Who?

A doe named Jane, or, Jane Doe. An unidentified female, or if you please, you can call me Butter. What? A blog featuring my writing, and things I love, which include, but are not limited to, soup, books, and all things nautical. When? Born in July, another one of those 20 something’s. Where? Tragically landlocked in Idaho. Why? For the sheer joy of existing. How? Take a gander and find out. Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

Two Lovers and A Thief

Our bed must always be big enough for three.
I will see things that are not there, and wake you
crying when burglars in the form of potential changes
to my little body home drive me from our bed to the mirror.
Other nights it will be like the house can barely contain
my flesh. The boards will creak and my seams will stretch,
while you eat your sandwich oblivious to the possibility
of my guts spilling out from my too small frame.  
It will not make sense when I begin to cry, but by now maybe
you’ve learned that the same culprit is almost always to blame.
When you hesitate before calling me beautiful I will try 
and remember that it’s not because you don’t believe it,
but because you’re afraid I’m lost somewhere where beauty
is only a distraction and a thief. 

Hello, I really shouldn’t be typing this, or typing at all, but I wanted to do an update on where I’ve been. I’m spending the rest of the summer wearing wrist braces because I’m having massive problems with my wrists. I’ll still be around writing more, even though I shouldn’t be. My mental healthy took a nosedive the past few months, and I lost the passion to do just about everything, writing included. I’ve also been working three jobs, so that’s taken up a lot of my time. I’m still here though, and I hope you’re all doing well.

Hello, I really shouldn’t be typing this, or typing at all, but I wanted to do an update on where I’ve been. I’m spending the rest of the summer wearing wrist braces because I’m having massive problems with my wrists. I’ll still be around writing more, even though I shouldn’t be. My mental healthy took a nosedive the past few months, and I lost the passion to do just about everything, writing included. I’ve also been working three jobs, so that’s taken up a lot of my time. I’m still here though, and I hope you’re all doing well.

You Are Exactly As You Should Be

Let’s leave ghost paintings on the apartment walls, an art gallery where we are the only visitors and critics. I will fly to you on a cold October evening, my footprints like brave little birds pressing forward in a storm. Years from now when I walk by on my way work and the creaking stairs to your place match the sounds of my bones when I run too fast; I will remember the way your shoulder blades pressed into the canvas walls like shivering wings.

Shell of A Thing

All the autumn’s are dead, nestled beneath
the cracked ground wrinkles of your face.
The dead leaves beneath your tongue
seep out as you ask for more time,
but they are building an empire 
from your bones.
Where snow may gather, colder than you,
but just as dead. 

It’s Been Awhile

I am a faraway moon watching a couple of cranes fall in love. My veins are filled with empty graves, and I feel so detached from anything that is living, anything that is real. I haven’t written any letters to myself, or anybody else in almost month, which is the longest I’ve ever gone without writing. You see, I used to hide from the part of myself that dreams in overdoses and bloody bathtubs underneath the blankets until the numbness would come. But she’s not hiding anymore. She’s going looking for something and the part of me that wants to stay here is getting quieter and quieter. Somewhere I am scared, and I am trying to stay that way because as long as I’m scared I’m not dead.

You’re 21, Now What?

You could drink to it, if you drank, but you don’t.
You’re growing up and you’re growing scared.
Baby, you’re not broken, but you have been,
and that’s alright. Because whose cracked bottle
body hasn’t hit the sidewalk at some point?
You are still unfinished, but tonight we can breathe
and cherish the lungs that are a part of every
girl we’ve been, and every women we’re becoming.

The Beautiful Punchline

This is for all of my Valentine’s Day jokes. For every woman who heard the phrase, “Do you want to be my girlfriend?” turned into a knock knock joke where you were the punchline. We were the chubby, short, acne covered comedy routines of our younger years. Our bodies became stand-up routines that we couldn’t escape, so we tried to redecorate the stage. More make-up, new hair, hours in front of a mirror, because it didn’t matter how kind or funny you were, beauty helped you blend in. Beauty made you a part of the audience instead of the main event. When puberty hit, and the crowd moved on you still found yourself waiting for the laughter when you looked in the mirror. Because when somebody tells us we’re beautiful, we’re always waiting for the punchline.

Anonymous asked: You deserve for your unknown spring to have an awakening of happiness.

Oh how wonderful! This made me so happy. What a lovely thing to say, thank you!

To The Boy I Do Not Love

You are beautiful, and I could not love you any less. I see the way you hope to hold my little house body near to you when we go out for coffee, but I do not know how to love you between sheets and whispers. My body was not built to be pressed up against yours, longing for your fingers to draw maps across my thighs. When you touch me I want to run, and I won’t apologize for this, because you need another type of house to call home. You have so much to offer somebody who isn’t me.

Thank You for Shopping

I am non-refundable, much to my mother’s dismay. The daughter she ordered came damaged at best, and her receipt was full of things she did not order.

2 pounds of God loves everybody just the way they are.

What a thrilling idea to an ugly little girl. The duckling that toppled out of her mother’s womb with frizzy hair, and a pudgy tummy would proudly announce one Sunday morning that it didn’t matter if her hair stood up because God thought she was beautiful just the way she was, and she would be struck again and again by manicured hands and bullet words that said, “no, he does not love you when you look this way.” Sitting bruised through a Sunday sermon I would wonder if God really loves ugly things or if he just pretends because it looks nice on paper, because all the girls on those pamphlets our church handed out never had acne on their faces, or fat that jiggled.

3 bags of water under the bridge.

“You wear your depression like a badge. You just talk about it all the time. At some point you have to let it be water under the bridge, maybe if you stopped focusing on it, then it would go away. There’s nothing I can do for you, I’m distancing myself from the situation.” I am a situation like a flat tire on a sunny day, and jam on a new white dress. A situation that sleeps with the knowledge that my mother loves me, she just doesn’t love me the way that I am. I have become a situation who turned into a beautiful woman without your words, without your help.

With your coupon you saved 20 pounds of flesh.  

“At least you’re not one of the big girls.” Why? Because mama, maybe if I grow up big then I’ll go from a manageable summer breeze to a hurricane and you won’t be able to stuff me into your shopping cart anymore. My hips will knock fruit off of the displays, and then maybe everybody will turn and look and I won’t be as perfect as you hoped I would be. Mama, you are not bad, just broken by a system that tells you your daughter is supposed to fit in a shopping cart, and look like a catalog ad. I have become so much more than your insecurities, I have become so much more than my disorders, I have grown into my own home where I don’t need to be written into your receipt.