#shae saltgrave

[ss-prose-poetry]

No Gold Paint

Spiral again:

I make broken things,

Write broken people,

And somehow,

They’re worse than me.

So why do they strike all my chords?

Why do I feel my swan song

When I prop up some fictional failure

With another chance of being

Fixed

Or at least

Accepted?

Why do I let your birthday pass

And order presents late?

Why do I regret not yelling,

But if it slips out,

Regret that even more?

I wish I understood

Something between the silence

And the roar.

I wish my fractured head

Could stay in a reality

Where I am not glued back together wrong.

I didn’t think I was crazy

Until I realized I wasn’t bad,

Just wrong.

I’m put together wrong.

Rearranged wrong,

Came back wrong,

And I don’t even know what undid me.

So I pretend I don’t love you,

In case my edges cut again,

And I make up my fantasies,

And I pretend the love in them

Isn’t anything

Like your golden hands.

- Shae Saltgrave

[ss-prose-poetry]

“Ah, so you’ve come to me now. I wish I could say I saw this coming.”

I stroked the tabby’s back, too-shiny fur gray and black in the fluorescents of the break room. She does not bid me farewell; she only stares.

“Will it hurt? What will take me?” She rolls onto her back, vulnerable and yet taunting. I reject the invitation. I have made my rounds; I have completed med-pass; I have checked my usuals enough times to be shooed away. All that is left is to finish this last shift.

“You’d think I would fight my fate. To be honest with you, Kitty, I am tired. I am so life weary.” Tears almost well up in my eyes, but I fight them back. It would be unfair to worry anyone, wouldn’t it? “My heart feels like a stomping ground and… You’re not even listening, are you?” She’s moved to the other end of the break room table, sniffing at an abandoned coffee. “My woes are less interesting… than cold, shitty, nursing home coffee? Ah. Perhaps it is for the best then. What’s the saying? ‘The world shall end in a whimper, not a bang?’ Maybe that’s for the best.” Repeating it makes it true. My world could end and all others could go on.

She looks back at me, eventually, amber-gold eyes trained on my own. She gives a blink, neither slow nor fast. I offer my nails and we spend a handful of minutes robbing each other of what we want: I, comfort; her, attention.

My shift ends with little commotion — normally a rare and happy thing. A whimper it is. Out into the night I traipse, wondering if I’ll have enough time to swing by one of those late night dives. Death might at least grant me one last serving of greasy fries and old top 40’s, right?

Walking out to my car, fog streams from my nose in the chilly air. “I am already committed to the ghost bit,” I think. Maybe I could haunt a nice museum or coffee shop: somewhere passersby may speak softly and ignore me.

That’s when I hear a click. I freeze, almost unable to turn my head around. Crime has been on the rise in my city, but truly, this was the least expected outcome. A gun! Perhaps it will be a bang after all. A surge of bravery overtakes me and I steady my breath, preparing to at least face my attacker.

Yet, after too many moments pass with no one demanding my wallet, I pivot. My eyes flick so quickly around the parking lot, I almost miss the source of the sound. Then, a second click. A light. A nurse with a cigarette leaning against the back of the building, where I really should have expected someone in the first place.

The night goes on like this. A car speeds past, narrowly avoiding me: a bang. A waitress serves me undercooked chicken that I almost don’t notice the pink flesh of: a whisper. The fire alarm goes off — bang — for a candle I easily put out. I stay up all night, chewing popcorn carefully and sipping chamomile tea, not touching my pills or adult beverages. Yet, Death makes no appearance, no bid for my soul, and eventually, my patience dries up.

Tired of being careful, I go into the courtyard-like area the apartments share, and “harrumph” into one of those ugly, plastic lawn chairs every neighbor here seems to have. As the sun begins to peek over the horizon, I take a deep breath in, and try to force myself to enjoy one last sunrise.

It’s… dazzling, I guess. The blinding copper penny of the sun stretches up and into unfurling clouds, streaking the violet sky with dreamy pinks and golds. For all the majesty in every painting of it I’ve ever seen, this must be the most beautiful.

And I sob then. I gasp and croon and drag my hands over my face, wiping incessant tears and snot away. I bawl. I weep. I cry out for Death to give me another chance — I beg.

Just when I am beyond consoling and may cry myself into a grave, a tiny tinkling bell grabs my attention. I suck in a breath, and look, suddenly aware of the spectacle my grief has made me into. Yet, it is the cat.

She stares a long while, and then continues padding up to my chair. She climbs into my lap and sniffs my soggy shirt for a while, and, interupting my own heart’s labored beating and causing my brain to halt altogether, she withdraws something from my breast pocket.

I can only look on in amazement: a wrapped string cheese. Embarrassed and exhausted, I take away the morsel, momentarily wonder if I haven’t worried enough about choking on food, and share the weirdly warm treat.

“I guess… Death is a conversation. Death is a listener.” She purrs, pressing her head into my arm and hand until I give in and massage around her ears. “Not a good listener, though… So, what is it, Kitty? What is my death today?” But she gave no answer.

She did not need to.

You work in a nursing facility where a cat inexplicably visits patients the night they pass. Tonight they won’t leave you alone.

[ss-prose-poetry]

Undivided

I don’t need your undivided attention:

Just enough to make me matter

Will do.

Vines grow around my ribs

And embed thorns further

Every time I start a story

And you lend your ears to another.

My throat grows pinched

As I start today’s story again,

But you stop to chime to another,

“Are you talking about that time

You saw Jolie

Out at the West End

And you drank until 3:12 AM

And your brother had to pick you up?”

Meanwhile, I wait.

You turn back.

You say

“Wait, sorry, who were you talking about again?

Was this last year?”

You act like I’m the problem when I walk away.

I waited until the third insult,

And still I am not patient enough.

I’m not interesting enough.

I’m not

Enough.

You tell me I’m over reacting

When I get sad about it,

Even if I don’t cry.

I know your heart,

How it beats blue and black,

And I hold it dear.

Even when you anger me,

I know the lines not to color outside of.

Do you?

If you gave me

Five minutes

Of undivided attention,

Would you finally know my favorite color?

Would you remember if you tried?

Would you know what keeps me up at night?

When you go shopping,

You always pick a brighter blue,

Except when it is fiery, glowing red.

When you cry out into the dark,

It is for fear of being kept still.

You murmur and I aid,

But do you even stir

When I squeeze your arm and ask for the same?

Am I such a burden as all that?

[ss-prose-poetry]

You Are Here At Last

All these pains that were endured

In the final moments of waiting;

All of these prickling, shocking, aching pains

That proved you were finally coming.

Nine months I spent on tenterhooks

And show now the needle marks all over.

Yet, they hurt less in just knowing,

Just seeing you.

I never thought my nose adorable

Till I saw it on your face.

I cannot believe how delicate

My ears are on another’s head.

Oh and my lover, my favorite amongst others —

How you look like him as well.

How gorgeous and surprising

You already are.

This was not my first choice;

I would have rather brought you

Into a far better world.

So please forgive me if I gush and defend too much.

I would have rather had no one

At one point —

But to have you

Is to have a living star in this dark night.

I hope you understand one day

How fiercely I doth love thee,

And how bound to finding the best of the world

For you I am.

Soul from the universe

And flesh of my flesh,

I adore you.

I adore you.

I adore you.

I adore you.

I adore you.

I adore you.

- Shae Saltgrave

[ss-prose-poetry]

Little Devotions

I cover you with

Tiny acts of devotion

All throughout the day:

A temple decorated with kisses,

A warm drink,

Repeating your name a hundred thousand times,

And spending hours

Sharing a blanket.

My entire heart

Is in those eyes

And those fingers that wrap over mine.

This is our

Pièce de résistance;

When we are together,

There is more good in the world.

Have I changed so much

With your long-awaited arrival?

Can love really be so simple?

Do I really get to keep you around?

I can never earn or deserve that,

But let me try.

Let me try with every act of love:

Every little devotional.

- Shae Saltgrave

[ss-prose-poetry]

Ultimatum

I never wanted this.

I cannot even utter it:

Yet, the rule has been set.

One more excuse tomorrow;

Let me down again;

Break off another bit of my heart

And toss it - not even bothering to eat it;

And I’m out.

I will walk out

Into the night

And you will not even find me.

You never tried to know me;

You won’t know where to look.

I did not start this

With you

To be more alone than ever.

I did not wear your ring

To suffer only broken promises.

I did not believe in ultimatums,

But here I am,

Carving it into my deepest flesh.

Hurt me tomorrow

And it will be the last time.

[ss-prose-poetry]

Tolerance

My body was rearranged,

Viscerally, literally.

They stuck my back with needles

But missed the spine several times.

One attempt

Left my leg engulfed in fire, pins,

A raging pain that

Made me want it separated, removed.

The next seemed to numb me.

Some.

They said it was enough.

I had to trust them

Because I couldn’t stand another hour.

When the scalpel pierced me,

I worried.

I wasn’t supposed to feel that.

It didn’t hurt, per-say,

But I wasn’t supposed to feel that.

Tugs. Pulls.

Even though it was gentle,

I felt I was coming undone.

“You should feel pressure.”

I felt I had descended into my own personal hell.

I remember crying in shock,

The silence before I could muster

“It hurts.”

(I couldn’t stand

Any food with noodles for about a week.

I hated you for making spaghetti.)

Once the hard part was complete,

Once my treasure, my love, was removed,

All turned to darkness.

I sometimes think

I died back there.

(Even if I know someone hit a button

Convoluted in some connection to my arm.)

They told me I almost did.

They told me she could have without the procedure.

She was perfect, of course.

I felt worse than ever,

Unsure all my pieces

Would ever really

Go back in place.

“I have a low pain tolerance,”

I had said.

“I’m going to cry. It’s not your fault.”

I remember thinking,

And my—

My was I right.

How I have wept many times since then

And I wonder

If I came back right.

- Shae Saltgrave

[ss-prose-poetry]

All Mine, All Yours

It was clear from our first meeting,

You know?

My head swam,

My heart soared:

Every storybook sensation,

Except feeling grounded.

I pick out three words

In the comforting paragraph:

“I’m all yours,”

You write.

I am undone with salt pouring from my eyes.

I clip my own wings back.

It’s terribly unfair

To feel affection so strong and so mislabeled.

“Just friends.”

We’re just friends.

I’m all yours, but

We’re just friends.

On my own grave,

That’s more than I deserve,

More than I dreamed for.

I love and love and love and fawn,

But at least with you,

Heartbreak can stay on my couch

And taste like blueberry green tea.

At least when it’s you,

You’d never hurt me.

It’s just my own blame to carry,

All mine.

- Shae Saltgrave

[ss-prose-poetry]

Twenty-Eight

You open the door;

I know not why.

I stand in the pile

To don for closing shift:

Naked, I blink,

Nearly knocked aside by the handle.

You look at me.

Silence.

Blink again.

You toss down the drain cleaner

And slam the door

So that I shake.

I know not what I did wrong.

So I look at the mirror

For something hideous:

I don’t find it.

I look down to my clothes for a monster:

They are empty.

I look to the panels and walls for a sign:

If the writing is there,

It is for me.

Brazened, I call out,

“Do I get an apology for that?”

You, twenty-eight, say

“Sure!” and turn your voice to mockery,

Mimicking voices of teasing, tantrum-filled children.

So you’re not sorry.

You never are.

- Shae Saltgrave

[ss-prose-poetry]

Poems that aren’t poems.

[ss-prose-poetry]

SUPER EXCITING ANNOUNCEMENT

I have finally published about 24 poems, available through Kindle/Amazon right now as an ebook. Depending on interest, I may add a paperback version later with a better index.

I AM SO STOKED! Thank you for those who helped me reread poems a hundred or more times. Thank you for anyone who read any of my original poems or prose pieces on this blog. Please keep reading poetry always. 🫶

[ss-prose-poetry]

Fixed

Sleep.

Eat vegetables.

Drink water.

Eat protein.

Watch movies.

Get fresh air.

Cry it out.

Don’t cry at all.

Shower.

Eat fruit.

More water than that.

Brush your teeth.

Brush your hair.

Stay warm.

Stay cool.

Pet an animal.

Go for a walk.

Take your meds.

More sleep than that.

Have a treat.

Wash your face. Do a mask.

Moisturize.

Soak your feet.

Read a book.

Play a podcast.

Play music.

Play a game.

Eat comfort foods.

Don’t eat that.

Journal.

Spend time alone.

Not that much.

Spend time with people.

Have a drink —

Not that much.

Do not drink.

Do not smoke.

Do not take those meds.

Go to a doctor.

Get therapy.

Go to work.

Take a day off.

Get a new job.

More water.

How much more

Will you rain upon me

Before you accept

That I cannot be fixed?

How much more

Must I try?

Must I

Keep trying?

- Shae Saltgrave

[ss-prose-poetry]

Thunder

There has been thunder

In my palms lately.

The blood roars in my ears

Like a tsunami,

Like a war drum,

Like a banshee.

Electricity pops in my bones and teeth,

And I stop clenching my jaws so tightly,

Though waves still peak in the edges of my vision.

Everything is ending.

It’s happening too slowly for panic

And too quickly for anyone to be heard:

Like a hail storm

Like a flood,

But not a flash.

I ask you again if it is a tornado watch or warning,

And you say you don’t hear sirens yet.

Do you need them when the twister itself is deafening?

- Shae Saltgrave

[ss-prose-poetry]

Give

Yourself to me.

Give me your bright beaming days

And your thundering hail.

I will catch you,

Not with an umbrella,

But with my arms.

Give

Me your first blush in the spring,

When you worked in the yard a bit too long.

I’ll be there

With water and grapes,

Reminding you

That the aloe is in the second drawer,

To the left.

Give

Your cat to me,

And you can have my dog,

And we can watch them sleep on the couch,

Just almost (but not quite) touching.

Really, it will all be ours,

If you give this life to me

And I give mine to you.

It can be small and simple,

No grand gestures;

No rings;

No forever-burning furnace;

No filigree or denouement;

Just us

Giving

What we have to offer

And never taking more.

- Shae Saltgrave

[ss-prose-poetry]

Sharps and Hollows

Could I dig

Into my chest,

Open it right up,

And bring out all that pains me?

Plunge the knife;

Bare my soul;

Scrape my ribs;

And wish that something was there.

This is a mere cavity,

Because pain

Cannot be withdrawn

By blades.

Loneliness is not a burden;

It cannot be carried or dropped.

It’s the lack of something,

Like how pain is not pressure but an electric signal.

My bones have always guarded

The pit —

The grave —

In my diaphragm.

There’s nothing under that sternum:

Nothing to take away

Or ease the pressure

Of the vacuum chambers of my heart.

Like grape skins in a vat,

My crushed spirit clings to the walls.

The best wine I gave over.

All I have left is this stained cage.

- Shae Saltgrave

[ss-prose-poetry]

Virtue

This is nothing but a warm up:

Practice

For some far off future

(That might not even happen).

See, you and I

Make eyes;

We stare.

It is so easy to make contact with you.

Speak, however,

And the nervous scribbling

Of my soul

Loses all sense of words.

I freeze with you,

Those honest eyes digging in.

You see right into me,

And it’s so unfair

Because I do not even see what you see.

Who the hell am I?

Who am I to you?

What am I to you?

Right, this is practice -

A mere rehearsal.

We speak and play it out,

Running through scripted responses

And building muscle memory.

Is this

How people

Are supposed to fall in love?

It feels so unnatural

To run off of cues like this,

So why is it so easy?

Have I wrapped myself in armor

And defended myself from you?

From the truth of you?

Is this even right to do?

Did we lose something to get here?

Will I lose something more

If I give up now?

- Shae Saltgrave