Post Traumatic Sarah

A place for my poems.

[remanence-of-love]

[posttraumaticsarah]

They’d call me scar-struck.

I.

The dead-red-rose-petals,

that you decayed in the microwave,

are crinkling under my feet.

There’s a cardboard cut-out of the moon

beside a dinner table in our bedroom.

And,

you’re down on one knee.

Madlibbing the speech you had rehearsed.

My fantasy extends a wrist out towards the memory of you

and the circle of

fresh, dry blood

around my left ring finger

fits me like a wedding band…

But, when you admire the diamond

you placed on my hand,

an amethyst wink-winks right back.

Purple was always my favorite color

and Purple

it

will always be.

II.

The hardest part of

eternal loneliness

is denial over the imaginary proposals

that make no sense anyway.

Reality gets a tick-mark.

But,

I carry the shame

of refusing God’s proposal.

He then took away my person

and granted me as un-wanted,

so there’s nothing left for me in this life.

But,

girls like me

avoid getting laughed at

by

fighting over the

hand-me-down with a dent in it,

I’d look insane wearing a halo presented to me on a velvet pillow.

My blood turns diamond into amethyst.

And, I’ll spend eternity

upturning

stone after stone,

mining for

my blood-diamond in the raw.

Pale blue

and

on the pink side,

the perfect

shade of lavender

forms a crystal

for the suicidal-spirals

I fall into because I let

yet another boy manipulate me.

(Maybe, he wasn’t God…)

And, I’ll wait

for the perfect,

pale-blue

and on the pink side,

shade of lavender

to

crystallize,

but how many more crystals do I want?

It was so easy to manifest

Purple ink flowing through these veins.

(I bleed purple ink.)

And, I have no doubt that I will one day cry Violet tears.

(I cry Violet tears.)

But, can I have faith that my amethyst washed ashore on a riverbed and is waiting to be upturned?

I watched my words

(Reframing what I want - I am happy and content and ready to receive.)

and changed my mindset.

(Stopping this pointless anxiety- My person will come at the right time.)

It’s possible that I block positive channels of energy and, I know that I’m the Queen of mixed-messages,

but

I have to convince myself that the Universe’s algorithm for granting persons makes no sense…

How could I possibly not already have learned everything that I was meant to learn to be ready for my person yet?

[posttraumaticsarah]

III.

I’ll wait

for an amethyst

that may never come

but an amethyst

that compliments the jagged-edges

of my wedding band

is worth waiting for.

Like, the time I worked at a movie theatre and my coworker turned to me and said, I just got out of rehab. I said, I just got out of a mental hospital.

We complimented each other perfectly

because we necked in the back of daddy’s Cadillac that night.

And, I still remember it like it was yesterday.

I opened the freezer door

to a typhoon of popcorn

pouring in.

So much salt and butter everywhere,

blinding me.

I swam through the sea of popcorn

wondering,

do any managers even work here?

With eyes-burned-shut through the darkness, I

compassed my way to the sound of Señor Poppy’s squeaking gears as I inched closer to the old-rusted-popcorn-machine.

I thought it was strange that no one evacuated when the fire alarms went off, but I could never leave Señor Poppy behind.

And, lo-and-behold

there was a ring

stuck on the mechanism

that told the machine it’s full.

Your grandpa scared me…

He jumped out of a giant mound of popcorn

while

camouflaged in a home-made popcorn suit,

eager to “pop” the question.

The salt of my tears washed away

the salt in my eyes

and all I could see

were a line of angry customers,

being my closest friends and family,

now cheering.

Again, snaps for Reality.

In reality, I was in love with someone else while banging the popcorn boy. Then, the popcorn boy’s ex jumped from a building and the popcorn boy thought he was in love with me. But, I was in love with someone else and I kept denying the whole time that I even had a fling with the popcorn boy because it was all just embarrassing.

I’d look insane wearing

a stark-white diamond over

my bleeding, open, fresh, dry scar

of a deeply-wounded wedding band

that I carved one night

while staring at myself

in the “stranger’s mirror” a little too long.

(Or, in this case, my reflection on the floor in theatre Number 7 after mopping up.)

If only, there was a ring clogging the drain

in the “stranger’s bathtub,”

put there by the plumber.

But, we all know, in Reality, instead of marrying the plumber

I’d drown.

And, I carry the shame,

The One That Writes

wrote about

but only I deserve.

I deserve,

the empty, desperate, meaningless diamonds winking back at my tears

in the “stranger’s mirror.”

Girls like me don’t get diamonds.

In the real world, I’d show off my diamond to get laughed at and be called scar-struck.

No,

Purple was always my favorite color

and Purple it will always be.

And, I’ll wait

alone.

IIII.

My memory is pricked on a jagged-edge

while

sifting through the basalt rock in Brazil.

No one came to catch me in a Purple volcano.

(Reality wraps their arms around me and says, I told you so.)

So, I mined and mined

from Egypt to Russia.

I repelled down caves of lava,

and still left empty handed on the plane-ride home.

I carry the shame of being un-wanted. Can I hide-away on a fault line for eternity?

Each moon, across a thousand night skies, has a different temperament

but not one was listening.

And,

a drop of Violet

fell from my cheek

and landed in a puddle.

I followed the bank

with the Purple watershed…

Where,

my fantasy extends a wrist out towards a riverbed

but

my memory is pricked on a jagged-edge

of the last stone unturned.

[posttraumaticsarah]

Are you still in love with the wrong one?

I’m just so fascinated that someone asked me a question. Lol I like never come on here. I’ve never been in love with the right one so probably, yes. 🤷🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️😭 but Hassaan is a thing of the past as are all the rest 🙃🙃🙃 Me and my dog are still going strong 👌🏼

[posttraumaticsarah]

The Best Idea that I’m Blessed to Call a Friend: A Poem for Zoe.

Zoe,

Thank you for always being there for me when I am in my dark places. You truly mean the world to me. I love you soooooooo much!

It is so hard to remember we are loved but I hope this little book can be a big reminder. I always keep two private phone lines open for you at all times, the kind that bypass dial-ups. They are two cups on a string and a pair of walky-talkies. I am always just down the street.

Love,

Sarah

Chapter One:

Prologue-Purgatory

I.

It may feel as if

there is no point to all of this

but, I promise you,

that

our tears sparkle like North Stars

and they lead us places.

Many of us

have no choice but to

take the path less traveled

through the valley

down a long winding road

to a dark wood

where the straight way is lost,

but only the

brightest among us

have the chops

to tell the tale.

No, we may never know when the hardest part of the story will come knocking.

But, you’ve answered all of your calls to adventure like a pro on her fifth published novel…

I believe in you.

And, no matter how hard you try,

a good writer cannot

force her happy ending.

But, the middle isn’t finished yet

and you’re a good idea

that

takes time

to come together.

I mean, you’re the best idea that I’m blessed to call a friend.

I know it all seems so pointless

but

the first thirty chapters are simply writing warm-ups

so

it’s too soon to crumple the paper

on your synopsis.

Because, each paragraph from the summary changes

constantly.

And,

every day

is a prompt

for

new ideas.

You may feel stuck

like you’re in

Prologue-Purgatory

but one day

you’ll flip

past the reviews

past the prologue

to the first page

of a new day

to the best idea

you yet

haven’t had.

And,

your writer’s-block

will be lifted.

Chapter Two:

Vietnam

II.

The Rons and Hermiones you meet in other countries,

little do they know,

you are their Luna Lovegood.

Because, a piece of you is buried

at Hogwarts

and it’s as real as the ashes of your childhood

spread across Vietnam.

If you think about it too hard

your heart will break

but the tears

will lead you to new places.

You’ve Eat, Pray, Loved your way through Europe.

Even stepped off of a plane into a YA novel in Galway.

Whether it’s

London

Ireland

Alaska

or

Asia,

there are pieces of you everywhere.

And, the Horcruxes

are parts of your beating-heart

waiting for you,

buried

in the

hostels

that

you

yet

haven't

been…

Wearing shoes to bed may seem so pointless.

But,

you already

have your head in the clouds.

So, why not mosey-on

for one more mile

if it means

you’ll

wake up

standing

at the foot of a Rainbow?

You’re the only one that can bend shadows

into blinding rays of indigo.

When a Thestral comes running toward you

but your forgot your wand at the pub,

you’ll know what to do.

You are so much more

than what’s invisible.

[posttraumaticsarah]

Chapter Three:

Where the Sidewalk Ends

III.

These years of going against the grain

and swimming upstream

have left their scars

from the grind.

I had to break an ankle

and trip over the edge

of a hamster-wheel

just

to

take the night off.

I swear,

Venus lengthened the lines God drew on my palms

because

they now reach beyond the end of my fingertips.

My days are longer

and

more full

and,

to think,

all she had to do was pick-up God’s pen.

She

scribble-scrabbled

L̶i̶g̶h̶t̶n̶i̶n̶g̶'̶s̶ ̶T̶r̶i̶p̶w̶i̶r̶e̶

my Worst Idea

in different directions

across all of the planets

in pieces

that

now

my shortest lifeline

is floating through time

untraceable…

And, on those days when I am ground-down to a pulp

from going against the pavement,

when I can’t take another day

spent breaking my own ankles

because I don’t

naturally

fail at this

rat-race,

I try to remember why wounds would rather heal afterward than wear a helmet.

Or, how easy it is

to write my own

prescription.

I roller-skate down the street

just to get back up

after every tumble.

I pedal like the wind

for a piece of chalk

to fly through my basket.

I click my heels

but choke on ice cream.

I play hopscotch with the barking hippos,

we go round and round

the cul-de-sac.

I

ring a bell

but summon a monster.

He drinks all of our Lemonade

without

leaving a single quarter.

My tears grind-down

until they shine as bright as laughter.

I go round and round

at the corner of

Real and Inspirational

and

the sidewalk…

it

really

never

ends…

with the wave of her wand

our Planets interlock themselves in a pattern, now Milky Way floor tiles

and Saturn’s rings fold into bleacher seats for all of the celestial beings to gather

she sprinkles fairy dust in the sky

as the Stars form into a disco ball

Gravity came to town

Time stops in all dimensions except this one

and she lays a blanket over Sun,

he’s always the first to pass out

every once in a while,

even the Moon

takes the night off

Chapter Four:

A Prism in a Puddle

IV.

The Buddhist’s daydream

is to sacrifice herself

as an Outline

to be reborn

a character in someone else’s Trilogy.

I say,

Go ahead!

The audience’s interpretation is always wrong anyway.

So, leave us on a cliffhanger

for eternity!!!

But,

the evolution of conflict

is what makes

a good writer better.

After-all, the Rainbow needs boots

to splash through puddles

and you are the only one that wore shoes.

I know the Rons and Hermiones

and grammar-school-kids

running away without you

seems so pointless,

but shade exists for a reason.

Your head may be in the clouds

but

there’s

a wand behind your ear.

And, you are the only one

that can break indigo,

setting them

free

from the shadows.

Every once in a while,

you sit back

and sip Lemonade

in the shade

with your Monsters.

As you re-write

the paragraphs

on your front and back covers,

I believe in you.

Because,

today

is a new page

flowing with the grain

revolving

along

the

wave

of

gravity

and

I

chew on the cap of a

big-fat-sharpie

because

even the best writers need a friend

to sign their casts,

and help them

take the night off from

the hamster-wheel.

You are the Publisher

as much as the Author

as much as the Reader,

and your three-decade-long-trilogy

can continue on

instead of being rebirth-ed.

Or, it can be rebranded

in the next decade.

Or, it can take a sharp-turn

upon cinema’s corner.

You can even call it something else but continue on with the same character from a previous series

as if it’s remotely related but somehow completely different altogether.

(Fantastic Beasts, anyone?)

I don’t know,

the audience’s interpretation is always wrong anyway…

Your summary re-typed itself:

With her head in the clouds, it took her thirty years to begin wearing rain-boots even on the sunniest of days. Finally, she learned that running-shoes were different from splashing-shoes, and there are so many puddles down Memory Lane.

[posttraumaticsarah]

Chapter Five:

L̶i̶g̶h̶t̶n̶i̶n̶g̶’̶s̶ ̶T̶r̶i̶p̶w̶i̶r̶e

The Whisky in the Sky

V.

I wish I had a better resolution

but

you

by my side

pouring the whisky in the sky,

might be as good as it’s going to get.

Just say the word,

it’s Post-Traumatic-Sarah’s brand to go out in a blaze of glory anyway.

Pedal to the medal…

Cliffhanger for eternity!!!!

But,

like a bad idea,

this takes time

to get help

to make better.

The art of coming together

is a part of the process,

and the process

never

really

ends…

My tears have led me out of fairytales

and fairytales have led me in to dark places.

I wanted so badly to believe

that

the aftermath of a permanent solution

would be a temporary problem.

Because, in fairytales,

the resolution

solves

the conflict.

(dear sun,

I had a plan

to escape the sky

fall face-first...

if only Mother Earth wouldn’t catch me)

I swear,

no matter what you scribble-scrabble and scratch out,

(once upon a time,

a white picket fence on the horizon

our little white dwarf with your nose

off to school

but seasons change

now

parts of me are hollow

my heart beats craters into my chest

this loneliness,

I have no hope left

I’m sending this in case Saturn

overheard

me...

curse shooting stars)

everyday you become a better writer

if you’re open to the

process.

And, editing your soul

is a lifelong commitment.

The best writers have no clue what part of the story they are living in real-time,

so they make it all up.

While, good writers thrive in the middle.

The best writers were never

sentenced to

Prologue-Purgatory,

but lived a life

of seventy-plus chapters

as if

they were born there.

Because,

a resolution

while being stuck

in-the-middle-of

unresolved conflict,

makes you choose

whether or not

to get help.

After-all, (̶D̶o̶e̶s̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶M̶o̶o̶n̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶L̶i̶g̶h̶t̶n̶i̶n̶g̶’̶s̶ ̶T̶r̶i̶p̶w̶i̶r̶e̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶a̶r̶o̶u̶n̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶n̶e̶c̶k̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶s̶h̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶s̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶d̶o̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶k̶i̶c̶k̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶t̶a̶r̶s̶ ̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶f̶r̶o̶m̶ ̶u̶n̶d̶e̶r̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶?̶)

What I would give

to kick the stars

out from under me

but still show up to work on Monday morning?

For absolutely nothing to change

because I am not failing.

I’m not even lagging that far behind,

so I can keep-up with the wheel.

I can flow with the grain.

I can revolve along the wave of gravity.

With swollen ankles

that are no longer broken,

I

can swim upstream

when I need to.

If I knew a spell

to unfold this dog-eared page

and

make it through until morning,

I swear,

I’d use it.

If I had three wishes

for three sparks of inspiration

to come up with

three new ideas

to get me through until morning…

Oh,

I’d use them.

If Prince Charming

knocked on my door

and swept me away

to the Yule Ball,

well,

sorry…

I’d rather do yoga,

mindfully drink a tall glass of water,

and

run a marathon.

But, thanks for the suggestion,

Karen.

Where do you get your inspiration from?

(Toxic positivity, anyone?)

My fairytale is

kicking the stars out from under me

to take

tonight

off.

I wish I had a better resolution

but

you

by my side

pouring the whisky in the sky…

My daydream,

might be as good as it’s going to get.

I’m not yet the best writer

but

I ask for help to come together

because, no matter how hard I try,

a good writer cannot force her happy ending.

If only God

scratched-out these bad ideas

with a red-pen,

but he didn’t.

I may be stuck here

and it all feels so pointless,

but falling apart

is as much of an art

as is coming together.

It’s all a part of the process

and the process

never

really

ends…

Chapter Six:

We all have our Hagrids.

VI.

I never did read Harry Potter as a child

because my mom said it was Satanic and she actually tore the pages right out of my brother’s book…Like, in front of him and everything. Poor kid was trying be a kid and escape his reality for two seconds, but NOPE. Considering, my grandmother bought it for him, that kind of makes the whole thing even more traumatic and sad. But, we all have our Hagrids.

I think I’ll give it a shot as an adult,

though I’ll skip over the spells in case I accidentally summon a Giant-Three-Headed-Half-Goblin-Troll that only speaks a rare dialect of Gurg and Gobbledegook. Luckily, anyone can speak Troll, but it would be a nightmare trying to figure out what it wants. And, I’m not that advanced of a Wizardess to coax it out of my living room all by myself.

So, I think I’d need your help.

Like, how you helped me

bounce light inside of a teardrop,

letting it shine like the North Star.

You taught me everything I know,

coaxing Violet out from the darkness

to sip lemonade in the shade with our Monsters.

We did all of that and he didn’t even leave us a single quarter, such typical behavior of Giant-Three-Headed-Half-Goblin-Trolls.

But, when the Monsters need to go back home,

you are the only one

that can bend shadows

into blinding rays of Indigo.

And, you’ve helped me through the process

so many times

that when I can do it all by myself,

I’d never choose to do it without you.

Let’s sync our watches and meet at the playground at sunrise,

when the skies are clear.

I’ll help you see the prisms waiting for us in the puddles

after every storm.

Because, there’s so much more

waiting for us

than what’s visible…

I thought I was at a crossroad

but maybe I’m in a crossfire

because

light is seeping through

these dark woods.

Hope and Reality

cancel each other out

sometimes.

But,

I always find my way

following the North Star

and my tears

have led me

out of

of dark places.

Sometimes, my pain crinkles in the opposite direction

flattening itself across the table

but

also flinching away from the pen,

like a ceasefire

between Hope and Reality.

To think,

I was able to get this pain

to stop crumpling-up

long enough

to write a poem

for you

because

the middle isn’t finished yet,

and you’re a good idea

that

takes time

to come together.

I mean, you’re the best idea that I’m blessed to call a friend.

[magnusedom]

You can murder a liberator, but you can’t murder liberation. You can murder a revolutionary, but you can’t murder revolution. And you can murder a freedom fighter, but you can’t murder freedom!

JUDAS AND THE BLACK MESSIAH (2021) dir. Shaka King

[posttraumaticsarah]

And, to think, there’s a method to my madness.

I.

Letters to a Lost Love,

In finality,

(here we go again)

I commemorated our wedding night.

The night we forgot where time began and ate dinner beside the Moon.

I hung your Neon Tuxedo on a spike

marking your dead (to me) carcass

so I could come back

and milk out another poem,

uh oh

this last drizzle fell through infinity…

I plateaued across the parallel universes,

risked drowning

to look for you at every sandbar.

I ran around the loop-de-loop of alternate dimensions

just to flatline through mid-air but find my breath under water.

I’ve lallygagged for far too long

in this tired galaxy

of your horizons.

I’ve pulled out my hair

cursed the stars

and buried fifty-thousand degrees of my personality.

A Rainbow Vulture appeared at my windowsill

with

evaporated meadow-dust

that

she dropped on my tongue

like acid.

An H rained down from the sky

and branded itself upon my wrist.

And, somehow,

an R

popped a cap in my heart without a goodbye kiss

and

I can’t…

set it free.

II.

I swear,

Venus fucked with the lines God drew on my palms

because

they now reach beyond the end of my fingertips.

My days are longer

and

more full

and,

to think,

all she had to do was pick-up God’s pen.

She

scribble-scrabbled

my Suicide

in different directions

across all of the planets

in pieces

that

now

my shortest lifeline

is floating through time

untraceable…

but,

to think,

there’s someone out there with a Key

to

my locked-up

P.O. Box

of unopened

Letters to a Lost Love

to them

it’s

simply

stationed

here,

effortlessly

flowing with the grain

revolving

along

the wave of gravity

it’s

in

over

up

or

out

right

here…

and

I think I met someone

who

has a Key

III.

The One That Writes would like to announce that she has a Method to her Madness

Like, how she would never hide in a fairytale

or a library.

She would never hand over the Keys to the Kingdom to just anybody.

The Latitude of Love rotates on an axis

opposite-away from the Longitude of Loneliness.

It took her forever to locate

her soul,

spinning through time and space

untraceable.

The P.O. Box of Letters to a Lost Love

has a piece of her

hiding

inside every letter

of every word

on every page

in every envelope.

And, to think,

running-away ink

are her I love yous,

her signature is

a blotted-black-teardrop

at the end of every line…

She has a Method to the Madness

because

this new-guy is kind of more than that.

and

Even if it ends,

I told him

you can cut it off at any time

don’t worry about me.

[michaelbogild-deactivated202503]

“she gathers poems like a child gathers flowers”

— (via michaelbogild)

[posttraumaticsarah]

I snatched the L outcha Protagonist before you was even special.

I.

my shoulder is falling through a crack between his chest and left arm,

my neck

is

so heavy

it hurts a little bit

so

I tell myself it’s

just

floating,

I need to look around

at the bedside table

please, don’t wake up as I reach for my phone,

shit…

we reposition ourselves

now

I can only peep out of one eye

balance my phone on his collar bone

and

type with an ambidextrous pinky-finger,

I hold my breath as he rolls over

don’t you dare wake up god damnit I need to fucking cry

if only I was as alone as I feel right now

but

I feel like there’s nowhere to hide

II.

I changed the ending to your name.

Ironically, it was an L that I took

and added in an A.

(shiiiii)

For-real-for-real, I snatched that L

because

I’m hooked on you.

(Gang-Gang)

I don’t call

text

or

slide in your DMs

because

I’m still more original and

boiiiiii

you never was even special

you’re lucky you got a date with me in the first place

but

all jokes aside,

I’m the Loser.

I have your L

and I gotta believe

you’re doing so well

without it

I’m a bulLet dodged

a red fLag

and yes

in ways

manipuLative

(block me)

the next time you party at Nolan’s house

why don’t you pitch this plot?

that Sarah is so in love with you

but not you you

the you she knew

the you she had

and

watch his mind explode

with

yet another perfect role

for Baby Denzel

he’s a Zaddy with a well-earned Z

(you still ain’t have no Z yet?)

Mr. Nolan,

imagine a classic tail of

Tenet meets Hot Tub Time Machine starring Finding Dory

where

Sarah doesn’t give a fuck about

that present-day-guy named Robel

but she would do anything

to see the guy from her memories

one last time

the guy that tried to pick her up and fell on a vacuum cleaner

the guy that she could endlessly troll

and he would troll her a thousand times harder right back

the guy that would free-style silly raps

they would imitate each other

no one knows her laugh like he does

and no one has ever made her laugh like that

but she’ll die

if she sees him now

she’ll die if she crosses that timeline

beyond the Robae she remembers…

You’re mocking some other girl’s laugh

and she probably made a funnier joke than me right back,

those scrawny noodle arms wrapped around her like puzzle pieces

I don’t know who you are now

I don’t need to meet him…

Sorry, I opened up that one Snapchat

it was a random pan of a beach,

I happened to be in a bit of a spiral and you happened to post something for the first time in a year

I just couldn’t not look at it

but it wasn’t worth it

because

a glimpse of you now

happy and doing well

would make me so overjoyed and sad

the sheer confusion would kill me.

Just so you know we submitted the film to Outfest and I had to ask Eleazar how to navigate this because I can’t handle ever seeing you again. I can’t handle ever talking to you again.

I can’t handle it. Even though, all that would happen is us letting you know we got in if we get in. There’s literally no reason why I even had this conversation with Eleazar. Do you see why crossing my timelines would kill me?

The you that you are now

probably thinks Outfest is pathetic anyway and you’d never care or have time to care

you’re off snorting coke somewhere with Tarantino,

and you’re working on a Netflix special

(in my head, the you that you are now produced Bo Burnham’s Netflix special)

and even that projection of a hypothetical theory about the you that you are now gives me a headache

I wonder if my nose will start bleeding or if I’ll have a brain aneurism from remembering that there’s a you now

a you I don’t

and will continue to never know

that time will keep passing by and I’ll never know…

I can’t think about you.

(No cap)

I can’t do it.

(PULL UP)

I’ve done it.

(Say less)

I don’ fucked up

and

I think about you

the you that I knew

I think about all of you

all of the time

on a daily basis

for no reason.

even if,

you’re the protagonist

watching my every move from afar

you probably got fancy-LA-lasik

from Taylor Swift’s optometrist

while I just got glasses,

what I would give for the old you to revenge-call me four-eyes just once?

I fantasize about pulling my timelines back in order but

it’ll set off a chain-reaction only Nolan himself will take to the grave defending it makes jack-sense

like, on the timeline where Protagonist is spelled with an L

you married me

the first woman that would have you

and you never progressed past a production clerk in HoodMond,

but I snatched the L outcha Protagonist

so you could move on

and

forget about me in this life,

the sex wasn’t even that good anyway

because I couldn’t…

I was in a bad state…

I’m glad you’ve moved on and rail chicks left and right in LA

and if you think about me

it’s only comparing how much better she is

so you know you’ve made all of the best choices,

and I go on happy for you

despite my every timeline with the guys that invite me to their house for the weekend then act like I’m crazy for thinking they’re my boyfrieLnd

I took your L over a year ago but brace myself for the consequence

and

If this somehow reached the part of you I’ll never forget

the part that is just so god damn silly

why don’t you borrow Scorsese’s jet

and come here and rescue me?

I don’t care if you can’t make it to Beverly Hills in time to be a muti-millionaire by age 25

every part of you has such big dreams

(we met when you were 22 which means now you’re 19 compared to my 30)

You’re the only person

with an ending

I don’t hate

and you deserve

so many good L’s

(and girls that make fun of you with memojis…I think about how funny I was and realize you brought it out of me)

I’ve never been proud of someone I’ve never met,

I’ll never meet you

but I’m proud of you

and the one I knew

I Love you

so much still.

III.

I woke up after a great night’s sleep

nestled deep in your chest

it’s

the most comfortable I’ve ever been

and

the happiest day I’ve ever had

since I saw you again

(gone are the days of crying alone with a guy in bed)

you get up to make breakfast

while I start typing away

which

rewinds the tape

and it’s some other guy

that comes back

with tears in his eyes

and French toast on a tray

I wrote him a letter

but addressed it to R̶o̶b̶e̶l̶

I vowed to never address another letter anymore

I only sign them

L̶Love,

S̶-̶D̶u̶b̶

Sarah

[michaelbogild-deactivated202503]

there is so much ugliness in the world but we can dream through poetry a higher reality into existence we can improve this flawed world one line at a time

[rivkahhannahsf]

[gahdamnpunk]

It’s not that they didn’t know how to, they didn’t want to cause this sounds amazing!

[professionalbadexample]

This movie was fantastic, the story was incredible, & the cinematography was beautiful.

[glassofcoldjuice-deactivated202]

its on hulu!!

[duchessofhastings]

The world does keep moving, and it can be a damn cruel place. But for me, those moments of stillness: that place, that’s the kingdom of God. And that place will never abandon you.

SOUND OF METAL (2019)

[sesiondemadrugada]

Sound of Metal (Darius Marder, 2019).

[posttraumaticsarah]

God damn, I was right on the cusp of getting better.

I.

this is a

meta for no reason

bad take on myth

sloppy, tie up those loose ends

vignette enjambment

you will atone for!

she dangles a carrot to trap my sins

lure them in like a moth to a flame

when

I really thought I was right on the cusp of getting better

I was once a writer but

I’ve become the monster that wrings a bunny by the neck

just to save its soul

and forget

why

II.

her writing is so smooth if it were skin I’d peel it off of her face and wear it.

she lit a wildfire in Heaven

all of the Angels hated

this mortal poet,

for she picked up God’s pen

as it came to her in a dream

she wasn’t blessed

by the divine but she was still his favorite

until

she wrote what came true in his head

and

Revelations were a nightmare

he poured the ink down her throat and

buried the pen in the deepest pit,

scribbled Hell upon the Earth’s pages

and closed the gate

casted her out for eternity’s sake,

she’d wake cradling darkness in her arms

shooting pain when she saw the stars

but

all she could remember was a white light

she’s right on the cusp of getting better

feeling a familiarity with the equator

but she falls in his trap

and he casts her away again

only to reach the end of the white light,

where

snowflakes

whisper

a unique prayer

taunting her,

here’s your fallen halo from the sky

a puff of smoke,

her tongue on fire

Hell’s first dying ember glows…

III.

I thought I saw her on my windowsill

I think she visits me in my dreams,

like the best nightmare

I couldn’t help but come closer

with those flickering wings,

a rainbow vulture

maybe a hummingbird

or a butterfly

I wanted to singe the edge of my fingertips

and taste the trail of ashes she leaves behind

I heard a voice,

it’s okay to cry my little moth

for your tears give me something to read about

I felt the skin peel away

under my eyelid

and

a drip of darkness

like a teardrop

flowing out of me

a puddle of

sugar water

in mid air

but she disappears

before I take a sip

I am

a scar in progress,

the draft upon her pages with a rabbit's foot on my windowsill

where there’s no such thing as coincidence

her edits re-write

me sinless

sun-kissed

wound me invisible

IV.

falling in my own traps

I’ll banish myself to white walls where Angels in white coats hate to have me back

I am a unique prayer

for I came true,

the moth to her flame

she’s an irresistible pen

and ink with side-effects,

I opened up the Bible to Revelations and

saw my savior in between the lines,

the only God worthy of my sins

I was so close to getting better.

God damn, I nailed myself to the cusp

but penned her instead

of remembering why I resurrected.

some say

if you die with a poem in your head

she pulls your book off the shelf

and reads you for filth

[modelsof-color]

Yvesmark Chery by Gabriel Perez Silva  for CAP 74024 Magazine - January 2021

[targuzzler-deactivated20180224]

are you a philosopher

boy im dumb as shit

[pochowek]

“boy im dumb as shit” is just rephrased Socrates’s “I know that I know nothing“ so whats the truth

[lazyydaisyyy]

She was always speaking in the vocabulary of storms, of evacuations and casualties and degrees of damage. She had the spine of a storm too: there was a stillness to her center.

K-Ming Chang, The Chorus of Dead Cousins

[posttraumaticsarah]

Last happy thought?

How much I love my dog that I bought this shirt that looks just look her... like we are a walking add for this shirt. Always a part of me happy about something no matter how sad.

Thanks for asking ❤️

(Sleeping in dog slobber makes me happy...)