Drinking my Dumb Bitch Juice Cause I'm Thirsty

“God only gives you what you can handle”

Oh, I believe that—

I really do.

But some of this shit

piled on my plate

that is overwhelming me—

I placed it there myself—

just me, my hubris, and I.

God was shaking his head

the whole time,

watching me mistake

appetite for capacity.

Lionsgate Portal

I've never cared about the "Lionsgate Portal," primarily because I considered it one of those hokey, white-girl-made-up TikTok manifestation things. Like, first of all, why would the most important, most powerful manifestation day be on 8/8 every year? Astrology doesn't follow our modern calendar. Hell, 8/8 is based on a calendar that required a leap day every four years because, at some point, someone got the math wrong by a quarter of a day.

So no, universal energy doesn't go by that.

But then today, I was thinking: if all these Instagram girls believe in the Lionsgate Portal and do something on that day, there have to be at least a million girls. Maybe more. And if they're all consciously working to tap into some metaphysical source...then maybe it's a distance coven kind of thing.

Summer Solstice 2026

Awaken, child, for I know thee. I know your heart and the fears it harbors and the hopes it dares not name.

Summer Solstice was yesterday, and with so little night, so little dark, my subconscious wreaked havoc. Dreams on dreams, layers of dreams. Not fun dreams, surreal and whimsical adventures in which the boundaries and physics of life are drawn out to their elastic limit. Not even nightmares. It was as if my mind handed me all my fears on a silver platter. One night only. Tonight's chef's special.

While, now, hours after waking, I cannot recall every little bit, I will disclose the few I do remember, for they weigh heavy on me, like a recovered repressed memory that really would have been better to stay put in the trenches.

Like I am in the audience of a comedy show with some guy. Who is he? Random dream guy. As often is the case, a placeholder for any guy. For whatever reason, I am lying on my belly, and someone points out that I am bleeding through my pants. There is blood on my ass. So, of course, I go to the bathroom, which has a steeply sloped floor and weird automatic soap dispensers that are broken. Of course they are broken, and plastic tubes, like life support, are spurting slick soap onto the floor—heavily fragranced, chemical-sludged, colored goo. And I struggle to get to the bottom of the slope where the toilet resides. I struggle to get back to the top of the sloped floor, back to the door.

Sweet child, you have hidden from your own blood as though I had not woven it into you.

I return to my seat, which has now appeared (good and gracious Lord, thank you. I no longer lie on the floor on my belly; I sit in a chair!). But every male in the audience is in some state of undress. Some fully naked, tiny little micro dicks, shaved and on display, big fat guts hanging over swollen, red, angry testicles. Some are in boxers or briefs or undershirts. My male companion—the Any Guy U.S.A.—is in a wife-beater and boxers, just like my husband wears to bed.

I ask him what is up. And the only response was that the comedian on stage said it would be funny for all the guys to get naked, and it wouldn't be weird if they all did.

Beloved, how strange that you should stand clothed among the naked and still believe yourself exposed.

Next dream: I am standing in a pool that only comes to my waist, yet everyone else is under the water, swimming beneath the surface, close to me. Close to my legs, as if they are sneaking a peek. I think they are all men, but I'm unsure. At least all the bodies I can see swimming under the water are male and buff. Like bodybuilder buff, swimming so close to me. And all I can think about is my pubic hair probably peeking out the edge of my swimsuit, and that they are probably only under the water to gawk at the shame of what had naturally grown out of my body. The cursedness of womanhood that sprouted when I quit being just a little girl.

Daughter, you have mistaken becoming visible for becoming unsafe.

For some reason, my husband (not indescript Any Guy, my actual current husband) and I are staying with my friend Kim. And for some reason, he needs to get up before me, so he has requested that Kim wake him up, even though I am sleeping next to him. So she tiptoes into the room and wakes him up, and I just lie there, silent and still, but also awake and aware. And jealous and outraged and hurt. He has picked her over me. They tiptoe out of the room, and I spend much of the dream searching for them. I find her, and she says it's nothing, he just needed to be woken up. But I could have done it! Why, oh why, did he ask her?

Precious, every door you feared would close behind you has always opened toward me.

Naturally, with dream logic, we leap to the next scene, in which I am moving in for a year with a couple because this has led to my husband and me taking a year-long break from living together (this is what happens when you have someone other than your wife or your alarm clock wake you up). Naturally, my husband is helping me move in. Did I mention the woman of the couple is pregnant? Not a little pregnant—hugely pregnant, might pop out a kid any moment.

My husband and her husband are trying to unpack my stuff, but she and I are trying to stop them. You can't just throw my stuff in with theirs! We need a system. We need organization. She and I plead with the men. Get some decorum! For we both know I will move out in a year, so even as we are moving in, we are planning the moving out. We need to have a system in place to distinguish whose stuff is whose, to make it easier when, in 365 days, everything we are doing right now falls apart.

Rest now, little soul. I have watched you bleed, hide, compare, divide your home, and prepare your leaving before your arriving. Sleep.
 Even morning arrives without rehearsing itself.

Unfinished Business

Last night, my husband, lying in bed, turned to me and said,

 "God is keeping us here in Alabama a little longer for a reason.

 I just don't know what it is yet."

See, this is one of the things that first attracted me to him:

his spirituality,

his faith in the universe,

his belief in magic.

Not metaphorical magic.

Actual magic.

In our first month of dating,

we each slept with a crystal we'd chosen,

then gifted it to the other.

It was his idea.

The clear quartz point he gave me

still sits on my altar.

The raw amethyst chunk I gave him

still rests on his smoke stand.

So when my husband, lying in bed, turned to me and said,

 "God is keeping us here in Alabama a little longer for a reason.

I just don't know what it is yet."

I took it seriously.

I pictured psychic chains

tethering a ghost to a place

until it resolved

the unresolved business of its life.

And today I looked around

this place with renewed eyes,

searching for the soul contract

we made with this land—

the land we are so desperate to leave.

Do we need

to unite our home,

to end the feline civil war

that demands we keep one cat away from another?

Should we harvest and can

the tomatoes this summer,

so they'll sustain us

through the Hoosier winter?

Perhaps it's the neighbor

who waves goodbye each morning.

I gave him zucchini from the garden

and cookies I'd baked.

We still harbor resentment.

Or perhaps it's the leaky bathroom faucet

we still haven't fixed,

though the replacement parts sit,

silent and accusing,

on the floor.

Or maybe it's nothing.

Maybe we're falling into

the oldest human trap:

constructing

the illusion of control,

like OCD—

believing that locking

and unlocking the door

three times

can save you.

Scorpio Full Moon

Cut my hair too short

for the Scorpio full moon,

which an app said

would hit me hard—but

so far, it’s just split ends,

dead ends, bleached ends

in the trash, where

they probably belong.

And it’s okay—

more than okay.

Nothing cracked open,

no tidal pull,

no reckoning I had to survive.

I don’t go outside anyway.

And old wives’ tales say

to cut during the full moon

for it to grow faster.

Maybe that’s enough—

just this:

nothing worse happening.

Pending Prayers.

"She knows omnipotence has heard her prayer and cries 'it shall be done—sometime, somewhere.'"

—Ophelia Guyon Browning

Hi. It’s me.

That never-ending, infinite abyss of the unknown.

So gross.

You know—those times when everyone you know offers these cliché platitudes that feel so empty in the moment, but fast-forward a few months or years and you’re like, damn, they were right.

Phrases like:

It will all work out in the end

and

God never gives you more than you can handle.

Those moments when you lean into the Serenity Prayer, like somehow it will unlock some secret compartment in your heart you weren’t aware of—or had forgotten about. Like opening a box that’s been packed since the move, and inside is exactly what you need but forgot you already had.

The nights when you wake up before the alarm for no reason but to worry.

Like in that book you are reading about the rosary, the author says worrying is its own kind of prayer. Not the hopeful kind—the repetitive kind. The kind with beads. Worry stones, those little worry dolls, something for your fingers to move over, again and again, as if repetition alone might change the outcome.

Yeah. So anyway, that’s where you are right now.

In me. That black hole of doubt and fear you just have to feel and live through.

Again:

Sorry—

not sorry.

Sabbath

I don’t need Jesus or church—

I sleep in on Sundays.

My dreams are sermon enough,

my husband snores the hymns

I believe in.

Eraser House

“We should keep furnishing the quiet places of our souls with all the furniture of faith.”

September spun itself wild—
I clung to its skirts.

October arrived clean,
steady as a spine.

Until the chill came crawling,
fear in its breath—
just in time for Halloween.

The house where I keep my faith
is smaller than a dollhouse,
smaller still—
a home carved into the pink eraser
atop a pencil, displayed
in some roadside museum
of oddities.

There’s a magnifying glass
nailed to the wall for visitors,
so they can peer inside
and see—
there is no inside.

The windows are only scratches,
a suggestion of rooms,
a trick of depth.
My soul, perhaps,
still waiting to be furnished.

can i be like Sunday?

do you think God tires?
sighs—wants a last drag of a cigarette—
as requests pile in:

protect me, help me, watch over me;
take care of this, take care of that.
even “where are my keys?”—
people pray for their car keys.

imagine billions of wants landing daily—
she must be exhausted. why do i feel
dried, cakey, used, with only a handful of tasks?
unlike God, i’ll die and never again
hear an ask.

i don’t so much fear dying
as i fear living on.
even God took Sunday—
one day off from the mess she made.

played mermaids with god

God had been hiding in a hotel pool

for 6 weeks when I found her. She

was waiting in the corner like a solemn

schoolgirl — was the teacher even looking?

Had anyone noticed God was missing?

You can imagine the shock to us both,

bumping into each other at a hotel pool.

An older woman sat in a chair beside 

the warm, blue water,

asked us where we were from.

I said, a five-minute drive. I live here.

Here? Why are you—she motions broadly—

here?!?

So God chimed in, "I'm from before time and after time.

The flowers bloom and die in accordance

with how I move and fold."

After this exchange, the older woman

on a chair beside the pool was a little less smug.

God then pinkie-promised me: if I don't tell where she is,

she'll teach me to float on my back after

she does this wicked cannonball.

So I waited in the splash zone.

hermit year (reprieve)

How I once delighted in the thought

of folding endlessly into myself,

cradled in the quiet of only-child solitude—

a life I once treasured, now trembling.

The bridle tightens, my mane pulled

into clumsy yet unmistakable truths:

this was never how it was meant to be—

a single stall, the world blurred at my periphery.

I turned to poor company—screens—

to hearts that lit red,

to the comfortless rhythm

of ones and zeros winking at me.

I havent liked a single thing I've 'liked'

for weeks now.

And dreams of tomorrow?

Even poorer company still.

I should return to galloping—

wind, sun, and the wild beating

of hooves beside me:

the ones who loved me

even when I could not love myself.

I am tired,

worn from polishing in private—

the dull ache of unseen work

never meant to shine for anyone.

Let the viral posts wait. Let the inbox swell.

Let the to-do list yellow in the light.

Perfection is a myth I no longer feed—

its never ending need,

its reward, dust.

My dry mouth wants more.

My hermit year was not meant

to bury me deeper in shadow

but to lift me—

strong flanks, bared teeth—

northward, where I know I belong.

The South has broken me in.

Now, I lean not on pride

but on God,

and on the goodness found

in crooked lines, spilled ink,

and half-built sanctuaries.

Until I arrive at the homecoming

I’ve been hungering for

all my life.

Never Yours

Six minutes before the alarm,

I’m already dreading the list—

things I should’ve done last week

pressing in on today.

So I pray to my God for help.

But my God is ruthlessly practical.

My God reminds me cat patterns mirror the womb’s design—

symmetry born in silent cells dividing.

My God tells me to stay off the internet.

Says most of my problems are my own design.

My God says things like:

"Remember when you believed

in doing something today

to make tomorrow better?

Now you live in sandcastle dreams—

Buck up,

I’m telling you—

you’re stealing from your life

to serve a false prophet."

Then God says, like a gut punch:

"You aren’t fit to be hers.

I know the future—

she’ll never be yours."

The alarm goes off.

I lie still,

alone,

left to grapple

with the

dis / en / tanglement

no one else made.

Wildflowers Ahead

For the journey ahead,
you’ll need to trade that wishbone
for a backbone.

For there is no light
without shadow,
no joy
without pain.

And a dream
remains a dream—
until you work.

In 2025 a Burning Bush is a Rocket to Space

If God spoke to us before,
she will again.
But we walk differently
through Redwood forests
than we do down Manhattan streets.
There, it's the hush.
Here, the boom.

Yesterday, we launched
a pop star into space—
the rocket’s brief flight
burned more fuel
than I’ll use in a lifetime.
Still, I rush through showers,
trying to save water.

If God spoke to us before,
she will again.
But it’s 2025—
a burning bush is passé.
Maybe now,
she appears in a blaze of flame
beneath Katy Perry’s rocket.

It wasn’t Hot n’ Cold,
just hot—
ants on the ground
scorched alive.
And somewhere,
I swear I heard God cry.
I did too—such tiny lives burned.

If We Texted God, Would She Leave Us on Read?

We don't light candles anymore—
but we charge our phones overnight
and check notifications
first thing in the morning.

I asked God a question
in an Instagram poll:
Am I alive?
Three people voted 'NO.'
But none were God—
She didn’t even view it.

I DM’d Aphrodite once,
tagged her in the caption.
She didn’t repost,
but a skincare brand liked it
and sent me a 20% off code.

How can I reach Parvati
if quiet prayer isn’t monetized
and she doesn’t Like or Subscribe
to my content? I post 
every Tuesday by 5 p.m. EST.

Yet, for a moment,
in the pink flower emoji,
I thought I saw a flicker,
a Divine eye winking—
but my phone died.

Tomorrow,
I’ll try a TikTok trend,
maybe then Isis will
duet my video.

don't be subtle 🪻

I’m a modern girl—

I need God to come at me Moses-style:

Burning bush, ten plagues, or nothing at all.

Give me the promposal treatment—

Skywritten signs in plain, bold English.

God, just say what’s next—

I’ll cut my hair tomorrow to prove I mean it.

I heard you like sacrifices—

Say the word & I’ll cut it all off for you.

Are you there God? It's me, Caroline. 🙏

"My loneliness is killing me and I must confess I still believe"

 —Britney Spears

God—

          Could you be my friend?

(I'm asking for a friend.)

But of course, you know—

that’s just something we say

when we’re too shy to admit

we’re talking about ourselves.

Truth is,

I could really use a friend right now.

      I have a few, sure.

But what I need

    is a super friend—

The kind only You can be:

supernatural, omnipresent,

patient, and endlessly kind.

     So…

       God—

           Could you be my friend,

               right now?

Praying for Thee

I believe every prayer is answered,  

In ways we least expect,  

With only what's within this world,  

And consequences we can't predict.  

So, be careful what you wish for, dear.
It might just come back to me.

how life flows

I am bleeding, lying on the couch.
But not onto the couch—
I’m petting a cat, whose claws once drew my blood,
now dried and scabbed.
I bleed now because it’s how my body was built—
a rhythm as natural as my breath.

felt cute....might delete later

What if God is movement—
of body, of mind, of emotion—
and God is a showgirl's wink,
when she teases, "Come and get me, boys,"
or an azure bird,
pecking at cat food
left out for a stray,
where God also lives.

But maybe God is in the way
I respond to you,
so quick, so eager,
while you reply so slowly—
I know you’ve built a curio shelf
of friends, a curated collection,
and I’m just another dusty knick-knack
sitting among them.

But for me, you sit
on a throne beside my altar,
where I've burned incense
for years—
you would know this
if you paid attention
for it is written in the speed of my reply,
anxious to never let the connection go cold.