Tuesday, November 30, 2010

By the way.

Joan of Arc and I are on good terms again. Very good terms. There was a puddle of confusion between us, but nothing we can't jump over.
John Smith has been in a strange mood this week. We've been wrestling like we used to.
But he still does the same things.
Always the same.

Caverns. (Don't skip this post just 'cause it's "religious".)

There is this presence inside of me that needs to be filled all the time. And I fill it as well as I can, but if I have to do anything at the same time, it's very draining. If I am with someone, giving myself to them, I cannot be inside myself simultaneously.
I think it's a job for Jesus. I need to let Jesus occupy that space.
But I get scared to let Jesus inside that space, because I'm not sure what He'll do, and I'm afraid of what He'll do. And I think it's because I don't know Him very well.
It's hard to explain.
You can't govern yourself. And maybe that's a reason people seem to be afraid to believe in God. Because human nature wants what human nature wants, and everything these days is all about finding yourself. Maybe it should be about finding Jesus, though, because He's the one who needs to occupy that space, that space everyone means when they talk about "finding yourself". And then it sounds like you're chained to someone, like you're trapped in this box.
But that's not true.
Because you're the box.

P.S. I'm sorry if you've ever met a... "Christian".

Monday, November 29, 2010


The earth on your hands reminds you
Ashes to ashes
And dust to dust
Scabby knees ground into soil
Kneel at the grave
And her hands reach
Reach from the ground and claw
She refuses to push up daisies
Now the earth in your throat reminds you
She won't go until you do

Friday, November 26, 2010

Gnome with a G

What about the bad days? What am I supposed to do then? Lord give me strength.


I hate it when people say "life isn't fair". Because it's true, life isn't fair, but if the rich man steals the poor man's cow and the poor man complains, can the rich man turn around and say, "Hey, buddy, life isn't fair." and be off with himself and his stolen cow? No. I'm pretty sure the poor man has the right to inflict bodily harm on the rich man.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

I'm waiting.

Too many thanks and never any pleases, because...well, I don't know. We never asked for anything.

I didn't ask for you.

I appreciate you, but I'm not sure whether to love you for what you've done or hate you for what you did. The thing is, I do both, and it's confusing, and now I'm scared because I don't know how to love you when I hate you. It's just impossible.

I wish I could feel more today. It's all going to come crashing down anyways.

It's snowing. I'm thankful for that. But I can't help looking at the forecast and seeing it's supposed to rain tomorrow. The sky tears will wash the white away, and everything will feel strange, because your wonderland will disappear.

Maybe I'm just a pessimist.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

I think so.

I'd share with you the words I've made up, but I'm afraid you'd steal them.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, just so you know.
I'm scared.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Spice Candles

I'm scared.

Sunday, November 21, 2010


There are no synonyms for 'feel'.

Apostrophes in your emoticons.

Every hearbeat feels like I'm bouncing on a drum, slow motion.
My head hurts in my stomach.
I'm braced.
It all feels like I want to push the life out of me. Like I want to hold my breath, and somehow, my soul will slip from my pores, and I can still be alive but I don't have to be awake.
Things move.

Saturday, November 20, 2010


H is a nothing letter.
French is spoken in France.
Numbers are beautiful.
She's coming, but she's never coming back.
You're beautiful.
You're bad, you and you and you and you.
I'm bad especially, because I created you and I live inside of you and we've been married in all ways but one.
Hummmm, feel it in your nose, now plug your nose, and it's gone.
Everything is gone. Nothing is here.
I need a vacation, like a nuthouse vacation, and I'm not talking about the grill. No, I need the cheesy sort of stuff like group therapy and restrictions on sharps and "Hi my name is...".
Hi my name is Sara. I'm trying to develop a "fuck you" attitude, but it really only works on the outside. Everything you say (can and will be used against you in the court of law...) will be analyzed. Like I said, it only works on the outside.
Hummmmmm, feel it in your nose, now plug your nose, and it's gone.
Everything is gone. Nothing is here. Nothing ever was here, and I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't i don't I don't I don't I don't I don't I don't know.
And no, I didn't copy and paste those I don'ts. They're real. It's therapeutic. Try it. I think I'll go open a Word document.

Friday, November 19, 2010


Anxiety sounds like your ears are ringing.

Hey, look at me, I'm anxious.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

We've got some things to learn.

I never forgot how devoted the disease was, because I'm here and so is it. Still. I just forgot that people like this existed. People so fucking selfish, they can't keep themselves inside their own minds.
Okay, so I'm a hypocrite.
But I don't tell the whole cyber world that I ate x calories today and weigh 32 pounds, but my goal is 20. There are other people who suffer the disease, you know, and I get it - you're thinking just don't read it then, fool but that's wrong. For vulnerable people, the disease is contagious.
Really. "Be thinspired"? I think I can legitimately say fuck it.

Philippins 4:8 Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable-if anything is excellent or praiseworthy-think about such things.

The disease only thinks it's praiseworthy. Don't do this. Don't indulge yourself in public.

P.S. I know, I don't have the right to call anyone out. You have permission to call me on Matthew 7:3.
This is just venting.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

I almost forgot.

The leaves are tree vomit potpourri.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010


I live in stomach aches, not the kind you get when you eat too much, but the kind you get when you really don't want something to happen.
I live underneath the table, not because it's fun to hide there, but because you will inevitably hit your head on some sharp jag.
I live in the digital world, where everything smells sterile and is uncomfortably cold.
I live in shoes with velcro, not laces.
I live in the ugly kinds of gift bags.

Define "good", and I will give it to you.


Apparently Joan of Arc and her army are joining us for Thanksgiving dinner.
I can't do this.
I need helphelphelphelpme.

'Crass' is one of my favorite words. It's delivered awkwardly from the back of your throat.

Sometimes I think that maybe I don't particularly like being "conventionally" happy because I don't know what to do with happiness.
I mean, you don't come across many self-help books like "What to do With Happiness" or "How to Deal with Your Happy Teen", because apparently joy is a great thing. A normal thing. People get depression, and it's a disease, but happiness? Happiness is just an instinctively desired condition, a sign of health.
But I'm so accustomed to functioning on a brain washed in shades of blue and red and all the purples in between, that the warm colors are just awkward and exposing.
And somehow I don't think that's a sin. Maybe it's just me.
I can be in the blues and reds and purples, and rest in the greens and browns, but I don't have to climb up to the oranges and yellows to be a healthy human being.
I don't have to be a person. I can be feelings.

Sunday, November 14, 2010


I belong in a mental ward, where everyone is sane.
If I told you I was fat, you'd peg me for the blonde bitch who gives a fuck about what she looks like.
The truth is, it's just a feeling. It's just a feeling.


Today I'm sick and I can't feel anything and I don't know why.

I hate the sound of.
Ice being scooped into a plastic pitcher.
My dog barking.
The microwave that beeps until you open it.
A baby waking up.
The printer.
Venetian blinds buzzing with the wind blowing through them.
People breathing, unless they're sleeping.
Stacking steel chairs.
People saying "um" when they're reading something.
A bad phone connection.
Crowds cheering.
People choking.

I love the sound of.
Babies snoring.
The first violin tuning the orchestra.
Cash registers that click and ding.
The wind.
Rain on the window.
Rain on a tin roof.
Chalk rubbing on a chalkboard.
People rambling.
The spatula scraping against the cookie sheet.
Shifting gears in a manual.
School buses and garbage trucks.
Weighted piano keys hitting that thing they sit on top of.
Weird laughs.
Scissors snipping.

Monday, November 8, 2010

The kind of kin.

Today Mom yelled at John Smith.
Today John Smith yelled at Mom.
Today John Smith slammed his bedroom door.
Today I texted John Smith and told him that we loved him.
John Smith told me to burn in hell.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Look at me.

I figured some stuff out.

Like, the treetops don't have roots of their own.

Thursday, November 4, 2010


Does anybody read this?

Wednesday, November 3, 2010


There are some people you can't hate. Like Jesus, for example.
People who've contributed so much good, it's impossible to even consider disliking them.
It doesn't even matter if they've hurt you. Churned your insides into an unrecognizable mishmash. Mishmashmishmashmishmash.
I can't talk to you whywhywhywhy. What?
I'm talking to you, Joan of Arc.
You took the guns away, but you replaced them with knives, and I think it's worse this way because I can feel it but I can't banish it, and I've lost the strength and stamina to keep masking it and I hate you hate you hate you but I can't because you're too good too wise
too too wise
and the stars in the sky
screeeeeam at me
aren't we beautiful?
and I'd say you were
but it's too sad why?
you're sad sad sad
and that feeling in my throat
that I need to cry
never goes away
but I can't.
I can't.
the salt in my tears would burn my face,
acid streams eroding flesh, I can't.
And I want to say "fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you" but you're too perfect to be condemned.
Anyways, I bet Jesus told you to leave me, huh?

Tuesday, November 2, 2010


An acquaintance's status: "Taylor Swift performing, lots of stars, and Bristol rockin the cha cha! dear lord, please don't let me fall in my 6 inch heels in front of Kurt Warner"

Everyone comments saying they saw her on TV.
You know, all I can think is "Why the fuck would somebody wear six-inch heels, and who the hell is Kurt Warner?"