Sarah Garcia

Sarah Garcia Dec 2017

I was so good for so long

I was good when I was 10
I was good when they would fight about the other woman
I was good when I pretended I didn't know the truth

I was good when I was 13
I was good when they were stressed from work
I was good when they said it was my fault
I was good when I believed it was my fault

I was good when I was 15
I wasn't top of my class
I couldn’t get the scholarship
they couldn't pay the bills
but I was good
I was good when I let it be my fault

I was good when I was 17
I was good when they fought about the other man
I was good because I was a punching bag
I was good because I didn’t scream
I was good because I didn’t tell anyone

I was good until I was 18

When I realized I didn't want to be good anymore
because the bruises on my body
and the scratches on my face
and the nights I spent drowning my screams in the overflowing tub
and the blood seeping through my pajama sleeves
and the empty prescription bottles
and the Christmas morning I woke up with a headache
because I didn't take enough pills to not wake up at all

were never going to be good enough.

Sarah Garcia Nov 2016

a funeral

I attended a funeral today
alarmed by how much I could relate
to the body in a casket
however,
envious of the way death chose her
over me
but what’s new?
standing in the middle of the street
headlights approaching
my body is numb from the cold
a familiar feeling of nothing
that still hurts
the headlights slow their haste
I stay for a moment
disappointed in their choice
perhaps another time
we’ll meet again

Sarah Garcia Oct 2016

fall

it’s gradually getting colder;
sweater weather,
two statements that remind me of you
the other day
a girl told me she sat in her car
waiting for a stop sign to turn green
without the slightest clue as to how much I could relate
in both the literal and figurative sense
I refuse to drink coffee anymore
I can’t look into brown eyes
I used to think Monday mornings were the worst
now every morning is a proverbial Monday
without your presence
this bed is always empty
even with me in it
this house is not a home
just a structure
filled with empty bottles
that echo your name
and faded photographs
that bear a strange resemblance to you

Sarah Garcia May 2016

depression

at 10 years old you're telling the therapist you don't want to live anymore.
your life is constantly like reading the last page of a book and being disappointed in the way it ends.
it's the rain pounding on the roof at 2am.
day old flowers that someone has carelessly thrown in the trash.
lavender bruises on your knees.
your mom's tears when she finds you crumpled on the floor.
pill bottles of endless opportunities.
sleep is not your friend. but then again neither is being awake.
the constant reminders on your wrists even on a good day. but do you really know what a good day is?
reading obituaries and feeling envious.
fake smiles are part of your everyday attire.
watching the person you love walk away like there's only one channel on the television.
they couldn't understand why you just wouldn't be happy.
170 miles an hour on the highway makes you feel alive.
funny how when you're closest to death your happiness is at its peak.
coincidence? I think not.

Sarah Garcia Apr 2016

vacancy

empty rooms remind me of you
empty pill bottles have become guests that overstay their welcome in my home
your empty promises are my lullaby to drown out the silence of the night
I call just to hear your voicemail in case I forget what you sound like
as if I'll ever forget your voice the day you said goodbye
most vacant spaces bare a strange resemblance to my heart since then

Sarah Garcia Apr 2016

I want...

I want your hands to be permanently fitted around the edges of my mattress
I want you to know what your name sounds like in every octave of my screams
I want you to kiss the carpet burns on my knees
I want my heartbeat to run through your veins with your hands wrapped around my throat
I want you to know every square inch of my room in the dark
I want the missing puzzle piece to my bedroom to be in the shape of you
I want to memorize every inch of your body in every light
I want your fingerprints to be permanently impressed on my thighs
I want my handprints to decorate your mirror
I want you to say my name when the waiter asks for your order
I want the neighbors to know when I've spent the night
I want to know what it's like to be a piece of art pinned against your wall
I want to record the symphony of our bodies colliding and listen to it when I can't sleep at night
I want to be an abstract artist who sketches on your back and calls it "lust"
I want you to go to church to repent the sins of the night before
But I want you to know what heaven feels like

Sarah Garcia Apr 2016

a stranger

I see no resemblance of you
in the body that used to be yours