Keychain Lovers

I see you daily I don't pay notice,

blind to my consciousness, you reside next

to your love, his bravado matching your 

vermillion flamenco dress, two arms raised

he stands before your cake topper ruffled

dress, no faces but a scarlet fierceness 

passes between two connected people,

a keychain couple reminds me of Spain

a repressed visage of an almost love

in Sevilla he offered his sweatshirt 

the flamenco museum was colder

than the metal my tiny lovebirds are

painted on, the memory of you is 

as faded as my little dancers suit

-Goober, Nov, 19th, 2018

Do You?

On my first day of class this semester, we had to do ice breakers. Huge surprise. I’m a creative writing major (yes I’m aware I will be poor the rest of my life), so all of my classes are major specific. Our ice breaker was to say who we are, where we are from, and when we got into writing. Everyone else’s answer was something along the lines of “I’ve always been writing, I’m in the process of finishing my novel”. Are you kidding me? Almost everyone in my class is writing a novel. I only took my writing semi-seriously last year. I walked out of that class as disheartened as probably every college kid is. I mean what am I doing here? I moved across the country to come to this college and start my path to being a writer. Now I don’t even know what I’m doing. I get good grades on my work and I’m told I have talent but I’m learning that isn’t enough. My grades are fine but I don’t put a lot of effort into the work I’m turning in. I haven’t felt like myself in my writing sphere. Nothing flows right anymore. This post doesn’t even feel like my style of writing. I’m such an infant writer in the scheme of things. Should I even have the right to say I have a style?

At one point my writing was a way to find what I had lost within myself and now writing makes me lose myself. I don’t know if I fit into the writing realm, and yeah I know “anyone can be what they want”. Blah blah blah. That’s only partly true. I haven’t been writing recently. I can’t think of any good idea’s. It all used to come naturally and nothing’s coming. I don’t know who I am or what I’m doing or if I even have the ability to be a writer.

Another professor of mine said “You can’t be a lazy writer. They don’t exist. Anyone can write anything but being a writer is putting effort into perfecting your craft. If you’re not putting effort into your writing, you won’t succeed as a writer”. That’s me. I am a lazy writer. After she said that I thought about changing my major. I reasoned that I am who I am and I am lazy therefore I should change my major to something more practical like accounting. I thought about giving up writing altogether. I mean I’m “planning” my future based off of something I can’t even seem to do right. I started this blog to be able to start sharing my work. I’m not even remotely ok at posting regularly and this is supposed to be my hobby, something I WANT to do. I can’t even keep my “passion project” afloat. Who the fuck knows what I have planned; not me for sure. I love writing and I may get lazy sometimes but not every writer sits down and meticulously writes all day every day. Im going to keep writing. I think by this point, you assumed that because this is my first blog post in like 2 months. I still don’t know what I’m doing or what I plan for my life, but do you?

-Goober, November, 4th, 2018

    I am there, in her. She loves me, says I am wonderful and that she can’t wait for the day that I arrive. It is warm. I feel unwaveringly cherished. I know she loves me. All day she thinks of me. I rest there until she is ready for me. She pours energy into me. Breathes me with more life every pen stroke, every letter, every word, every sentence. 

    She reads me and reads and reads me. I am crushed and crumpled, tossed overhead on to the floor of her room. Rejected and not enough. I am still here, but instantaneously I’m different. Her pen changes me, molds me to become better. Me 2.0. But yet, I’m still not enough. Not crumpled this time, but pushed aside to take my new place next to last nights granola bar wrapper. I feel it less this time: less rejection, less humiliation, less worthless. I feel it less every time she jerks the old me aside. Slowly meticulously, I am more. I feel it with the last pen stroke, the finality of me.

    And so I became. I am as natural as a child’s laughter, a bird’s crow, that summer breeze that blows your hair into your ice cream. I am natural selection. I am better than previous but still not perfect. She lifts me up. I fell her aura fill with pride and joy. I live to please her. “Done” she almost inaudibly whispers and she lowers me. Her breath smells of mint and satisfaction. She shuts me in a cover of some sort. It emanates sadness. Its rough and screams of overuse. Why am I in here? Self doubt and uselessness return. I am connected to my past lives. One shares with me that I am a lucky one, a four leaf clover. Others get remade, reworked, rephrased more than me but are never good enough, never quite right. If I’m the chosen one, the one that was good enough, why am I here? Why has she rejected me yet again? Why has she locked me in this cold rough sleeping bag? Time and time again she has shown my worthlessness. I hate her I decide after long deliberation. Fuck her. Fuck this god who has forsaken me.

                                                                                                                  Goober, September, 1, 2018

Jurassic Park

They sit in the filing cabinets of our brain. Alone until wanted.

These are perfect examples but too mundane. Sometimes I feel 

Hated for not doing enough differently. Im invisible but I think

I’m ok with that. Books are the treasured wealth of the world and 

The fit inheritance of generations and nations. My notebook is pretentious. 

My issue is I don’t have aspirations; I don’t know where I’m going.

Her mother is protecting her from the old world ideals. This is

How to charm your way out of anything. I became a shell through my 

Writing. How did you make it this far without learning how to

Read? The moms are just moms. I can feel myself oozing a

Negative aura. She is a bright idea, a blinding idea. She pours

Energy into me, but yet I’m still not enough. Her breath smells

Of mint and satisfaction.Why has she forsaken me?

 Jurassic park is a great name for a poem. Not this poem. A better

Poem. One that screams intelligence, with some 

Stupid metaphor about our ideas being dinosaurs

And our negative views of them being the meteor that 

Killed the dinos. I hate this poem. Its not polished or anything.

 A girl in overalls with perfect eyebrows. I’m tired of getting

Played but it’s not my fault. Or is it? I’m smelly and need to 

Shower. I’m a fucking literature snob. They yielded to, molded by,

Foxes on the floor. In the morning, she is born again. I am not 

Me without her. Isn’t it already covered, already sheltered, 

From my knowledge? In 50 tiny beds lay my desires, my vulnerability. An

Ode to fucking with socks on. An ode to my insecurity. In the parking lot,

 I move a leisurely pace. The smell of chain-smoked cigarettes.

 Always to Wellsville, to where they started. The sewer system isn’t a 

Release, darling. The seas don't part for everyone. Even as I write this I know its

Cringe-worthy. The restrictions are the same but have different

Meanings. She was pounded with a furious waterfall

Of sticks and stones. Im scared it’ll be good but no 

One will read it.


Goober, August, 3, 2018


Here's a little bit about this poem- If it seems all over the place and out of order, it's supposed to. I got the inspiration for this poem from a poem that had a similar structure. This poem is constructed out of parts of other pieces, quick thoughts, and snippets of whats in my notebook. 

You can watch me read it at on my youtube channel.                                     (I can't figure out how to make that a link so just copy and paste it or my channel name is "gabrielle toussaint")


I am a Masochist

    I am in love every time I leave the house. I fall in love with men I could see myself in love with; the cute mailman, the awkward funny guy at a party, the friend of a friend I saw on Instagram, the cashier who clearly hates his job. All are people I’ve fallen for. It’s easy to imagine how they would undeniably love me back. All of my fantasies about love are the same. I meet them in a regular place, we have instant sparks, and then they follow me where ever I want to go in life. They’re always up for the adventure I want to embark on. 

    I am a hopeless romantic, a sucker for love. Only specific types of love though. I hate the princess love dynamic and shit like the Titanic. I don’t like the love that develops over time. The kind where one day you woke up and realized you have feelings for your friend or finally said yes to the guy that has asked you on a date many times.  I love the idea of love at first sight. The idea that you can see someone and immediately be in love. Not the love I fall in every day or just the superficial “I think you’re hot” love. Real love; I’m into your vibe love, I feel your soul love. The kind that happens immediately and transforms you. 

    I have never been in this kind of love. I think most people haven’t. It’s only in stories. Maybe your grandma fell in love this way, but realistically it doesn’t happen, especially today. This isn’t a bash on this generation and technology but you cant deny that finding love today is rough. People don’t love in the way I think they used to. Love seems so translucent now. Its torture to crave a love that maybe doesn’t exist, to crush yourself over something that might never happen. But still, I enjoy the love that isn’t there.

    I am a masochist, that is to say I am a hopeless romantic.


                                                                                                                          -Goober, July, 26, 2018

You guys can hear me read this piece at


      I was born October 24. That makes me a Scorpio. Scorpios are known for their overly sexualized persona, and lack of intimacy. There’s almost a fear of getting vulnerable with people. I attribute my fear of intimacy to being a Scorpio. I wasn’t hurt by a boyfriend or some shit, I’ve always been like this. Now, I know that you “know” astrology is a bunch of bullshit but I don’t. Maybe, that’s just because I don’t want to accept that I’m the problem, so I blame it on my sign. 

    I get more candid with strangers than my loved ones. It’s easier, more cowardly to open up to someone you don’t know. My professor, classmates, strangers on the internet, drunk girls at parties, all know things about me that my “closest” friends and family will never know. Maybe thats my issue, I’m just a fucking coward. Maybe, I cant bear to have people know me deeply because I’m afraid I don’t truly know anyone else. Maybe, because when someone tells me I’m wrong I can say, “they don’t even know me”. I can justify my poor actions because said person doesn’t know something about me. Maybe it has something to do with my childhood. Maybe it really is because I’m a Scorpio or maybe I should just get a fucking psychology degree and figure it out.

    Yet, despite my fear, I have an overwhelming craving to be known, to be completely understood. I randomly spit hoards of facts about me out. Superficial things that I convince myself mean something. Things like “I like to drink water that has been sitting in your car all day during the summer”. Thats weird I think. A weird fact isn’t something normal people share so thats intimate right? 

    I hate that you know me but I hate that you don’t, even more. Thats probably why this piece knows more about me than I do.

                                                                                                                                    -Goober, July, 20, 2018

Your Heart, Not Mine

I love breaking hearts. Not in some weird psychopath way though, it's more than psychotic. 

We all like to feel powerful. It's human nature.

I work in retail; my job simply consists of being submissive and pleasing others. I live with my mother. Therefore, my opinion on house topics, doesn't matter. Her favorite saying is "if you don't like it, there's the door". I look like a prepubescent boy with a little giggly-child smile. It's a feat if someone likes me. I'm not gorgeous and sexy and jaw dropping. I'm an awkward-cute, at best, also a Scorpio. I'm lanky and weird and I'm pretty much fine with everything about me. I've grown to love myself despite how fucked up I am (or how fucked up I like to think I am. Disturbed people are cooler, right?). The point is, I'm nothing special, far from it. 

If you've ever read Diary of an Oxygen Thief just know, I'm not like that. If you haven't read it, the author (someone who remains anonymous) writes about his affliction for breaking hearts. He seeks women and enjoys their undeniable pain. He puts on the facade that he loves them, that he cares for them, and then derives pleasure from their heartbreak. I don't. I enjoy the relationships. I grow genuine feelings for the person. I sabotage them however. I start off relaxed and easy and then over time become more and more manipulative. I show them a mold for something I paint as attainable, a mold they will never be able to fill. None of them will fit this mold, I shape it so they can't. I want to blame my Scorpio-ness, but being a Scorpio doesn't make you manipulative. Being a scorpio isn't making me sabotage my love life.

I like the begging and the "I love you"s. The feeling of being important, of mattering to someone, that validation that I have power. I have control over some aspect of my life, and even greater yet, some aspect of someone else's life. In the breakup moment, I am irrevocably wanted. It doesn't matter that I'm not curvy or a world renowned chef or a model. I, in all my awkward, pale, lanky average at best glory, am someones world. Its not about their pain or suffering, It's about me. I don't cheat or hurt them; I simply just out of the blue, end things. I blindside them when everything could be perfect. I do it because I know they'll come back, at least the first time. Because their self worth isn't developed yet, because they'll spend every waking moment thinking of me. Its days, weeks, months, and maybe even years that they will think. of me. I do it because I can justify being the one that taught them what love shouldn't be. 

We all feel it. It could be a raindrop or a tsunami, we all feel the power, validation, and feeling of being desired that accompanies a heartbreak. 

                                                                                                                           -Goober, July, 10, 2018


       The first time I truly thought I was a good writer was my freshman year of college. My roommate, at the time, told me I was. We were sitting on my bed. I was telling her about my final paper idea and how I wasn’t sure if I should take the risk. She looked down at her notebook and said “you’re a great writer, why wouldn’t you take the risk”. She said it nonchalantly, like it was a fact. She hadn’t even read anything I had written, yet I was so starved of reassurance and acceptance that I believed her. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t read anything, she just knew.

    In high school I had thought of myself as a decent writer; I was just smart. I could get an “A” on my essays writing them the period before they were due, but so could the other “smart kids”. I liked poetry but I tried too hard, or so I thought. Reading my poetry from high school makes me cringe but then again, that’s its appeal. 

    The first time I thought I had any talent was spring semester of 2018. I read my first piece at the first fiction workshop and was overwhelmed with positive feedback. I was accepted and reassured. I’m supposed to be here. In high school friends constantly picked on me for being a “poetry freak”. I never shared my poetry, except in class on reading days.  My friends made fun of me and my family never asked nor did I volunteer to share. After my first in class reading I was praised by my classmates for my ability. I was validated.

    In the first few weeks of the class, I, just like everyone else, picked a few people that I deemed “the good ones”. The writers who were born for this; they were destined to be in this class. Never in a million years did I think I would be someone else’s “good one”. I was ok with that, it didn’t matter if I was the best. I wanted to be here, so I was. I had just as much a right as they did. My favorite writer in the class stopped me after the creative nonfiction workshop and urged me to go into the writing world. My favorite writer in the class stopped me and pushed me to “not let my talent go to waste”. No fucking way. 

    That day came the realization that I am a writer and it doesn’t fucking matter what other people think. I am doing this. I hope.

                                                                                                                      -Goober, July, 1, 2018