SaraEve Fermin | Poet | Author | Advocate

SaraEve Fermin is the authour of You Must Be This Tall To Ride (Swimming With Elephants Publications, 2016) and View From The Top of The Ferris Wheel (Emphat!c Press, 2018).  An Epilesy and Mental Health advocate, she loves foxes, Instagram (@SaraEve41), Funko Pop! Figures and Stephen King.  For books, information and booking contact at [email protected]

[saraevepoet]

What then, is the measure if a relationship?

What is the measure of a relationship?

A collection of music, lyrics curreatrd into found poetry. Into a lighted path to the past, to the bottom of the bottle but not his mouth on your throat. A savior then? A guardian, a hotline? The memory of a brother tumbles up the throats with all the days over eaten guilt. Very well then. Save the others and continue to write, the song flips over, The Killers, and the chutney burns. <I>Can you read my mind?</i>

[careydraws]

Written in the Bones. New comic, written by Christopher M. Jones & illustrated by Carey Pietsch.

I’ll have printed copies of this comic at TCAF, RIPE, and SPX in 2014, and you can also order copies on Storenvy.

[saraevepoet]

I'm not bawling shut the fuck up you're bawling oh my gan I miss my baby boy so much I hope they are giving you all the bacon and cheese and apples you want you crazy fucker the Wolfpack is not the same without you.

[forensic-houseian]

Manifestx

Fuck fake ass ‘woke’ poets Fuck venues that support The rapists The predators The ones that wear 'feminist’ but Still don’t think black/trans/disabled lives matter Who think they own all the language But don’t want to talk to anyone about their experience And why it’s not for exploitation The ones who back paddle with the words 'but i didn’t mean to-’ Fuck the ones who don’t see the binaries Who think breasts mean theft Who think they own everything Who ignore boundaries and refuse to ask questions And fuck the women too, Who give them all the wrong 'credibility’ Fuck the women predators Fuck the boy acting like a man acting like a boy who raped my friend Who made her question it for years Who sexually harassed two of my other friends Who’s still revered in the 'community’ Fuck a community that gives monsters a place to call home A place to practice using words not as bandages But as bullseyes, as ways to pry victims open Fuck me for wanting all the wrong things So badly For not seeing it earlier, For not running away as fast as I could, Taking as many as possible With me

[saraevepoet]

[how we became gods]

f you could be here/ i would speak

i would share all the small gratitudes that make me remember/or rather/make me forger/ the unspoken

when we both went underwater/ looking for mermaids/magic/mercy/ something to hold up the/ shot gun blast hollow

words (are) have always been our greatest failure

the way i read them/ rearrange every manifesto into a plea/into come home/ to a bed that has never even whispered my name/ to arms that only know the fire/ of a few chance encounters/ to hands that have comitted our only folding together to memory/ like prayer/ like glory/ like sacred

i would tell/ of how i used the words/ turned you into something mythical/ (and you’d love that)/ the stage in my forest/ the melting wings/ the unlucky boy at the farmers marker/ who falls for pomegranates/ attempting to shake love loose from the flesh/ to free me out of every season

i would tell you/ how i survived/ how i wrote the story/ blood and lust alike/ like all my favorite poetry/ tragic/dark/glorious.

[saraevepoet]

[So This Is How Adults Do It]

This is the second time now/ he didn’t shut you out/ no emotional lobotomy/ didn’t ghost you from his life/ ((but it did happen))/ instead he offered his hand/ in valiant apology/ plucked his offense from/ the space time continuum/ the way only men can do/ and we’re both just friends now/ that part of our memories/ ghosted/ and my hands/ they itch/ every time his online light/ comes to life/ for no reason

[saraevepoet]

[And Then I Become a Meme]

The Trump Administration holds us all hostage// While lists of/ pre-existing conditions/ circulate the internet// Everything is propaganda now/ eve/ my valid fears/ of returning to a time/ when I begged my neurologist/for samples/ just to say alive// Now/ I become pharmacist/ begin to ration stock// Look forward/ to my weekly rants/ at the mental health clininc/ I visit/ for fifteen hours a week// Wonder how many sessions/ my insurance will allow/ before I trade this indulgence in/ for a bullet

[saraevepoet]

2.30 2017

I made a deliberate decision/ not to eat today// Let the buzz of withdrawal/ and warmth of wine/ fill me instead// On the other side of thirty-five/ this is where I admit/ I have never developed healthy coping skills/ or self esteem/ but on Monday / when my therapist/ asks me about my week/ I will edit all of this/ into neat grumbles/ and sighs// Where I can privilege my way out if real answers/ because they took my money/ and this is what i'm due/ in my fifteen second tantrum// I’ll tell him I hate the way Effexor makes me feel/ meaning/ I don't feel/ enough/ and I’d rather bottom out/ than tread water// He keeps telling me/ I’m making progress/ because I can talk/ without always bleeding now/ but I still/ want/ to bleed/ so I don’t/ feel/ any better// Empty// Bound buy the Murphy’s Lawness of it all.

[saraevepoet]

1.30 2017

The poet says if I feel something/ say something/ and/ I trace all of my scars// I trace all my scars/ and/ find a raw seam/ scream// I open my mouth/ and/ the words come out/ and/ I hear his name/ and/ I start to giggle// I giggle/ and/ I make a mistake// I make a mistak/ and/ he calls back// He calls back/ and/ time keeps growing/ keeps growing/ and/ I keep doing awful things/ and I keep waiting/ and waiting for them to notice// I wait for them to notice/ and/ the Circus comes to town// The Circus comes to town/ and/ I learn to love a lie/ and/ lions/ and/ learn to love/ like lions/ love blood

[saraevepoet]

[When I say ‘Sexual Assault’ at the Meeting]

The boys at the table are talking now. Best to leave them to the bigger dealings, isn’t it? I open my mouth and the survivors names want to crawl out along with my own. Instead, the boys talk about scheduling features, about prominent figures that will bring in money and isn’t it always about money? Isn’t my body always about money too? I think of the boys, always quick to buy a drink (only the shot special, of course). I think of the boy, his name crawling all over the bodies of the women, the names swimming around with my own trauma, this is how I know it is not me, it is not my fault. Because, of course, it never really happened unless there was another. And another. And a reason. And still, the boys, they are talking about safety, about everything they can do to keep my woman body from being pried into. As if they ever did before. As if they would even know a cry if they heard one.

[saraevepoet]

1/30 [if the metaphors help]

This is dying. I know because I have done it before. -jake chambers, the gunslinger What I need you to understand is, Nothing about this life is new, But every one is. Just like they say Women forget the pain of childbirth (And this must be true– how else would This world go on?) I can not describe the Fear. The betrayal, this once brilliant brain, Still able to access so much, that refuses to Behave on command. See the world melt away in slow motion. The body leaving the body leaving the crime scene. See the mess– the fall, the cry for help, the lilt in voice indicating terror. I have swallowed myself whole in an attempt to disappear the magic show that is my fall apart and put back together. I am the magic, the circus, the painted lady and the getaway act. I have swallowed entire bottles of pills to get rid of my broken parts. Have you ever ripped the guts out of your computer, put them back in and pressed restart? I call that my 20s. This typewriter gone silent. Calculator with no buttons. This iron gone cold. Space for everything yet nothing is ever where it should. At this point, I could call lost in the dark home, at least the dark stays where it should, doesn’t leave you grasping for gravity. This baby book, blank pages. Medical chart, overflowing. This brain, another betraying lover.

[saraevepoet]

[nostalgia like a murder crow] 4.30

The doctor asks when I was diagnosed by who with what, the state-sanctioned way of asking 'who gave you the pills so we can see if you still deserve the insurance.' I play pretty at this game (the offensive word being 'play') and hand over dates, times, all facts that breadcrumb back to the two days my life split from any given course-- the first seizure, the brain surgery. He nods, writes down notes, closes the door on me before I can ask for a card. Leave it to a psychotherapist to make you feel like you are failing at depression, to make you push aside any reserves of pride if it means some kind of help, ready to spill these messy secrets if someone-anyone- will tell you this is normal. Or might be, one day. Your whole life you've been coming up with the perfect words the moment people stop listening. No one asks you why you make everything into a mirror of only your most broken and unloved parts-- twenty-three and in love with all the wrong cliches: death and poems and starvation and numbers and scribbling lyrics in all of the margins. Twenty-seven and jaded medical mystery, revolving door hospital visits, the smell of prescription bottles, overbleached sheets, blood and baby shampoo. Or now. You can't even look out the window without the autumn leaves tripwiring nostalgia, once the sweetest feeling now rolled into the mess of seizure triggers. You can't figure out why this isn't clearer, why you project some medical mythos, why your meltdowns are relegated to acts of agression, never self preservation. The state-sanctioned doctor stops your rambling, your twisting fingers and hair tugging, leads you 'so, mostly the anxiety and depression stem from your epilepsy, would you say? Right?' 'Yeah. Sure.' You reply.

[saraevepoet]

5.30 [nesting doll compliments]

He says 'you look like you've lost some weight' because after all, I am a woman and isn't a compliment the easiest way to clean up all this akwardness and nothing is more akward than the weight of his cupful of sympathy in my well of grief and again, because I am a woman, wight has found a way into the poem and so the easiest thing for him to do is lighten the mood and isn't the easiest way to do that with a compliment, doesn't every woman want to be complimented, to be reminded of what they have lost, that even the body echoes the ten pound hole in your heart and exhausted bones. Silly me. To think I am more than a woman, drowning in compliments and loss.

[saraevepoet]

[conversations on privilege after the Oscars 2016]

too say that i have become mouthy is to say that you have not been listening is to say that you have learned how to unring a bell is to say you know how to manipulate a privilege is to say you might have recognized your privilege is to say this conversation is redundant is to say i am being selfish always making it about me is to say that this ceiling is simply made of molecules that can reconstruct is to say of course you are the wizard and i am just a girl trapped in a snow globe is to say it is easier to hide what is broken than warn others of the mess is to say yes, you were listening i just didn't like your answer.

[saraevepoet]

Post Script Valentines Day 2015

Post Script Valentines Day 2015 You are full of red meat and wine. It is your first year dining in New York City, where you're husband works after all the years of movies and diner dates (yes, you still love those too.) You are walking home from the restaurant where he paid more than you can forgive, walking to the bus terminal and you see a man growl at another the fuck are you looking at?, enveloping a woman in his grasp and every part of you will regret not asking if the flash of silver you saw in her eyes was feast or flight. You will think of your sister, who does not know how not to love the man who pulled a knife on her, only because she thinks she is so undeserving of love. You will think of your husband, and the love you feel for him now, and the love you wasted on others, the love you wish you could take back, and you don’t want to be angry. You want to ask that woman if she is alright, but it’s none of your business, right? It’s Valentine’s Day come on lady, just smile a little, alright? The guy was acting tough for her, she LOVED it. But you think of your niece, think of her on some Valentine’s Day, confused about what kind of love she deserves, so you turn around to say something, but this is New York City, and they are gone.

[saraevepoet]

Self Portrait with Klonipin

See Alice, she always takes her medication now, won’t look at the rabbit, no matter how far the fall into sleep. This marquee unlit. Flowerpot, dry and cracking. December morning always, no snow, only milk blue cold and heavy lidded clouds. A knife, it goes in and no response. A key twists in the lock turning, turning, no catch. Flat note on a robin’s tongue, unplayer piano. Alice stopped going to the doctor, stopped talking about the sea, tears, won’t play in the yard, takes her medication on time, like clockwork. Won’t drink tea anymore. Covers all the mirrors. Somewhere, a cursor blinks, waiting for an excuse. Alice slowly closes her eyes. Falling, falling. The story, it unwrites itself into a cliche. White bag always rustling, bottles chitter like cicadas, Pharmacist always scowling. A hand extends itself. Alice reads the bottle. ‘Take me.’ Alice, so good with instructions, follows through.

[saraevepoet]

When I Think Back On The Diagnosis Now (7/365)

I remember being glued my laptop computer. Can you imagine being reduced to a notebook of wires and keys? I remember obsessing over my blogs, finding a place to live a life of my own from the saftey of my island, a futon I turned into fort PTSD, the Atavin I would fold under my tongue, the way my leg would twitch when asked to leave the house. I remember the music: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Coldplay, the year I discovered Modest Mouse, let Death Cab for Cutie wash over me. I remember seeing my arm, watching it reach through the hole in the haze of medication I was drowning in, gripping what reality I had left and kicking what needed to go. I remember how television became my way of living a life I was letting shift out from under me inch by inch, remember dark circles under my eyes, insominia and waiting for bad things instead of rolling around in the good. i remember my first shot of melancholy, had no idea it would be so addictive, remember being friends before we were too many words to fit in the mouth. Most of all, I remember meeting you.

[saraevepoet]

Conversations With The Ghost of Last Fall, 2015

Don't you know that you are a shooting star? -Bad Company Only if we are spell casting (which requires complete honesty) you are the only one i've held this much power over, likewise is the curse. So be it. This is how I wave the white flag. Let you take the music from my bones, unwind the Fiona from around my vocal cord, rip the apologies from beneath my fingernails. twist another regret from my words. Crazy me, witch me, villify and drown me. I will still smile, will still remember the pancakes, stones collected from quiet back roads, will remember how you tried to teach me about the heaviness of earth, so often forgetting my buoyancy, my sea level existence. Whisper to the words, watch them jump and break against your grin, come back together as Please, as Let's Never Come Back Here, as Rewrite. You, rune caster, you, wizard and tree borne. I am too much Sprite for this locked love existence, can't commit to this Selkie curse. Shake the stars from my charts, recast me as Aries, maybe Libra. Anything to deny the water that makes this body turn malleable in clumsy poet boy hands, to pull the salt from my skin. Call me softer, doe sweet milk sky eyed. As if this distraction can disguise the leaving and the going, as if I don't know the difference between the two. Take back your open window song, your wide open midwestern America, your lake Michigan. I'll take the finger off your wrist. My pulse echoing your own tempo- gone. The pause at every open door that whispers my name- gone. The envelope in the mail with the familiar left hand slant and practiced reservation- gone. The unconditionional- gone. The promissing and the silver rings- gone. I will keep the best parts of the story. This time, you will have to go.