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Sheila J Sadr May 2016
On days like this,
I am more thank you
than apology.
More welcome party
than goodbye affair.

On days like this,
men can't shut my voice
into a casket.
No person can sift my heart
into a dustpan.

On days like this,
my voice is gospelled choir
a hopeful tune
My heart refuses to unsing
a joyous song.

On days like this,
I am phoenix
brushing cinder
off infant wings.
I am honey
to your honeysuckle.
I am bowing apex
off a tidal wave.
I am fresh picked book
opening up
to new hands.

On days like this,
I am no ocean
with finite shores.
I am skyline.
I am boundless
I rewrite.
I renew.
I begin again.
April 17, 2016 // 11:50 PM
Sheila J Sadr May 2015
Forget the things that broke
you. The thousand times oceans
fragmented your sentiment
rock. Become grains of sand
and shards of turquoise glass
so no one can grab hold of your
entire landscape again.

Remember all the good
you learned to ignore in
elementary school. Study.
Read. Decide. Become a
classroom desk. Seated.
Sentient. Cold.

Remove your loud mouthed
vagabond expectations like
a malignant cancer. Being
a romantic drains the
muscles pulling your smile
and the possibility of Great
will only leave you trembling
in a pseudo-fabric hospital
gown that leaves your ***
hanging out.

Do things you do not want
to do. Like selling your paint
supplies to pay for student loans.
Waking up early for a morning
jog. Planning your life out perfectly
and successfully. Pulling an all-
nighter to finish a research paper
on breastfeeding. Doing someone
else’s dishes. Becoming
someone else.
April 21, 2015 // 1:05 PM
Sheila J Sadr Mar 2015
I read somewhere that there is a natural
process of renewing all the cells within
your body. That it takes something around
the time of seven years to substantially
be a new person. So I guess

                                             I’m waiting.

In seven years, I’ll see if my heart wants to
start up again without the scent of your
fabric expelling from each beat or to suddenly
enjoy the unremembered feeling of your skin warmed
close against mine or to experience the exhale of
I love you finally leaving my lungs for the very last time.
Thoughts on College: Part III
February 7, 2015 11:39 AM
Sheila J Sadr Feb 2015
It leaves on a midnight search and seizure
to rehab in Arapahoe, Wyoming.
It leaves with grimy charcoal high top Converse
and a distasteful orange hunter-green flannel.
              Bloodshot eyed and strung out on residual
******* hidden in the inner brims of his precious nose,
It leaves fingers torn from the doorframe and without
saying a word to her for years.

It arrives a forgotten promise
clean-sobered with a rough pair of brimstone arms
and scarlett-feathered lips.
It arrives gently holding a wooden ring
dark carved in detox and an “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
              Apologizing thumbs nip tightly down the hem of her hips,
It arrives delicious and inviting like the scent of
fresh pasta on a hot alabaster plate.

It leaves, again,
high and full-bellied satisfied with the final use
of an old habit.
It leaves without a word of those whispered childhood
embraces on young October nights.
              Leather jacket in hand and Oxford shoes out the door,
It leaves — between the scent of
                                         laundried cotton and lavender sage candles —
It leaves
carrying in its dark pockets all her untreated, distasteful addictions too.

September 22, 2014 // 7:04 AM
Inspired by the poem “Where Does Joy Come In?” by Charles H. Webb
Sheila J Sadr Oct 2014
I am afraid to be afraid too afraid
        to be still but still healing still
afraid to open all my heavy doors that
        he has seen too much unkempt skin
                 that I am afraid of him that we

are broken that he was always broken but we are nothing
         but bandaged apricots in the rotting August sun and he
is afraid we have too much or not enough time
         afraid of us afraid of me afraid to speak but he
                 breathes hot scorpion-kissed lullabies into

my neck into scarlet corners of my pituitary
         poisons all my wearied nerves I used to call him
master used to master our loose laundry I
        refused to fold used to master our loose smiles
                 in front of people I refused to fold for

I used to accept his virulent apologies after business trips
        I used to be afraid of him he used to be afraid
of my amphibian temper afraid of how I
        waxed and waned through tempestuous waters afraid
                that he was always drowning

I am afraid of the dark blue ghosts their red
        angry heat I am afraid to eat cartridged
bullets of my own words silver gunpowdered
        shrapnels if I eat them all lead like you would
seep into the insides of my abdomen

my insides are unreachable have a little
        too much sunshine to carry along when spring
arrives I am scared because the light
        comes in with brilliant blazing eyes
               and sees everything

                            October 8, 2014 7:04 AM
Inspired by "I'm afraid to be afraid" by Victoria Chang
Sheila J Sadr Jul 2014
God created her to look lovely only in moonlight.
To only be beautiful in the most intimate moments.
Like when she shifts out of her tired clothes
and lies in her naked bed gently swaying to sleep.
When she shimmies around the hard corners of
her granite-topped kitchen,
cooking sweet broth and dancing to the music
she only plays alone.
When she sings
in her car.
Windows rolling down as
the wind tumbles through her hair.
She is unseen
and she is beautiful.
So profoundly beautiful
in her own time and measures
and this is her most exquisitely silent misfortune.

Sunday July 6, 2014 1:16 PM
Sheila J Sadr Jun 2014
I tried running.
Pressed my feet against those hopes I’ve always wanted.
But slipped right onto the crackled pavement
I used to call my dreams.

One day, I bought some Nikes.
The store told me that their shoes could
grip onto you tighter. That I could sprint across
your tired body and not forget to clean you
with my footsteps. I adored you.

The funny thing I soon found out was
buy and try all I want -
there is no such rise and recovery
from blindly face-planting on your familiar path
splattering your body
like sunday morning jelly on toast.

All I wanted was to hold you. Follow your road
that refused to latch onto me like a dead leach.
Feed off of you like an infant on a mother’s breast.
Bloom like daffodils in your needed sunlight.

But there was no traction. My Nikes broke their promises
so I tore them off and tried walking
I stumbled.
Laid there.
Curling my fingers onto your fractured chest, I tried
holding on.
Sliding under my very fingertips, you refused me.

Or I refused you. Whatever it was
It doesn’t matter now.
There is just no traction.
So I let go. Maybe swimming is a safer bet.
No point in holding on anymore.

Thursday January 23, 2014  3:46 AM
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