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Writer. Actor. Poet. Human. Contact: bethnintzel@gmail.com

An Emotional Retrospection

I feel the need to crack open,
wide open,
and allow the cacophony of
bullshit emotions inside of me to leak like oil onto the sidewalk.

It’s hard to keep them stuffed in there,
each in a separate compartment, you know?

How do you tuck away the liquid malleability of anger, joy, shame, despair…?
Each sentiment oozing into the other.
Never quite respecting each’s own iridescence, and
none of them ever really acquiescing.
Every one of them pressing to the front, flooding into each other as if
one were more important to acknowledge instead of the others.

Do you have…


Not a “how to”

I’m never quite sure how much pain to let people in on. As if it were to be some secret known only to me. My pain, however great in the moment, doesn’t ever feel “enough” to be shared.

But it is.

I’ve been in pain every day of my life since I was fifteen. For twenty years I haven’t known a single day without it. What pierces my consciousness on occasion is that I never will. Things will never be better nor will they magically cease to exist. …


Violence in prose

Immersed in a cornucopia of Lisa Frank daydreams, of bright colors and whimsy, my young life was a tapestry of girly colors, pink and purple sparkles.

I can pinpoint the moments, not entirely precise, when I felt the ripping at the seams of my girlhood, my femininity, to be separated for decades to come.

It started with the flirtation of an older man.

The tender teenage year of 16 where young people want to be heard, to be seen, in my case, by the opposite sex, so when that failed to happen with boys of my same tender-hearted age, the…


My Love Affair With Grocery Shopping

I love grocery shopping. I love weaving through the aisles looking at all the new items and the items that I may not have noticed before. I can spend an hour or more, if I have the time, perusing various aisles looking at nothing and everything.

Navigating a grocery store when you have food allergies poses a specific challenge, as you need to read labels vigorously if you find something you may want to try that looks even remotely interesting. It’s often a letdown when I scan the ingredients and instantly find I can’t eat it, but it does point…


The Intimacy of Our Bathroom

There were four of us under one, small roof — three-bedroom, one-bathroom. Four people 5'8" and over, not to exceed 6'3". We were toppling over each other in that house. The rooms were all small, but we didn’t know anything else, so it seemed like the world for us. At least, it did to me.

I’m not sure how we managed four people under one roof with one bathroom, but we did. Especially with two of those people being only a year and a half apart and when the teenage years hit and parents who both left for work the…


As all of them do

My heart hurts.

It aches and bleeds the pain of our society that each of us has shoved
down into the deepest corners of ourselves.
I withdraw into myself, place armored walls around myself because I take on the pain of you, of him, of her, of they,
of everyone.

We are a nation divided, grieving the
loss of human lives,
grieving common sense and sanity, grieving
the loss of genuine, honest, emotional connection
between each other.

Do you remember what a hug feels like?

Instead of respectful discourse we doom scroll, picking fights within the comments of posts meant…


To Live Inside Of Your body

I’ve been trying to come home,
to live inside of myself, my body, but
every time I wipe my feet off on the welcoming mat,
I’m thrown from the doorstoop as if I were propelled by
an unseen wind.

I wonder if I’m not supposed to come “home”, forever meant
to wander just outside the barricade of my four-walls?
I don’t want to peep inside, that seems rude, but I can’t help
but be drawn towards the light that manifests itself just inside
of the curtains.

Someone is home, I see, but for some reason, they can’t hear my screams…


Violence as prose

I don’t like thinking about it for what it was. I don’t care for the word to roll around on my tongue as if it were welcomed with open arms.

It’s a word I’ve saved for only the most egregiously violent of acts so it has been in my own self-preservation to ignore it; push it down, bury it underneath the mountain of trauma I sit upon as a throne of barbed wired shame. …


Bones dense with fear
they cracked and crumbled under pressure.
Panic streaked her face
in shades of shadows only known to those she shared her terror to.
Her skin prickled at the pore
every time that she wore
the suit of “pretend”.

Walking down halls
with key card entries
she should feel safe,
but instead, she peered out from underneath
her head which fell heavy like a brick to the floor;
eyes gazed down but always on watch.
Where is he?

Breath caught, captured tightly in her chest haphazardly thrown into a cage under lock and key, it pressed up…

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