(“i’m stepping in the heart of this here” - feel good inc.)
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.
Book Announcement!!!
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
haylee: psych ward poetry (iii)
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.
jo: psych ward poetry (ii)
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: psych ward poetry (i)
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!
secret garden
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
july, tropical depression (part ii)
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
happy summer
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
when i drop it, what glass will shatter (what parts of us will bleed?)
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.
last night was prom.
i didn't go.
i arrived home from Atlanta as the flower moon was rising.
i slipped on a little blue dress and scribbled around my eyes with black eyeliner.
i put on dark lipstick and sat on the stairs by myself.
i texted my friend for a cigarette. she didn't answer.
eventually i fell asleep on the sofa watching Phineas and Ferb.
i like to think i won queen.