Why buy the cow?

The milk is free.

I lived in a pineapple

under the sea.

I sat and watched as her hair blew in the wind. Long, dark, almost black. For a moment, I felt as if I wasn’t human. Sunlight filtered through the yellow aspen leaves, and the forest air was cold with the breeze from the massive lake just beyond the trees.

I was surrounded by beings that could not hide what they truly are. The Oaks can’t convince me that they are Willows; The Woodpecker cannot hoot at me like an Owl. Not even the person before me felt the need to be something she is not.

I had the epiphany on a warm autumn day not long ago. I was sitting on a rock collecting sunlight, and he was handing me pinecones and rocks he found interesting on the hike. I said to him, “I think I understand why I’m so fond of nature. It’s not lying to me. It’s not pretending to be something it’s not.”

It is no great feat to connect with what lies within our souls; we feel it in a moment when we are completely at ease with ourselves. But what are we without the makeup of society, the clothing of modern expectations, and the driving lies lived by those who think they must conform?

Does a maple not shed its leaves every year? Isn’t there a reason we feel so connected to our surroundings, whether it’s the trees, a cactus, or the person you love?

I guess I don’t care what any of that looks like. I’m not here to fit a mold, quack like a duck, stay in line, or lose my soul. Tell that to the forest.

“You’re like a cat; you always land on your feet.” My mother raises her compliment at me without realizing the connotations it brings to mind.

Why must I be a cat?

Doesn’t a cat have nine lives?

And if so, how many have I already lived and died through? How many do I have left?

Where am I landing on my feet from?

Could it be I’ve landed on my feet after being thrown by the very person handing me the compliment?

I suppose it was a deep fall from her window.

The one in which I landed right on my feet.

Oh Sharon you’re so strong!

You always get up, you always move on.

Oh, Sharon, how do you fare?

You make it look easy, like you never cared.

Oh, Sharon, I wish I were you.

Without all the pain you went through.

Oh, Sharon, you were meant to suffer.

So I could see agony with a buffer.

Oh, Sharon, I thank you.

For doing the work that I’d never do.

Conjure a feeling

One that’s freeing

Don’t bury love

Rise above

Hold your heart

In an open palm

Hold it soft

Hold it calm

What was that mountain you were on?

Do you remember the name of that song?

I’ve withered away to nothing now.

My soul diminished and died down.

I lay dying under the trees.

As their leaves whistle in the breeze.

I’m taking my last breath here.

This is where I’ll die on this sphere.

Witnessed by God and me.

And the man I love. The one who loves me.

Was that the punch line

to your joke?

Sorry I didn’t laugh.

I’m noosed with a rope.

Was that a cry for help from you?

Sorry I couldn’t hear.

I’m drowning too.

Come here, let me gouge out your eyes.

Let me tell them all of your lies.

Don’t move, let me tear off your skin.

Remember when you spoke of my kin.

Open up, let me rip out your tongue.

Where are you going? I’m just having fun.

I never write to entertain. Sure, sometimes what I write is entertaining, and sometimes what I write is absolute garbage, but I put it out there anyway. I’m really writing to study my mind; I don’t understand it, and most certainly don’t trust it.

I’ve been through and done some terrible things. I’ve learned to live without shame, a coping mechanism at best. But when I reread my books, like a timeline of a mental breakdown, I realize something: I’m an extremely odd girl.

I’m alive by some extreme gift of the universe, one I still don’t understand. So far in life, I’ve credited my health to luck, even after treating my body so poorly at such a young age. I’m granted peace in a life previously filled with such chaos. What makes me deserving of it?

Maybe one day I’ll look back on this entry and realize what made me so angry with those who brought me here. Why it was that I couldn’t let go of feeling ripped open by the ones I counted on, turning their back at every cry for help since birth.

Was I loud enough? Barnes and Noble seems to think so, yet still there’s a lingering scent of that same weaponized ignorance and sickness that reeks at the family table. I only hope it doesn’t stick on the skins of the next generation as they leave the house.

I’ve mastered the art of shutting the fuck up.

Like cutting the power cables on your road.

Oh no, your lights are out!

A rodent must have chewed through the wires.

Maybe a tree branch hit it.

Who fucking knows?

I look up at the sky without the blaring street lights.

Without all the noise.

There’s the galaxy glimmering above me

with all its beauty,

and all its truths.