Sarah Wieboldt

by Horror Sleaze Trash on June 14, 2011

My name’s Sarah, I live in NYC. I enjoy whiskey, after sex cigarettes,skinny dipping, Bukowski and attempting to be a writer. I have three tattoos-one on my arm of the ISBN code of Camus’ The Fall, which is commonly mistaken for a branding from Auschwitz, a quote from War & Peace on my ribs and a Pushkin quote on my other ribs (that one hurt like hell). I miss Hesse, Hemingway, Burroughs, Janis Joplin and Sam Cooke just about everyday. I was born in the wrong generation and I’m just trying to get by with bongs, cheap wine, good poetry, and bad decisions. Print this shit.

I have sympathy for murderers,

not serial killers who hunt and dismember hookers

or dump random rape victims in sad fields

but maybe the kid who chopped up his girlfriend really had reason to

The whole idea of a trial seems stupid to me,

obviously he’s guilty; her bloodied cunt was stapled to his wall

but maybe she really was a cheating, lying whore

maybe he truly gave her the best parts of himself

and she stomped all over em

How come there’s no trial for that?

She took his heart, so he took her head

It makes perfect sense to me

But people wonder why nothing I’ve written has been published yet

and I’m not keen on letting them read my shit,

because if they did

they’d lock me up next to the broken hearted boy

who just couldn’t bear the thought of the love of his life getting fucked in the ass by some other guy

There’s an entire empty train car but these smelly Mexicans have to sit right next to me

they’re tired and cold, probably been working outside since dawn

even though it’s about 12 degrees outside

and they warm up on the subway with dirt underneath their fingernails,

fantasizing about the girl in the tight pants writing ferociously about things they’ll never understand

I want to tell them that the American dream is dead

and that noone is thankful on Thanksgiving

so that when they go home to their cinderblock apartments that they share with 18 of their relatives,

they should crawl into their tiny dirty beds next to their little brown wives

and reminisce about the home they’ve left behind in search of one they’ll never find

We were fucking when he noticed I’d gotten blood on his sheets,

we kept going

until later I realized I hadn’t gotten my period

Nick was convinced it was coming out of my ass,

which is exactly what I needed on top of everything else in my goddamn life

like the hideous mango, booger colored bruises on my arm from the IV

which had just started to heal

so I wondered if all that ass fucking  had finally taken it’s toll on my precious bum

but the next night after he had changed the sheets

I layed in the tub drinking Pinot Grigio, cause it was all I had,

I got my period and I was oddly disappointed

There’s only a handful of people in this world who know how completely crazy I am

there’s at least 100 who have seen me on a 3 day cocaine and Jameson binge or mid trip,

and thought to themselves, my god that chick is fucking insane

but only my past lovers have had a glimpse of the realms of insanity

and they always try to save me and change me in what they think are subtle ways

clinging to their belief that people are generally good,

all the while I’m riding them for whatever they’re worth

and when they finally get enough sense to realize what a psycho I am,

after months of being mesmerized by my cat eyes and deep throat skills

they always act astonished, angry that for one second they could have ever loved such an enigma,

let alone give me the “best” of themselves,

and they cry how they never deserved it and look into my eyes for some glimmer of remorse

so they can sleep at night

They always get new girlfriends, and pretend that they’ve achieved happiness

despite not getting blowjobs while the biddies are on their periods,

all the while wondering about that poor crazy bitch, thinking they could’ve saved me

never realizing that they will always be the ones who needed the savior

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