The couch holds my weight,

but poorly, sinking under the

excess drink between my bones.

My leg droops. Foot tapping

at the floor and the pinch of couch cushions

doesn't hold me up, anymore.

The cold bottle has grown warm in my fingers

but the ceiling doesn't change as long as I stare at it

and the crack stares back.

It's raining.

A rivulet of escaping water

hurries across my basement apartment floor.

Everything's escaping from me

these days. The case doesn't help.

The impossible case.

Not a single trace in a city where

everything is pencil, drawing lines.

I've gone back and back and back to the database

searching faces

reading pasts

(more than I needed to, getting lost in people's stolen stories)

(but I never look at my own file anymore)

and there's nothing.

Not a crumb of DNA or a single lingering

whiff of

who they might have been;

they've erased themself.

I chase a ghost and find myself

pretending I don't envy them.

Oh, to disappear.

To dust, to dust, we all die in the end

but I can never die when my

entire existence has been catalogued and chronicled.

They've created, with their surveillance,

a city of immortals.

I know I'm listed as depressed

and maybe that's why I've wrapped myself

in this impossible job, a last ditch

to fall into so I can pretend to die;

a shroud of empty searching,

except—

Something tickles at my mind

and I almost wonder if I'll run away.

The light flickers like a firefly, on and off,

and threatens an ending, but

I don't know if I can survive another

success

that doesn't,

in the end,

change

anything.

I'd rather be a moth in the darkness

than chase the moon and find an artificial light.

But the blinding bulb calls and

drink in hand

I keep fluttering flickering towards it.

But I'm good at my job.

Sometimes I pretend I didn't

wish I was a failure so I could

wallow in peace. But

I know I'm good at this.

Even in the impossible cases,

I smell something.

An elegant killer that leaves

a trace of perfume,

a footstep that never touches the ground and yet,

I can almost make out footprints in the air.

What's the easiest way to be invisible? I mutter

into my glass and the liquid answers,

don't exist at all.

They asked me to find the murderer.

An invisible, untouchable force that kills and leaves

nothing behind; a wound with no knife;

a scream cut off as body hits floor

with such impossible weight, because death

is heavier than a body.

And a mind, alive, is lightest of all;

so light it floats and drips away like rain

leaking across a basement floor.

To be seen keeps us sane but

to be watched

might kill us.

My body already so heavy on the couch.

When I close my eyes, that's all that changes.

I was dead already.

It's not the cloudless sky

nor the stillness of the sea

that most reflect me

It's the midnight hue

the turbulent dark water

the endless abyss

the rarely seen moon

the mournfully, soulful tune

melancholy blue.

Let me tell you a secret. I've burned ten drafts of this piece. I've put it in a pipe and smoked it dry. The smell lingers like burning rubber on top of road kill. I can't write. Not to save my life. They say write every day. I do and my computer begs me to leave the delete key be. The backspace button gets punched more than my ego. I surrender to the little voice that says, it's not good. Get drunk. Do drugs. Do anything more productive than this. It's masochistic, it hurts but I don't stop. I look in the mirror and see nothing but a vanilla flavored puddle, an identity crisis that surely everyone else can see. I think of cars on the streets of San Francisco, being broken into with smashed windows. The metaphor for lost souls. Have you ever tried being yourself in a crowded room? If you've ever looked at your hands and wondered what they're attached to, this one's for you.

Small hands grasp at fraying rope. Tiny cries tumble through frigid air. I reach out for the emaciated frame dropping down the cliffside. She screams. I watch. She crashes. I sob. I think to run. She is gone, and the thought of her crumpled body is too much to bear. The cold wind whispers to me and robs me of doubt. Go, it insists. Fate follows down the mountain trail.

The moon, ambivalent. Mockery and encouragement are for me alone to find. I take my descent through darkened trees, whiplashed by the reluctant foliage. I know what I've seen. What I believe to be true. The wind cares little for my inconsistencies.

My splitting shoes skid on the bulging rock face as it bleeds into browning grass. A contorted figure shudders amidst the wilting wildflowers. The breeze moves softly, arrogant in its perceptiveness, and pushes me toward the jutting angles.

Bloodshot hazel eyes flash open at my arrival. The little girl gasps with stolen life, and tugs at my dress with a stained yet unbroken hand. I lean down, and as our sister cheekbones graze together in the moonlight, she whispers her desires into my frozen ear. Silently, I think her to be a fool. Breathlessly, she implies that I am one.

I lift her body into my arms and imagine myself a mother carrying her young to bed. Icy earth crunches beneath my weighted feet. The moon shrinks behind a slender, viscous cloud, reluctant in its illumination. Mountains guard us on each side, urging me to walk with purpose. The child rests her head upon my shaking breast and watches me closely, blind faith reflected behind her drooping eyelids.

The wind ceases, and spares us a moments free of its knowing chill.

gender is joy

it's often taken and turned

told that it hurts

that it's killing people

condemning children

but the only real pain

is the insistence of it

you want to convince me

that it's terminal

that it's contagious

that it's ruining me

when it is me

the cross-dressing

the butterfly clips

and body hair

and makeup

and elegance

and roughness

it's all me

i am infinite

how could i only nurture

how could i only hunt

when there's such beauty in both

i contain dualities, contradictions,

multitudes and endless change

i am a boy and a girl

a fuckery of inbetweenness

and stunning confusion

i cross from parts of myself to the other

joyfully and understandingly

i am such a gentle boy

and such a ferocious young girl

gender has brought me compassion

for myself and the conflicts of life

i love my friends and the way we exist

there is nothing wrong with us

i love gender

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

Not him

or her

or them

or even it;

not illness

of mind

or body;

not limitations

of opportunity

for any extraneous lack --

of money,

of time,

of support,

of connections,

of education,

of experience--;

alas,

ultimately,

the greatest impediment

to dreaming

a life

then living

that dream

comes

from within--

fears,

insecurities,

anxieties;

self-

doubt,

disparaging

deprecating,

belittling,

criticizing,

ridiculing;

insurmountable

invisible

walls.

There is

nothing

more

in my way

than

me.

I choose the headline, "Sassy When Ignited" for myself because it can tell a person anything they need to know about me. Google's definition of sassy resonates with me and is [ lively, bold, and full of spirit; cheeky ].

The "When Ignited" portion means when passionate. I am playful, quick-witted and often very passionate.

“Hold my beer and watch me.”

I’ve tried a lot of things in my life, trying to be what I need to be at the time. I like to stretch myself outside of my comfort zone quite a few times. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I land straight on my duff. But at least I’m trying, right? So let me put down my drink and see what I can do.