Post Traumatic Sarah

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…

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

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

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:

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.

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!

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.