an ode to my dead god

A PREFACE:
in hospitals, they don’t give you pens. 
                                                   just pencils. 
i hate the impermanence of writing
                                                   in pencil. 
                               as if everything 
could just be erased. forgotten. 
           i am used to scratching things out, 
angrily, 
                        until the paper 
rips. 

AN ODE TO MY DEAD GOD.

buoyed by
a catalogue
of existence, or, a litany
of Reasons To Exist,
my dead God and i
sit in conversation.

why?

i don’t need to say more,
God hears the rest before i speak it.
my dead God says nothing in return.
as if i should be grateful i was
caught red-handed, tears unshed
at my non-funeral.

i hate this pencil. it’s too small and
not nearly sharp enough.
there is no elegance in writing
with a pencil,
the words are thick and drunk,
blurring or slurring together.
i miss the days when they were
filled with lead, not graphite,
but thanks to the Herculean efforts
of one man i cannot hope
to poison myself.

why?

my dead God asked if i could stop
calling them my dead God.
i say i’ll stop when their people
stop using their name
to justify the death of my people.

when God stops being the reason
people can’t have rights.

when God steps in to stop
all this nonsense
happening today.

my dead God relents.

why?

my hand is hurting.
this poem is over.
i bet you wanted a happier ending.
ask my dead God.

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hello!

i have been very busy working on several collections of poetry at once.

while, to you, it may seem like i’ve simply disappeared you’ll be pleased to learn today that it is quite the contrary!

my newest collection of poetry, forget-me-not, will be available for purchase on February 15 2019. you can pre-order it (for Kindle) on Amazon. or, you could enter the GIVEAWAY i’m hosting on goodreads. either way, be sure to add it to your shelves here. 

FORGET-ME-NOT: Kara Petrovic reflects on a single relationship in their life, and invites the reader to follow along their journey: from falling at first sight, to seeing this person’s true colours reveal themselves before their very eyes. Petrovic paints the picture of pain and betrayal that comes with realizing one is being abused, or in a toxic relationship, and likewise the desperation we feel while we hold onto vehement denial.

best,

kara

she. [a series]

i.

she
with sunshine
in her hair
and the ocean
in her eyes,
i tasted
her strawberry coated lips
(that the sun had grown
for me)

ii.
she
with blue eyes
i’ve been seeing
for a long time,

fair hair
and a
wry smile,

taller than me
by some,
but that’s not difficult—
at 5’1″
i barely scream
height.

an eternity of distance
between us,
yet still
she
manages to be
the other side of my coin.

iii.
i am
coca-cola lips
—syrupy energy—
long sleeved
black sweaters
and ripped jeans

she is
summer sweat
—somehow sweet—
white sundresses
and sandals

we are
unabashed laughter,
shameless kisses
with our pinkies wrapped
these promises
will never
be broken

…more to come…

 

the last ten days of august.

what could empty you?

          in the weight
of our divines
the un    thinking
deep within us
strokes of pure spirit
      our fleeting fall

labour — the early war;
                 original sin
in between the earth and sky
            is the shade
            of the galaxy
why limit sorrow?
why blank the source?
             conquered,
             we go on
and put life first

ignore the    remnant artifacts
                      merciless undoings
turned pools,
                      nudge    of time
ordinary notes of care
unleashed poisons
etched
into skin

history’s suitor to time,
         shards,
                      debris
remember   remember
           remember
the blank silence echoing

days go on,
        fewer,
               sleep escaping
crying out
                   it was a home.

cursed nights into mornings,
         who can make of this?
what once was theirs,
          whatever is left?

emptied, murdered, obliterated
             an annihilation
of the ego
              the anguish,
                     the anguish

eyes still seeing last touch
feeling
ancient alone abandoned
what is a year
              a month
               a decade
but a moment?

—lost and burned
            futile devices,
fervour’s writing

mailed to the void

and the sea?
        the sea?

the saltwater dead, my love,
the saltwater dead

the last great epitaph
of our love:
           i am nobody
           i am nobody
           and you
           are gone

oh, August, a season deceased,
tell me again
the hieroglyph
of your name