Cara Writes

    If you would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in your life you doubt, as far as possible, all things. - René Descartes Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, and the conviction of things not seen. - Hebrews 11:1 The words “Faith Hope Love” are painted on the wall next to my TV, and on the ceramic dish on my stove. “Hope” is written in the image of the bird above my dog’s bed; “Thank God” in the middle quote of a three-part series, and there is a painting of Hebrews 6:19 I commissioned my friend Jamie to illustrate with an anchor: “We have this hope as an anchor for the soul.” I’m not sure I believe in God. I collected these “faith reminders” over the past four years, roughly around the time my father passed away. Two years before that I tattooed an anchor on my ribs, an homage to hope being my anchor. This was nine months after my dad was diagnosed with brain cancer, and one year before I started therapy. One cool Tuesd...

Slow drain, Body numb. Mom holds him, Shaking, Mind doesn’t fathom The space of time and body, Only the analogy, “Like we’re dancing,” Leaning, Holding on To more than gravity An enemy Of atrophy Cold sweats Dreams Of the crusades Invading my sleep, My religion No longer exists Each fiber slowly dying with blood loss, Unexercised; The Exorcism of Faith. A demon invading, Permeating Us all “Do they know” This thing has got me? Its fingers pressed To my throat Slowly closing A gasp A tear This bed It breathes His soul Back Into the world Like a puff of smoke Into freezing air We watch it disappear.

When faced with the basic human ill of starvation clouds set in the ego and fog all sense of morality. It's impossible to fathom sending my kin into the woods, helpless and alone. But love -- love and hunger blind all ability for rational choice. Go ahead and judge me, trust there is no harsher critic than my own conscience. My conscience and God. I worry about my soul sometimes. It's hard to understand reasoning of the divine -- which relationship He values more.

She watches her students through the glass, daydreams of summer Her children peel at the pane, and there’s always a new crack a new scar to run her finger over But they never replace this window they just brush a new layer over the peeling, chipping wood hoping it will hold up another year

It was cavalier, almost, the way you threw money like you threw saddles, buying affection and favors. 18 years you were gone. You returned to the same horse, same saddle, same mountains that protected your secrets. Join me for a ride , you said. Her mother; everyone loved you. She couldn’t say no. She went for a ride and drank your wine and kissed you harder on the lips, just how you wanted. She did what you asked: smiled to your wife at your daughter’s birthday – a girl twice her age. She grinned, vomited in your bathroom, said the ride to your house was tough. She stayed because she couldn’t escape at 15 and you knew. 18 years you were gone… Us two, we held your wife as she cried Like locks on your secrets we intertwined our hands and walked past your memories. Felt like sinners when we thought, we were glad you died.

I rolled the bottle over with my toe, small chunks of sand tossed about inside It looked recent, maybe from the night before. I wondered if they were legal or just summer kids trying to find their own nook on this tiny island. There were rocks everywhere. Rocks and cliffs and dirty sand, not the postcard you find on main street. But he was fascinated by it all. He had seven hundred photos from the trip, obsessed with getting the perfect angle and light. I wonder if he took a picture of my mother, more beautiful than ever, sitting on the cliffs alone.

My weakness returns to this place that my head knows better not to where acting “orange” wasn’t a fantasy and I could skip class to get high and fuck our ideas into creativity. Where I sat on a kitchen counter and you gave me a margarita glass full of water and I wasn’t afraid when our skin touched. It wants to sit in the grass with those red hills that looked like mountains and pictures of our happiness, but I know better. I know those things don’t make up a life. They only make up a pleasure that longs to be refilled fuck after fuck and bowl after glass. I can’t return to that place of infatuation, grasping whatever makes me smile because now I know; it began to kill me slowly and it was this far from being pleasurable.