Kara Petrovic's Blog

June 12, 2019


August 10th, 2018

this is quite possibly my most important tattoo. it is positioned directly behind my “be present.” tattoo, because behind my mantra to always be mindful in every moment is my bipolar disorder. the sun: the highs; the moon: the lows. and, of course, my favourite constellation Cassiopeia, cursed for her vanity by the gods and forced to spend all eternity tied upside down in a chair with a mirror in her hand. some days i feel cursed, punished by the universe or god or many gods at once. this tattoo is always with me, even on days (like with my disorder) that i forget it’s there. it is my struggle. but more than that: it is me. it is a holistic representation of who i am. because, though i try every moment to be present and aware i am fighting a battle every second of my life. and i have to be aware and accepting of that, too. as i (in real time) speed toward mania, i have to remind myself of my life worth living goals. i have to work harder than ever to remain level, and grounded. but simultaneously: i am also amongst the stars. like Cassiopeia. i will always, always fight for a better and healthier life and i will always, always, make the best out of the absolute worst. in anycase, your support is appreciated. thank you to everyone.

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Published on June 12, 2019 11:19

June 11, 2019

eviction notice

i am standing at your door,

begging for entrance,

for three months now.

at some point you shoved me out,

sent me away,

and put yourself under lock and key.

and i— stricken with love,

i am standing at your door,

knocking until my hands are numb,

until my knuckles

are bleeding.

i am not sure why

i cannot leave.

i am not sure whether it is

the baggage i have left inside,

my final pack of cigarettes

sitting on your kitchen counter,

or the ages and ages

i have spent

dreaming of your living room.

when you first welcomed me in,

everything was so warm.

but it’s mid-February now,

i am stuck outside,


from the premises

and my feet

have frozen

in my shoes.

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Published on June 11, 2019 09:02

and in the dark we whisper things we’d never say in dayli...

and in the dark we whisper things we’d never say in daylight, we sit on the porch and talk about the worst parts of ourselves and it feels so fluid and freeing.

im still here, i think. im still here and seeking that Great Big Romance ive wanted since i was a child. faced with it, i shied away, i broke my own heart before i could give you the chance.

see— this is what i do. this is how i am. a spitfire, an emotional sponge, scaring off future lovers and clinging to future abusers.

you are not the first, you will not be the last. this is a cycle doomed to repeat, over and over again. i am aching for something to heal me, but you can’t go around making doctors out of people who want nothing to do with sewing sutures upon wounds you created yourself.

the message is this: the message is received. i tie together the pieces ive lost in the explosion, sneak into your house to take back my heart, and i move on.

on to the next loss ill orchestrate.

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Published on June 11, 2019 08:38

April 11, 2019


my relationship with my body is complicated and constantly fluctuating. consider this my first step toward autonomy and reclamation. here is a poem about it (tw for sexual assault):



you’re standing in the middle of a corn field and a man tells you to scream before it’s over. you’re running out of time, sweat piles on top of your body, and you want to scream, want to      please him,

do anything           to      please him,

but you can’t.


your mother beats at you, your father joins in. they are molding you into a quieter shape, a better shape. one they can show to their friends, say look at our good and well behaved child.

look how well         she welcomes         abuse.


you blink twice when you swear, the words

are foreign   in         your mouth,

it makes you      uncomfortable           to think about.

raised to be prim, proper and polite with a capital P.


to be quiet.


afraid of your own body, you sold it to the first man

who looked at you with lust. it was taken from you

at an early age, nonetheless,

what’s a stranger’s piece inside of you            (drunken and crying)

compared to you, a preteen

(drunken and crying)?

after he finishes, he tells you that you smell like his ex girlfriend, asks if he could call you Christine,

and hold you      as if       You           were her?


you’re bleeding from your lip, you’ve been biting it to keep your lessons from your childhood.


you gave yourself different names in bed,

moaned when they touched You,

even when it felt like               nothing.


you don’t have a word for what he does to You, but he fucks you like he means it, really         means it,

and reminds you you’re his whore.

it feels right with his hands around your neck,

because they’ve always

held their hands

around your neck.


la petite mort, not as you would understand the expression

“the brief loss

or weakening

of consciousness

specifically to

the sensation

of orgasm”

but a little death nonetheless.


your grandmother gives you two pieces of advice:

one— a man should know you neck up, but never neck        Down. fact.

two— a man should always believe he was your second Ever. fact.

you become an actor, a porn star,

script says:         fuck me like              you mean      it,

script says:          fuck my brains out,

script says:          fuck me til      i can’t      walk   straight.

script says:        (with rising feeling)

hurt me, hurt me, hurt me!

you cave in, bury the truth under fucking and fucking           and fucking and fucking—

left your body just as they entered it.


there’s different types of crazy—five.

the emotionally unstable are better in bed.

you don’t admit to being all five types.

men don’t want to hear this when you’re naked,

they want to hear you moan, to lick the sweat

off of your breasts and that they’re the second

to ever                  fill you.



you don’t have a word for what he does to you, but he’s given you a word for yourself: monster. you deserve it, and you’ve always deserved it.


gas lights the fireplace and you’re burning, twenty one and burning, always burning. this hell you’ve created by dating the architect who lives in his car.


you’re nineteen, can’t walk straight.

a man with ice blue eyes leads you

into a bathroom

as you dig your heels

into the grooved hardwood floor, sticky with spilled alcohol.

nervous laughter spills from you

as he forces you to your knees

and puts himself inside of you,

so that you don’t really say no,

but n-umpf.

you tell your sister and she says

men are disgusting,

but you never speak of it again.


you’re twenty one,

in a relationship with another, you say no,

but your pants are off

and this time,

he’s the one laughing.

your partner

stops speaking to you

for 24 hours

for allowing this to happen.


you’re twenty two,

in a new relationship.

his eyes are green, you call him broccoli. he stops when you leave.

he kisses only after asking.

still, you stop almost always.

say im ruined almost always.

he holds you, almost always

for the       hundredth time.


you don’t swear. you don’t say no. you lay still and think of England.


you’re standing in a cornfield and the man from before is still telling you to scream like you mean it. you scream, but no noise comes out this time. it may be due to his hands around your neck, or they’re yours, and they’ve always been yours.


how can you write about fucking,

—yes fucking, not sex, not making love—

when you can’t even fuck your lover

like you        mean it?

when you can’t even fuck them

without crying?

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Published on April 11, 2019 16:26

February 13, 2019

an ode to my dead god


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, 


                        until the paper 



buoyed by

a catalogue

of existence, or, a litany

of Reasons To Exist,

my dead God and i

sit in conversation.


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.


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.


my hand is hurting.

this poem is over.

i bet you wanted a happier ending.

ask my dead God.

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Published on February 13, 2019 13:42

February 8, 2019

i have been very busy working on several collectio...


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.



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Published on February 08, 2019 13:01

November 17, 2018

an excerpt

pain is not beautiful,

sorrow is not


a tragedy

is a tragedy

whether it’s Greek

or Shakespearean.

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Published on November 17, 2018 08:27

September 20, 2018

i am borderline.

I am Borderline,

So I have no soul.

I am Borderline,

So I am a demon.

We are likened to,

—at worst—




We are likened to,

—at best—




I am Borderline,

So I am a black hole

— so i must be eradicated

— so i must be ejected

—so i must be escaped from

I am Borderline,

and when i was diagnosed,

it was a curse

They say,

“Do not let anyone a Borderline into your orbit on any basis”

(but do they know I agree?)

They say,

“If you have a relationship with a Borderline, they will ruin your life.”

(but do they know I agree?)

They say,

“Watch out for these people”

(but do they know I agree?)


They say




it’s funny,


all i am

is a void.

I read a licensed psychiatrist state:

“People say that Borderlines can change but often times, they wreck havoc on their spouses, children and/or parents and the abuse lasts a lifetime.”

I have heard:

“Remember, they will never improve – no matter how optimistic and hopeful you are, that brief period of loving affection will give way to profoundly disturbing, explosive rage. Always.”

I have heard:

“Kill yourself.”

Borderlines are…evil

Borderlines are…dangerous

Borderlines are…bullies

Borderlines are…abusive

I am Borderline, and I am inhuman. That is what they say. I am Borderline, and I cannot be trusted. I am Borderline, and I am damaged goods—not worth anyone’s time.

Why is it,

That people can

—to some extent—

understand how depression changes a person’s behaviour?

understand how anxiety changes a person’s behaviour?

Why is it,

That ‘it is not them, it is their illness’ applies to all else

—But borderline?

I guess what I’m say is—is this me? And is this all you see?

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Published on September 20, 2018 10:18

September 18, 2018

she. [a series]



with sunshine

in her hair

and the ocean

in her eyes,

i tasted

her strawberry coated lips

(that the sun had grown

for me)



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


an eternity of distance

between us,

yet still


manages to be

the other side of my coin.


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…


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Published on September 18, 2018 09:44

September 17, 2018

a phantom
a shadow
wet socks
in d...


a phantom


a shadow


wet socks

in dry shoes

the scent


a song inside

solid, inside



the wind


one day

i’ll hear

its music


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Published on September 17, 2018 13:31