keep the clouds at bay

it doesn't always rain on funerals

the sun doesn't blink when i consider

the different means to my end

in broad daylight

unabashed to slice with hidden thorns

loving roses grow

sunkissed skin with no remorse

warms and dries

turns to burns

used to

write several poems

a day—in the

margins of my

notes, in my sketchbook, on

study pages, wherever

inspiration struck—but

now i am stopped

up. (foot stuck in a hole,

hand stuck and numb, pulse

slowing down down down) halted

at the fork

in the road, looking back,

checking to see if

another stares back

at me. and even if no one

does, there is a shame that

crawls up my spine and

burrows under the lip of the

back of my skull (pressing

right up against my brain),

waiting,

waiting,

waiting—

always suffocating.

I published a poetry collection!

This has been in the making for well over a year, and I'm so so proud of how it turned out. If you like my poetry/my writing please do me a favor and check my book out or share this announcement!

Link:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1387509802

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/phoenix-mind-sadie-rhoff/1142788725

Lulu com: https://www.lulu.com/shop/sadie-rhoff-and-celia-wang/phoenix-mind/paperback/product-n4zmme.html

About the book:

Phoenix Mind, Sadie N. Rhoff’s debut poetry collection, is an exploration of how to love: from first love to daydream love to upending the very idea of love itself.

This book is the culmination of lots of experiences that I've had, about trying to fall in love, about not being sure what love is, about self-love and figuring out what love means to me.

Acknowledgements:

I can't possibly share this book without mentioning some of the people here on Prose that made it come into reality. @TeaRise was the first person who convinced me that I should publish my writing, and that it was worth publishing. @Danceinsilence has always been an inspiration as well as a resource--one of the first things I did was seek out his publishing guide here on Prose. @Mnezz is always so encouraging, and such a ray of sunshine, and whose feedback continues to motivate me to keep writing. And @anarosewood has been so, so supportive through this whole process, as well as a huge inspiration. And a shout out to @coldfront @JesseEngel @zoe_eee @JimLamb @deathetix @Finder and @Ata who all offered support/suggestions about the book in a post so old you've probably all forgotten about it... :D

I never thought I'd call myself a poet, let alone publish a poetry collection, so I want to give the biggest ever thank you to everyone that gave me the confidence to go through with this. That includes everyone who reads my work, and especially everyone who leaves such lovely comments. It's such a pleasure to know so many brilliant and kind people.

So again, thank you all.

notes:

Sadie N. Rhoff is not my real name, but my pen name, and fun fact, it's an anagram of HandsOfFire, which I hope someone appreciates because I feel quite clever about it :)

Lastly, please if you want to support my writing, consider spreading the word about this book, if not checking it out yourself. I hope you all enjoy this book as much as I enjoyed writing (and even editing) it <3

wherever haylee goes,

butterflies follow.

purple wings

to remind her that things

won’t always be this way.

they flutter behind her

as she paces the floor

and settle in her curls

which she wishes would uncurl.

when haylee smiles,

monarchs escape her mouth

and dance through the gaps in the courtyard fence

which she wishes would fall.

she wishes, and sometimes she wonders

if it’s even worth it.

but then she smiles

and the butterflies that kiss her freckled face

remind her that it is.

it’s worth it;

she is worth it.

this morning

there’s this buzz in the dayroom

other than the ordinary fluorescent hum

and not the cicadas in the courtyard

but more an anticipation

buzzing

through thirteen young, scarred bodies

there’s a new smile to return

new hands and new art and new words

and it’s all buzzing, buzzing with energy

that is golden yellow

and called jo.

jo has glass shards

in her smile

but they don’t cut when she laughs

instead, they reflect light

and she shines

kaitie combs her hair quietly;

it’s not so quiet in her head

no, it’s loud

like the ocean waves

as they shatter against the shoreline

she swallows pills to flush the crabs from her bones

but still they scuttle

where she wishes instead flowers would grow

one day

kaitie‘s gonna wake up

and smell springtime

instead of salt

daisies and roses and sunflowers and

poppies and dandelions

and she will flash her braces to the blue sky and know

she is alive!

when the moon becomes full

my body becomes a garden of flowers

colorless shapes of petals in the dark

blooming across my ribs, my hips

i watch the petals breathe, in all their violet carnage

and wish i would breathe no more

when the sun wakes up

i‘ll get up, and watch the petals fall from my frame

settle into my cemetery of a bedroom floor

i collect corpses of flowers

and photographs that don’t belong to me

my father is allergic to flowers

i think that’s why he doesn’t come say goodnight anymore

it’s just me and the strangers taped to my walls

and all the flowers i watch blossom and die every night

wishing i would die with them

but i don’t

it is a painful, painful existence

summertime is hot.

it's hot.

but not only in the

clothes-clinging-to-your-skin

asphalt-scarring-the-soles-of-your-feet

trails-of-sweat-through-your-drugstore-foundation

open-the-car-door-and-taste-molten-lava

sense of the word.

no, it's hot in my bedroom, too

where cold, conditioned air whispers through vents

and ice cubes make music in glasses of peach soda

where i sit, perched on my bed

typing out poems with fingertips that sizzle

with every touch of a letter

in my room where black smoke curls dangerously at the ceiling

when i write, i write in flames

even when i don't

(perhaps, instead

in a church pew

or a school desk

or across from my mother at the dinner table)

still, i burn

every dusk

i watch the sun extinguish on the horizon

in a billow of envy

wishing she, too, could burn while the rest of my hemisphere sleeps,

to join in midnight conversation with me and faraway stars

sometimes i wonder:

if i crumbled to ashes on this mattress of mine,

a supernova of sad songs and “sorry”s,

how long would it take for those faraway stars

to realise i'd stopped burning?

how many minutes

before the last embers of my existence

are just orbital debris?

when that day comes,

the sun will rise again

and the summer will be hot (again)

and the world will wake up without me there

to blacken the hands i hold,

to char the lips that touch mine,

to soften the sidewalk under my feet

because i’ve gone cold now

so cold icicles decorate my jawline

but still summertime is hot

so hot that the absence of me

is no loss, no great rift in the climate of our world

just another july day

i.

i went to the crystal store the other week;

the girl behind the counter recommended chrysocolla

to draw out guilt, she told me

it was a pretty stone

colours

like the shadows of trees cast

upon some body of water

i could almost see myself in its blue veins

sinking;

i'll take it

ii.

every time my father sits down at the piano

i turn my chrysocolla over and over

in my hands

and wish the minor notes

didn't sound so much like my name

iii.

cold chrysocolla

coca-cola falls flat in my throat

shallow cuts by christmas tree lights

i feign sleep in my unmade bed out here in the margins

iv.

i’d say goodnight

but it isn’t

i’d say i love you

but i don’t, i can’t

i’ll just cradle my cold stone

cold stone, not quite sober

god, i pray you don’t dream about me

tw; blood, injuries, drinking mention

i.

motivated by the

crushing weight of

the possibility of failure

it rings like bells toll

in my head, pulling and

pressing against my

skin (all consuming)

(crushing guilt)

(stretched apart)

(let go and pulled back out)

CRIPPLED, BROKEN DOWN,

spilled all along

all the things i’ve been

trying to protect

from all my mess

ii.

stars blinking out

(am i drawing away)

moon dancing round and round and round

(am i pulling back)

iii.

wish i knew

when you’re drunk

and when you’re sober,

when you’re stoned

and when you’re stone cold sober,

’cause all my dreams have you

slurring your words,

dancing drunkenly around,

spaced out and in a funk,

but the truth is,

i never could tell the difference

and not with you.

any difference that another points out—

anything my mom says, ‘yeah, she was drunk then,’ to—

just looks like a normal you

to me.

and what does that say

about all the things i miss

about you?

iv.

in my nightmares she and i and you and him and him, we all

sit around a table. her table, with the

thin layer of grease along the top, with the funny smell, with the memories.

and she’s drunk (but the kind of drunk i dream of her being—

the one she apparently never is) and you sit next to me.

we’re eating with steak knives.

and she rolls her head to her shoulder

and she says my name. and she asks me why i loved you more

than i ever loved her. and then you reach over and you stick your bloody

(bloody from a steak i don’t see, bloody, bloody, bloody) steak knife,

you stick it right into my hand. and i don’t scream.

i don’t look at you.

i watch her.

and she’s crying and i’m crying and i can’t see and then she’s

screaming. she says that i ALWAYS loved you

more than i ever

loved her.

and i wake up

and i can’t breathe and i’m clawing at my bed and i

can still feel your knife in my skin and i

can still hear her voice and i

can still feel you next to me and i

can’t breathe.

v.

and i’ve been running and running

and running

this whole time.

pulling back and taking that

sprint for a

finish line i can’t see.

i record my beads (22)

and all the nightmares

and all the pains

like a doctor on the outside. like someone

looking in, but

all from the

outside.

disconnected.

it’s summer

and my friends and family say

“why don’t you come out and play?”

and all i say back, as i duck my head

and set my pencil to the paper, is:

“i’ve got a lot of homework to do, mom, dad, friends, people.”

and i haven’t written much.

i haven’t drawn much.

i haven’t gone to therapy this summer.

i’ve gone to sleep well past midnight since, you know,

probably since the middle of april.

i’ve got to brush my teeth (the dentist says to take care)

(of myself.) i’ve got to exercise (my body says to take care)

(of myself.) i need to eat (my body says to take care)

(of myself.) i need to stop eating (my body)

and my dad said he’d prefer it if i dropped my summer courses.

and my mom said i only have so long to be a kid.

and my family said that i should have a summer.

and my friends said they want to talk and to hang out and to see me.

and i’ve got a lot of homework to do,

but my body (and my parents and my family and my friends and my dentist)

said to take care

of myself.

so i might just do it.