They did they best they could. I left carrying scars. Sometimes, they resurface. I wished things were different, but I can’t change the past.

I hope that in reading my ramblings, poems, and stories, you find that you are not alone, that you can have hope and that everything really does happen for a good end.

With Love,