reinventing-wednesday

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a word of protest

growing

chalk white around the black

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I muttered the words

left in me

please

don't

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my heart damaged

but a gift

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Getting To Know the Poet(ess)

I thought it would be fun to list ten facts about myself and tag others so I can learn more about them.

Facts about me:

I have a son who will be 17 in November.

I have two dogs, a yorkie named Eddie Dean (after the character in Stephen King's The Dark Tower series) and a German Shepherd named Mercy (after the hero in Overwatch).

I love K-Dramas and British Detective shows.

I crochet, and I'm pretty damn good at it.

I work at a software company as a test engineer. It's often repetitive and boring, but I like puzzles, so it suits me.

I love to play video games. My two favorite franchises are God of War and Devil May Cry.

I've been told I'm too nice, but my two best friends and husband know how fierce I can be. I don't take shit, and I'm not afraid to speak up for others.

I paint. Abstract and anime characters were my jam. I haven't picked up a paint brush in a while, though.

I enjoy cooking, especially for occasions like Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I have 9 tattoos. The biggest one is on my thigh and is based on the song Falling In Love With Glaciers by Listener.

That's it, ten facts.

I tag:

@quaintobsessions

@theadventureto-be

@the-silent-troubadour

@definegodliness

@stolenhead

If you don't want to participate, no worries! For anyone that wasn't tagged and would like to share, please do and tag me in it so I can learn about you.

Have a wonderful day!

S.

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Prompt: galaxy, provided by @picklemafia, thank you!

It's been so freaking long since I've participated in a prompt, I forgot how much fun it was.

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....

I woke up this morning thinking about a friend of mine from high school. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because my doctor increased my pain medication, and I'm afraid of an overdose, or maybe I had a dream about him last night that I don't remember. Either way, I'm struggling through loss all over again.

His name was Michael, but we called him Clark. Clark was a kind, funny, and ridiculous guy. He always wore a hat over his slightly curly, blonde hair. His smile was infectious. He was always grinning. It made you feel like you were in on some private joke between the two of you. He had heterochromia. Both of his eyes were blue, but one had flecks of brown and green in it, making it slightly darker than the other. He was also diabetic, insulin dependent. I can still see him hunched over, trying to pinch body fat on his stomach. He was thin yet muscular, so it must have been a frustrating process.

Clark died on October 11th, 2015, from a heroin overdose. He was 31, married with two children, and had gone semi-pro in skateboarding. I think he would have gone pro if he had lived a little longer, although, with his addiction, it may not have been possible. We lost touch when I moved away from home, and I found out that he had died on facebook. That sucked.

I think about him often, especially whenever I hear Lipstick by Guttermouth or Bro Hymn by Pennywise. Bro Hymn hits the hardest. The lyric “life is the most precious thing you can lose” has made me cry more times than I can count.

I considered writing a poem about him this morning, but something about fitting this grief into neat little stanzas with a punch at the end felt wrong. Grief is messy, and it isn't linear. Yeah, I’ve written poems about it, but this is different in a way that I can't explain. There's no real end to it, and writing a poem about him won't fill the hole he left. Neither will this, but I'm writing it anyway.

I guess this is my attempt to ease some of the heaviness I feel this morning. This wound will not heal, but maybe writing this is good enough to at least stop the bleeding. I know it will randomly hit me again for the rest of my life, but maybe the heaviness will be a little lighter next time. Here's hoping that it is and that my friend is resting in peace.

Sarah P. 6/13/25

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The title is from the song Speyside by Bon Iver. You can listen to it here.

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The title and inspiration were drawn from the song "Deathblow" by deftones. You can listen to it here.

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I Have Become Someone Other than Who My Mother Intended

Or maybe it's more like a falling out between who she thought I was then and who I am now. Either way, we don't talk about certain things at the Thanksgiving dinner table. We shove it all under the gravy boat and pass the rolls to distract ourselves from the stains we've left on my dead grandmother's best table cloth. The one reserved for holidays or company.

I was taught that life always finds a way,

but I no longer fully believe that, do you?

I've seen photographs of weeds growing in between slabs of cement. I've seen prize-winning pictures of emaciated children. Their arms are only bones. Their hands hanging limply with nothing to reach for. Their hunger and suffering immortalized forever. If they saw these things, we'd agree that something

must be done. Most here have never done a goddamn thing. They'll remember the strength of weeds and commend themselves on their resilience. Pass the turkey, please, and thank you.

My mother believes I'm too much at times. I get so worked up over the smallest things, she says. She's the one who helped make me who I am, so I'm not sure who she's trying to get at.

I expect her to nod her head in agreement, but she shakes it instead. The sounds from her tongue clicking against her teeth grates against my knowing better,

but you can't teach anything to those hard stuck on being right.

I want to tell her it's all about perspective.

I want to tell her that if I were God, I'd be doing more than flipping tables. I'd be righteous in my anger. I'd burn this

motherfucker to the ground. Fuck, starting over. There's no coming back once you've gone too far.

She wouldn't like that very much. She'd call it blasphemous and sinful. Prideful. God would never speak that way, and I know she has a point. Still, I think I'm not too far off of what it must feel like to watch us,

carelessly, stepping over or onto the backs of others we feel are beneath us.

We argue over who is right. Wiping the turkey grease from their lips, telling each other, that surely, God must be on their side. I'd call bullshit,

but maybe we're both dead wrong.

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Thoughts and Prayers

I find them

hidden amongst batteries and screws,

under the pieces of cardboard

I used as a template to drill new holes

for the cabinet hardware

there is also wood putty,

instruction manuals,

a flathead screwdriver,

and a pack of gum

that has hardened

and become brittle

the prayers have gone unanswered--

wrapped in the sentiment of comfort

and with the best intentions,

from their lips

they were intercepted

somehow,

never reaching God's ears

the thoughts are a thin blanket--

full of holes and smelling faintly

of mildew, old wood,

and particle board

both are automatic social responses

when there is nothing else to say,

but we believe them

for a moment or two

just the same

I hold them in my fists,

clench them tightly against my chest,

hoping that some of them

might sink through the skin and bone

to settle in

somewhere

I let go,

placing them in a drawer

next to the refrigerator

in my white kitchen

assuring myself

that they might prove useful

one day.

Sarah P. 5/23/25

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