The Meaning of Sarah

The meaning of Sarah does not lie in the literal meaning of the name.

Instead, it resides in sun soaked meadows in September, the taste of wild strawberries and the color red. It lingers in her fractured poetry, her overly opinionated voice, her lack of boundaries. It ripens in the pools of her eyes, in her belief in the mythological.

The meaning of Sarah does not exist within the perimeters created by others.

It flies beyond the borders, open arms to embrace the earth and a heart scarred, but willing to love.

Its like standing outside of my body and watching myself. Like I don't actually belong inside of me, but I'm still a part of ME.

I have no name.

"Sarah" is too ethereal to belong to me. "Sarah" is too beautiful to belong to me. "Sarah" is autumn and blood red leaves and fields of strawberries growing wild in the sun. "Sarah" is memories that have lost their meanings. "Sarah" is hollow, but "Sarah" is full.

The meaning of Sarah is not in the name.

What is in a name? Does it belong to any part of one's body? Or does it lie at the soul?

Sarah does not have a name. Sarah does not exist. Sarah is fractured poetry and the bumper stickers of would-be presidents. She's an equal rights rally. She's equal parts Marilyn Monroe and Edgar Allan Poe. She's a love of the wild and spirit. She is obsession.

The meaning of Sarah lies in her inability to let her conscience be silenced.

The meaning of Sarah is directly proportionate to the meaning of Donnie. And the meaning of atoms and stars in rotation. And the meaning of love. And the meaning of choosing who and what you will be.

The meaning of Sarah gets lost in the shuffle, because even Sarah doesn't know the meaning. There is no dictionary to explain one's self to one's self.

The meaning of Sarah is something brilliant. Something waiting to be born, that's afraid to be born.

The meaning of Sarah has been lost in translation and translation after translation.

The meaning of Sarah is like a holy book. Abused by those who want to make it their own. Pages torn out, meanings lost. But still there.

The meaning of Sarah is not the body that houses her. It is not the body that houses me that makes me. It is the person inside of me, inside of her, that doesn't know who she is, but is willing to try.

The meaning of Sarah is flying, despite the obstacles.

The meaning of Sarah is fighting, despite all the tearing down.

The meaning of Sarah is finding yourself inside the pages of a beloved book, the words jumping off the page embracing you like long lost lovers.

The meaning of Sarah cannot be found in a dictionary, because she is more than words on a page. She is more than the loves and the hates and the cruelties and the bad memories and the bad dreams and the dreams that never came true. She is more than strawberries growing in a field.

The meaning of Sarah does not lie in the literal meaning of the name, but in her willingness to grow in spite of the tearing down of her hope.

Crying to the Phone.

Visiting with my sister is always super bitter-sweet. Like, I don't know, like the memories are about to jump out of my chest, break all my ribs. Its, its like dying. Almost.

Its like, I know there's a sweetness to it, there's a wonder to being with her. But, there's this lingering guilt and this lingering sickness to it. This... I don't even know how to explain it. Its just like, its kinda like dying. I don't, I don't know how to explain it other than that.

And its like, you know, I'm at her grandmother's and I think "wow, you were my grandmother too, once." Once upon a time, in this land called a fairy tale, because, you know, we were... we were something. What were we?

I was this step-grandchild and that was it? Is that all I was? Was I just a little girl that sometimes came over and learned how to knit? Was, was I anything? Was I anything? Anything, besides non-existent?

And it would be almost pleasant if I didn't feel like there was this knife being jammed in-between my ribs, like a bullet going through my chest and tearing everything into itty-bitty pieces because I can't believe a goddamn word she says, because she's a liar. And, and, you know, we sit there and we play make believe and we say "oh, we can trade books" and "oh, I'll bring you pictures" and "oh, I'd really like to have some of your pictures." But that's not true. Its not true at all.

Its, its as if I don't exist when I'm not there. Its only when I'm there that I matter. It, you know, I... She had my number, she could've called me. She could've gotten a hold of me, she knew where I was when I was in my car accident. They all knew where I was. They all knew. I was at that freaking hotel, in freaking _______, she lives ten minutes from there!

I didn't hear from her once. I didn't, I didn't hear from her, I didn't see her. She didn't come to visit me. I mean, I guess it speaks well of ___ that he came to the hospital when I was in surgery. But I wouldn't have wanted to see him. Wouldn't have wanted to see him at all.

And its so... fucking pitiful, being twenty-four years old and having to play make believe with an old woman, pretending that we had something when we clearly don't. Its, its one of the worst feelings in the world because I want to have some sort of relationship with her. Because I want to be able to go to my grandmother's house and spend the night. And tell her all about the stories I'm writing and tell her all about everything.

I didn't have that kind of relationship with my real grandmother. I didn't get to have that kind of relationship with Memere because she died and she lived in California. But this was a woman I had access to, this was a woman I lived, like, a hop, skip and a jump from. Literally just walk through the field and there she was. And, and I don't think she ever knew me at all. And I never knew her. And I just, I feel so stupid for wanting this relationship when it will cause me nothing but misery because I know I can't trust anything she says!

And it feels like I'm betraying my mother because, you know, she hated my mother. She still hates my mother, but you can almost pretend that she doesn't hate my mother because she doesn't have to deal with her on a regular basis. She doesn't, doesn't have to say "this is my daughter-in-law." She doesn't have to acknowledge my mother at all.

This is... its just so fucking ridiculous. Having to play make believe and the memories are building up in my chest so that they're going to break my ribs when they come crashing out. And I just... I want to have a normal family. I want to have, I want to have grandparents, I want to have a father. I... I want to have a good relationship with my sister. And I can't because, every time I see her, the memories start and I have to see her father and I feel like I'm going to be sick and then I have the nightmares because everything he ever did to us comes rushing back.

The lies, the torture, everything. Everything comes back, every cruel word. Every moment where he could've made a difference and he didn't. Where he could've made a good difference and he didn't. And I'm, I'm just some little girl to be played with, apparently. 'Cause, you know, I don't, apparently, don't deserve the truth. Apparently. And that's what hurts, one of the, one of the biggest knives dug in, is not that they lied to me, but that I didn't deserve the truth. That I didn't deserve to be loved, for whatever reason.

Even though I tried, really hard, to be everything they wanted me to be. When I tried really hard to be the perfect Sarah, whoever the fuck Sarah is. Nobody fucking knows! I don't even know. I don't know who Sarah is. Sarah doesn't exist. Sarah doesn't exist. I don't know who I am. But who I was, was apparently never good enough. So what the fuck does it matter?

It doesn't. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, none of it matters. Why the fuck am I even recording this? Who the fuck am I going to send it to? Nobody. Its just going to sit here, on this phone, as a reminder. As a reminder of memories and pain and crying while I'm driving home from dropping my sister off at her grandmother's.

That's what this is going to be. That's all its going to be. So what the fuck does it matter?

Maybe there are words

Maybe there are words, somewhere,
that can explain this bubbling,
overflowing, always rolling ball of
emotions.

Kiss me; like we're stuck in traffic.
Like the stars are watching,
jealous and anticipating.

Take your time with me.
Stop and go,
drive me to the edge of this, insanity,
we call LOVE.

Let me dangle from your heart strings,
long enough to realize yours
are the only arms I want to catch me.

Let me go.
Let me fall into your abyss,
looking long, like Nietzsche,
And yours are the only wishes I could fulfill.

I want to be sacrificed on the altar of your bed,
laid open by this intensity we call sexuality,
reality,
love and inside out clarity.

I want to be inside out,
exposed like bleeding hearts and
cardiac attacks against broken ribs.

Kiss me like mine are the last lips,
speaking bad poetry.
Beatrice and Benedict,
arguing and mouths stopped with kisses.

I want you to WANT me.

Go slow so that I am begging for more,
ravenous and anxious,
going out of my mind,
but finding myself in your mirrors.

And maybe I want you to stop me,
stop my verbal flailing,
my constant navigating through rhymes and reasons,
with a kiss that will stand my hair on end
and melt me down to my basic components.

Kiss me slowly,
as if God were looking the other way
and we don't need him anyway.

Ravage me,
let my desires drip from your tongue,
like honey is the only cum
and we aren't two people having sex,
but we're the last two cellists
baring our skin to play music with our souls
and the notes are tattooed on our fingers
and our lips.

And yours is the only bow to caress my strings,
the only flute to my voice.
The only breath in my lungs,
building up to an explosion.

You're the explosion about to collapse my lungs
with pleading for mercy and begging for more.
You're the scissors about to cut my life short
with verbs and forbidden nouns,
kisses that wrack my body
and leave me a whisper in your heart.

Kiss me to life.
Simply and with nothing to hide.
And I will blossom in the garden of your arms.

Explosive

You're like an explosion about to collapse my lungs. You're the scissors about to cut my life shorter and I don't even mind. Just keep holding me like you are. Just keep telling me that I'm your everything, even with the knife in my back, I'll believe you.

The Mirror

You provide a reflection for my heart.
You stand so bright and shining, brilliant.
Is it possible to reflect,
to refract without you there?
Do I have a face without your face to mirror mine?

I am nothing without you.
I have no color, no verbs or history without you.
If you are not here, how will I shine?
You are the yang to my yin, without you I have
no reflection.

I glimpse inside the looking glass of your face.
Your heart is bright blue, like the sky,
and I am blue, like the ocean, blue because you
are blue. We are mirrors, we bend the light around
us. We are refracting our insides over and over.

You are a mirror.
You stand so straight and beautiful.
Is it possible to exist,
to be without you there?
Do I have a face without your face to be a mirror?

The Box

You are a simple box.

You are not ornamental or wrapped in glitzy papers. You are small, but you can hold many different things. And, for ornamentation, you have a small red ribbon.

You are simple, but you yearn to be called beautiful. You long to be opened up and loved for all that lies within. So you wait for that one person who will open you up and realize that you hold so much more than you appear to.

People come and go, they pass you by without a second glance and others stay for a short while. Some people open you up and laugh at what you have to offer. Others try to force more into you, things you don't want to hold; hate, fear, self-doubt. Some can accept parts of what you hold, but they can't accept you as a whole being.

You begin to doubt that you will ever be given to the right person. After all, you are just a simple box, simple to the point of plain and stupid. You tell yourself that you aren't worthy of being given to someone who matters. You begin to lose hope that that one person will come along to love you.

You become ashamed of what is within you. You try to hide the pieces of you that people can't seem to accept. You try to change who you are to fit in to this world, so that you will belong to someone. You try to change your shape, change your color, change your ribbons and your spaces. You try to be everything anyone could ever want, but they still pass you by.

You slowly shrink, though you should expand. No one wants a big box full of life, they want a tiny box with a diamond or some other expensive trinket. They don't want you because you are too bulky, too plain, too full of things they can't comprehend. You begin to believe that no one could ever really want YOU. Not the YOU that you are.

Then the day comes when someone tells you that you are beautiful just the way you are. They compliment your ribbons and they look at your insides without flinching. You think that you have finally found a home, a place to belong, to be accepted. For a little while you are happy, but it never lasts. There is always that one thing inside of you that you can never express. Never let anyone see, because you are ashamed of it, because you have been made to be ashamed of it.

And that someone leaves you, open and exposed, abandoned.

You begin to believe the lies that have been told to you. You are ugly, you are useless, you are too empty or too full, you are worthless. You have no value. And you try again to make yourself useful, beautiful, lovable.

If you are not unlovable, why does no one love you? If you are perfect just the way you are why can't anyone accept you? Why does everyone try to make you fit into the ideas they have for you? Why?

You continue to wait for the day you can say all the things you need and want to say; a day when no one walks away from you. And, though you begin to lose faith that that day will come, there is a tiny bubble of hope building inside of you. A tiny butterfly of hope, waiting for a Pandora to set you free.