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We Slept Here
We Slept Here is a case study in vulnerability and honesty. In this sequence of memoir-esque poems, Sierra DeMulder pulls at the threads of a past abusive relationship and the long road to forgiveness. The poems themselves become an act of recovery and reclamation, wherein the poet finds again the voice which was taken from her. These are hard poems, made up of clarity and healing, which attempt to share some of their peace with the world.
- GenresPoetryNonfiction
44 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2015
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1098 people want to read
About the author
Sierra DeMulder
8 books501 followersSierra DeMulder is an internationally-recognized poet, performer, and podcast host. She is a five-time published author, a two-time National Poetry Slam champion, the recipient of a McKnight Foundation fellowship, and the co-host of Just Break Up, a globally popular advice podcast that has been downloaded more than 4 million times.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 76 reviews
July 12, 2015
Sierra Demulder's button poetry book WE SLEPT HERE packs a hell of a lot of dynamite for not even being 50 pages long. She proves over and over, with each poem, that her ability to write raw and beautiful is a gift truly her own. She does not shy away from any emotions or experiences here, which is one of the many qualities that makes her writing so strong. She is truly one of a kind. I always enjoy reading her work and cannot wait for the next collection to come out.
July 13, 2015
"I am my own higher power. I will carry myself out."
Raw and lovely read.
Raw and lovely read.
July 7, 2015
Sierra DeMulder is well known for her raw and vulnerable poetry, both when written and when she is performing it. This book definitely continues that trend. Some poems are recognizable as ones she has performed in youtube videos, others seem totally new.
This poetical examination of domestic abuse from the mind of someone who unfortunately experienced one, is both beautiful and heartrending. Sierra holds nothing back and I can't admire her enough for that.
This book could be used as an outline for the recovery and forgiveness process, and I recommend it to anyone needing to work through that process.
I can't wait for Spring 2016 when DeMulder releases Today Means Amen.
This poetical examination of domestic abuse from the mind of someone who unfortunately experienced one, is both beautiful and heartrending. Sierra holds nothing back and I can't admire her enough for that.
This book could be used as an outline for the recovery and forgiveness process, and I recommend it to anyone needing to work through that process.
I can't wait for Spring 2016 when DeMulder releases Today Means Amen.
March 18, 2022
DeMulder’s incredibly introspective poetry collection takes a look at a past abusive relationship and her journey on the long road to forgiveness.
Raw, real, and poignant!
Raw, real, and poignant!
August 6, 2015
In this chapbook, DeMulder explores what it is like to endure an abusive relationship and to find forgiveness on the other side, a multifaceted and complex process. Each poem is written clearly, with fresh metaphors. This book brings an original and intimate perspective to the interpersonal-abuse conversation.
At the end, she includes both personal and public resources for abuse survivors; this book not only returns a voice to the abused narrator, but it provides a way for others to find the path to healing and finding their own voices again. Important and beautiful.
At the end, she includes both personal and public resources for abuse survivors; this book not only returns a voice to the abused narrator, but it provides a way for others to find the path to healing and finding their own voices again. Important and beautiful.
May 21, 2019
Look at us being so
damn human: yes, it happened,
yes, it was not our most graceful
unfolding, and yes, we were both
so present the whole time.
//
This, at its core, is a collection about abuse and forgiveness. I will continue to read every thing Sierra DeMulder writes and has written, and be shocked at how raw and honest and beautiful her writing is, each and every time.
damn human: yes, it happened,
yes, it was not our most graceful
unfolding, and yes, we were both
so present the whole time.
//
This, at its core, is a collection about abuse and forgiveness. I will continue to read every thing Sierra DeMulder writes and has written, and be shocked at how raw and honest and beautiful her writing is, each and every time.
August 7, 2015
Sierra is a soul spilling poet. The poetry in this book is experimental and raw. I enjoyed this book, because it is a simple page count that allows the reader to enter directly into Sierra's heart that is still molding or "becoming." She matches mind with power, but after her experiences teach her vital lessons of how to love and when to love.
August 1, 2015
Sad beautiful agonizing true things.
November 6, 2022
These poems were personal, vulnerable, and deeply familiar. Some touched a nerve. As someone who’s gone through this experience, I can tell these were first hand accounts. In these poems the author acknowledges she had plenty of signs and opportunity to walk away. But it’s the abusive bond, the hope that the love for your partner and the thought that they will change, that makes it really hard to free yourself from. And once free, you find yourself wishing you had met violence with violence, or hoping they’re now “Soaking in a bathtub full of nails, swallowing one for each cruelty against me.”. There were moments when she wonders if she was the problem and thinks about giving it another chance - if she could change things. She then searches for meaning, expressed in the poem titled, “After Googling Affirmations for Abuse Survivors”, where she dismisses these words of encouragement with depressive and refutable thoughts. It’s the shame that one feels that makes it difficult to accept emotional support. And essentially, all she can do is forgive. And she sometimes does. Understandably.
With her own experiences, Sierra DeMulder does an incredible job navigating us through the stages of grief. The loss isn't so much about losing a partner as it is about losing oneself.
Table for Two - Abel Korzeniowski
With her own experiences, Sierra DeMulder does an incredible job navigating us through the stages of grief. The loss isn't so much about losing a partner as it is about losing oneself.
Table for Two - Abel Korzeniowski
August 27, 2019
This tiny book is nothing less than shatteringly beautiful.
July 11, 2024
Beautiful, piercing writing
May 4, 2025
but what do i do with all this leftover love? my hands were built for crawling on. how do i write myself gently? how do i not worship the shipwreck that stranded me here?
February 14, 2020
⭐️how do you give a rating to someone's heart beating on the pages? ⭐️
August 14, 2021
Beautiful, raw and touching.
"And, what a home I have built in my skull. What a dark, wild forest. There is no furniture, no artisan humanity. No gentle place to undress my own thoughts."
"And, what a home I have built in my skull. What a dark, wild forest. There is no furniture, no artisan humanity. No gentle place to undress my own thoughts."
January 10, 2019
Rudy Francisco has spoiled me.
I liked this book, some poems pulled me in while others left me feeling kind of meh. Still a good read.
I liked this book, some poems pulled me in while others left me feeling kind of meh. Still a good read.
December 20, 2020
This is one of my favorites. I went to Sierra's book reading when it first came out, and was floored by her self-assertive vulnerability. Sometimes I just want to hold this book tight against my chest. We Slept Here is a work of healing and is a reminder to abuse survivors that it is possible to relearn self love.
March 31, 2017
In We Slept Here, Sierra DeMulder creates a raw and honest account on abuse, recovery and forgiveness.
This collection is gutting as it tries to lay bare the multifaceted quality of abuse (and pain), especially when you’re at the receiving end of it. Through the personal pieces, the reader gets to vicariously experience the difficulty the author has gone through and the heartbreaking, or perhaps cathartic, process of rendering it on paper.
At first, I imagined addiction
as your finest suit, hung in
the closet, ironed in the dark.
Now I see you had
no other option, not even
your own skin, no summer
jacket or wool coat, only this.
--
You have a fundamental right to a nurturing
environment. Oh, what a home I have
built in my skull. What a dark, savage
forest. There is no furniture, no artisan
humanity. No gentle place to undress
my own thoughts.
--
I am my own higher power.
I will carry myself out.
--
Drive to whatever
landmark most reminds you that
becoming is a slow glory and leave
your shame. It will not follow you home.
--
So here’s to our blistered feet. Here’s
to my whimpering knees, your weary
shoulders. Here is the foreclosure
of my shame and here is to our
brokenness. Look at us being so
damn human: yes, it happened,
yes, it was not our most graceful
unfolding, and yes, we were both
so present the whole time.
This collection is gutting as it tries to lay bare the multifaceted quality of abuse (and pain), especially when you’re at the receiving end of it. Through the personal pieces, the reader gets to vicariously experience the difficulty the author has gone through and the heartbreaking, or perhaps cathartic, process of rendering it on paper.
At first, I imagined addiction
as your finest suit, hung in
the closet, ironed in the dark.
Now I see you had
no other option, not even
your own skin, no summer
jacket or wool coat, only this.
--
You have a fundamental right to a nurturing
environment. Oh, what a home I have
built in my skull. What a dark, savage
forest. There is no furniture, no artisan
humanity. No gentle place to undress
my own thoughts.
--
I am my own higher power.
I will carry myself out.
--
Drive to whatever
landmark most reminds you that
becoming is a slow glory and leave
your shame. It will not follow you home.
--
So here’s to our blistered feet. Here’s
to my whimpering knees, your weary
shoulders. Here is the foreclosure
of my shame and here is to our
brokenness. Look at us being so
damn human: yes, it happened,
yes, it was not our most graceful
unfolding, and yes, we were both
so present the whole time.
August 29, 2016
Sierra DeMulder just has a way with words. This collection read as it'll it truly was a novel. I love her poetry and I cant wait to hear more of her work. Every poem I hear or read of hers draws me in and it just is so full of emotion I feel a little drained afterwards, not in a bad way but in an extremely good way. I've been a fan of Sierra's poetry for over 4 years now and her words still bring out such intense emotions.
November 25, 2016
I by no means am a poetry expert, but this book just didn't speak to me. For some reason I struggled with the imagery and the flow of these poems. I hate saying this because all these poems deal with domestic abuse and must have been birthed from a place of immense pain. Hopefully, others will find these poems uplifting and therapeutic; they just didn't speak to me.
July 16, 2017
"a poet told me
to write about
you.
'write it out, honey.'
as if you were
a fever or
a horse to break"
So good. She's raw, vulnerable and honest. These are poems of past abusive relationships that act as a road to recovery. ❤️
to write about
you.
'write it out, honey.'
as if you were
a fever or
a horse to break"
So good. She's raw, vulnerable and honest. These are poems of past abusive relationships that act as a road to recovery. ❤️
May 13, 2021
RE-READ
a very personal collection that i'm glad exists
a very personal collection that i'm glad exists
December 31, 2020
anything that starts off by quoting richard siken can only be good
May 31, 2019
Sierra DeMulder’s poetry is like an open-handed slap.
I'm generally not into the sort of poems she writes - you know, past traumas, turning out the gory details of her relationships, getting gruesomely personal - which gives me flashbacks to earnest BFA poetry workshops & getting uncomfortably familiar with the personal lives of my classmates. But with SDM, it works, resting on the strength of her clear-eyed and unflinching voice. Broken relationships - mostly her working to heal from an abusive boyfriend, but touching on the familial, too. Trying to forgive another, trying to forgive oneself. Pain, anger, forgiveness.
In each poem, she knows better than to linger until it feels maudlin. She's emotionally honest without wallowing. She is a woman flipping through a photo album at a kitchen table - just brings us back to the bald, scraped moments of truth, points out the man's clenched fist and the way the light falls through the window, and then - keeping her eyes steadily on yours - turns the page to the next picture.
Just devastating writing about abuse. This isn’t something that I personally connected with, but it’s so raw and so human and so vulnerable that you can’t help connecting with her. Like this:
“Say it: I am an abuse survivor. Abuse
survivor. Tell everyone how wrong
your heart was. Share all the horrible
things he did and then tell them
how even now, you are not sure
you wouldn’t go back - if only
to say I’m sorry one last time.”
Mannnnnnnn. Her writing is gorgeously lyrical while remaining accessible. She uses the most original and vivid imagery: “Nights spent sliding the screen door open/as soft and quiet as milk sitting in a glass” and “He used to break his Ambien between thumb/and forefinger as if pinching the head off/a tick.”
Wait, let me just quote her at you:
“How she went limp as a snipped lily,
a wax doll going soft next to
the stove. It is not that my father yelled
and it is not that my mother
received his yelling. It is that we
remember them like this,
in tandem, bound forever with ribbon,
a call and response. It is that
in our minds, one does not exist
without the other.”
-----
“Worth is not a well to be poisoned.
It is not a tumbler being filled or
drank from by some audacious god,
nor a monthly allowance we get
when we are not not beautiful.
Drive to the ocean. No, drive to
the Redwoods. Drive to whatever
landmark most reminds you that
becoming is a slow glory and leave
your shame. It will not follow you home.”
-----
And If I Do Not Forgive Him
I have found an identity in its decoration.
A profession in its preening. I polish it
with sequinned spit. Dress it in gowns
skinned from his brokenness. Prance
on it like a bear rug. My suffering:
the artist’s fodder, the cave I map
endlessly. Lucky that his fault is so
bountiful, a swollen cornucopia. I am fat
off his wrong-doings. I am afraid I will
be like this forever. I write I forgive you
onto the paper. Again and again. Until
the pen droughts. Until the page is no longer
a page but a river. A lake. I write over
the surface like a Jesus or a water bug
I write until the letters do not form letters.
Until the paper is wet soil, or essentially
a tree again. He hangs from its branches.
Not hanged. Not a wind chime. He is no
singer. He is reaching for his ax. There is
a throne in the room where all mercy is made,
and for now, I can sit on it. For now, he can’t
reach me up here. I fold the paper over itself
like a building collapsing. Make it as small
as a tongue. I am told I should give it to him.
I am told that forgiveness is a knife with no
handle, not meant to be held, not built
to be a prisoner. But why, dear reader,
would I give my only weapon away?
I'm generally not into the sort of poems she writes - you know, past traumas, turning out the gory details of her relationships, getting gruesomely personal - which gives me flashbacks to earnest BFA poetry workshops & getting uncomfortably familiar with the personal lives of my classmates. But with SDM, it works, resting on the strength of her clear-eyed and unflinching voice. Broken relationships - mostly her working to heal from an abusive boyfriend, but touching on the familial, too. Trying to forgive another, trying to forgive oneself. Pain, anger, forgiveness.
In each poem, she knows better than to linger until it feels maudlin. She's emotionally honest without wallowing. She is a woman flipping through a photo album at a kitchen table - just brings us back to the bald, scraped moments of truth, points out the man's clenched fist and the way the light falls through the window, and then - keeping her eyes steadily on yours - turns the page to the next picture.
Just devastating writing about abuse. This isn’t something that I personally connected with, but it’s so raw and so human and so vulnerable that you can’t help connecting with her. Like this:
“Say it: I am an abuse survivor. Abuse
survivor. Tell everyone how wrong
your heart was. Share all the horrible
things he did and then tell them
how even now, you are not sure
you wouldn’t go back - if only
to say I’m sorry one last time.”
Mannnnnnnn. Her writing is gorgeously lyrical while remaining accessible. She uses the most original and vivid imagery: “Nights spent sliding the screen door open/as soft and quiet as milk sitting in a glass” and “He used to break his Ambien between thumb/and forefinger as if pinching the head off/a tick.”
Wait, let me just quote her at you:
“How she went limp as a snipped lily,
a wax doll going soft next to
the stove. It is not that my father yelled
and it is not that my mother
received his yelling. It is that we
remember them like this,
in tandem, bound forever with ribbon,
a call and response. It is that
in our minds, one does not exist
without the other.”
-----
“Worth is not a well to be poisoned.
It is not a tumbler being filled or
drank from by some audacious god,
nor a monthly allowance we get
when we are not not beautiful.
Drive to the ocean. No, drive to
the Redwoods. Drive to whatever
landmark most reminds you that
becoming is a slow glory and leave
your shame. It will not follow you home.”
-----
And If I Do Not Forgive Him
I have found an identity in its decoration.
A profession in its preening. I polish it
with sequinned spit. Dress it in gowns
skinned from his brokenness. Prance
on it like a bear rug. My suffering:
the artist’s fodder, the cave I map
endlessly. Lucky that his fault is so
bountiful, a swollen cornucopia. I am fat
off his wrong-doings. I am afraid I will
be like this forever. I write I forgive you
onto the paper. Again and again. Until
the pen droughts. Until the page is no longer
a page but a river. A lake. I write over
the surface like a Jesus or a water bug
I write until the letters do not form letters.
Until the paper is wet soil, or essentially
a tree again. He hangs from its branches.
Not hanged. Not a wind chime. He is no
singer. He is reaching for his ax. There is
a throne in the room where all mercy is made,
and for now, I can sit on it. For now, he can’t
reach me up here. I fold the paper over itself
like a building collapsing. Make it as small
as a tongue. I am told I should give it to him.
I am told that forgiveness is a knife with no
handle, not meant to be held, not built
to be a prisoner. But why, dear reader,
would I give my only weapon away?
Read
January 4, 2025Favorite quotes-
AND IF I AM TO FORGIVE YOU:
“Your hand guides my wrist as I write this, even now.”
KNOCK KNOCK:
“the joke is this is not enough to make me leave.”
A STUDY OF FORGIVENESSAS A ONE-NIGHT STAND:
“She wants to give you her body without being in the room.”
O HOLY:
“Consciousness becomes the slow drawing of a bath.”
AND IF I DO NOT FORGIVE HIM:
“I am told that forgiveness is a knife with no handle, not meant to be held, not built to be a prisoner. But why, dear reader, would I give my only weapon away?”
YOUR BEST:
“No matter where you are in life, no matter what you’ve contributed to creating…you are always doing the best you can with the understanding and awareness and knowledge that you have. — Louise L. Hay
And if this was your finest performance—no dress rehearsal, no amputated second act— no longer would I grieve your potential. No longer would I wait up for the return of your soldiered goodness.”
ON ADMITTING YOU ARE AN ABUSE SURVIVOR:
“You catch yourself staring at his teeth, his mouth, searching for that retractable silence.”
AFTER GOOGLING AFFIRMATIONS FOR ABUSE SURVIVORS:
“Oh, what a home I have built in my skull. What a dark, savage forest. There is no furniture, no artisan humanity. No gentle place to undress my own thoughts.
… But what do I do with all this leftover love? My hands were built for crawling on. How do I write myself gently? How do I not worship the shipwreck that stranded me here?”
RELEASE IT:
“You are not the first to domesticate it. Your shame: pretty as a house pet… Lust spent like inheritance does not define you. Let go of being made of want… Sweetheart, shame has been bound in your basement too long. Release it. Your floorboards shudder at the thought of your belly, smooth as an apple, kissing flat against it… Worth is not a well to be poisoned… Drive to whatever landmark most reminds you that becoming is a slow glory and leave your shame…”
UNINHABITABLE:
“…he does not allow himself the luxury of forgetting. ::: I am writing about you again today and I wonder, why dig up our sad corpse? …Nursing our fruitless love. Sometimes, I still can’t believe it. That you happened and I happened and this was the best we could do.”
AND IF I AM TO FORGIVE MYSELF:
“So here’s to our blistered feet. Here’s to my whimpering knees, your weary shoulders. Here is the foreclosure of my shame and here is to our brokenness. Look at us being so damn human: yes, it happened, yes, it was not our most graceful unfolding, and yes, we were both so present the whole time.”
AND IF I AM TO FORGIVE YOU:
“Your hand guides my wrist as I write this, even now.”
KNOCK KNOCK:
“the joke is this is not enough to make me leave.”
A STUDY OF FORGIVENESSAS A ONE-NIGHT STAND:
“She wants to give you her body without being in the room.”
O HOLY:
“Consciousness becomes the slow drawing of a bath.”
AND IF I DO NOT FORGIVE HIM:
“I am told that forgiveness is a knife with no handle, not meant to be held, not built to be a prisoner. But why, dear reader, would I give my only weapon away?”
YOUR BEST:
“No matter where you are in life, no matter what you’ve contributed to creating…you are always doing the best you can with the understanding and awareness and knowledge that you have. — Louise L. Hay
And if this was your finest performance—no dress rehearsal, no amputated second act— no longer would I grieve your potential. No longer would I wait up for the return of your soldiered goodness.”
ON ADMITTING YOU ARE AN ABUSE SURVIVOR:
“You catch yourself staring at his teeth, his mouth, searching for that retractable silence.”
AFTER GOOGLING AFFIRMATIONS FOR ABUSE SURVIVORS:
“Oh, what a home I have built in my skull. What a dark, savage forest. There is no furniture, no artisan humanity. No gentle place to undress my own thoughts.
… But what do I do with all this leftover love? My hands were built for crawling on. How do I write myself gently? How do I not worship the shipwreck that stranded me here?”
RELEASE IT:
“You are not the first to domesticate it. Your shame: pretty as a house pet… Lust spent like inheritance does not define you. Let go of being made of want… Sweetheart, shame has been bound in your basement too long. Release it. Your floorboards shudder at the thought of your belly, smooth as an apple, kissing flat against it… Worth is not a well to be poisoned… Drive to whatever landmark most reminds you that becoming is a slow glory and leave your shame…”
UNINHABITABLE:
“…he does not allow himself the luxury of forgetting. ::: I am writing about you again today and I wonder, why dig up our sad corpse? …Nursing our fruitless love. Sometimes, I still can’t believe it. That you happened and I happened and this was the best we could do.”
AND IF I AM TO FORGIVE MYSELF:
“So here’s to our blistered feet. Here’s to my whimpering knees, your weary shoulders. Here is the foreclosure of my shame and here is to our brokenness. Look at us being so damn human: yes, it happened, yes, it was not our most graceful unfolding, and yes, we were both so present the whole time.”
March 18, 2019
“I have always imagined forgiveness
as a garden. A serene landscape
with perfect paths and soft lighting,
not a leaf out of place. But forgiveness
cannot merely be an assembly of lovely
things or the act of meandering pass.
It must be the mud also. It must be
the weeds and the mosquitos and
the hundreds of miles it took you to
walk there. It has to be showing up,
finally, sweaty and sore, only to realize
you went to the wrong fucking garden.
So here’s to our blistered feet. Here’s
to my whimpering knees, your weary
shoulders. Here is the foreclosure
of my shame and here is to our
brokenness. Look at us being so
damn human: yes, it happened,
yes, it was not our most graceful
unfolding, and yes, we were both
so present the whole time.”
as a garden. A serene landscape
with perfect paths and soft lighting,
not a leaf out of place. But forgiveness
cannot merely be an assembly of lovely
things or the act of meandering pass.
It must be the mud also. It must be
the weeds and the mosquitos and
the hundreds of miles it took you to
walk there. It has to be showing up,
finally, sweaty and sore, only to realize
you went to the wrong fucking garden.
So here’s to our blistered feet. Here’s
to my whimpering knees, your weary
shoulders. Here is the foreclosure
of my shame and here is to our
brokenness. Look at us being so
damn human: yes, it happened,
yes, it was not our most graceful
unfolding, and yes, we were both
so present the whole time.”
December 31, 2020
"I have always imagined forgiveness / as a garden. A serene landscape / with perfect paths and soft lighting, / not a leaf out of place. But forgiveness / cannot merely be an assembly of lovely / things or the act of meandering pass. / It must be the mud also. It must be / the weeds and the mosquitos and / the hundreds of miles it took you to / walk there. It has to be showing up, / finally, sweaty and sore, only to realize / you went to the wrong fucking garden. / So here's to our blistered feet." -"And If I Am To Forgive Myself"
Once again, Sierra has knocked it out of the park.
Once again, Sierra has knocked it out of the park.
August 13, 2024
I bought this book as I had chosen it for an English assignment, but I didn't expect to be to moved by it. It is real, vulnerable, and emotional. At times I found myself struggling to understand the meanings behind metaphors and stories, but I would always want to come back to them to pick it apart. Even someone not interested in finding poetic techniques can appreciate the meanings behind her beautiful poems.
Please give it a read, so glad I stumbled across her work.
Anyone know the meaning of the scattered letters on the cover?
Please give it a read, so glad I stumbled across her work.
Anyone know the meaning of the scattered letters on the cover?
December 15, 2019
CW: domestic violence (romantic partner), addiction
Quite a few of these poems I could really relate to (On Admitting Your An Abuse Survivor particularly). Some felt a bit out of place.
I’ve had the privilege of meeting Sierra and seeing her preform live. Her poems always translate better live but are still beautiful to read. Overall very beautiful.
I love what Button Poetry produces and publishes. Big fan.
Quite a few of these poems I could really relate to (On Admitting Your An Abuse Survivor particularly). Some felt a bit out of place.
I’ve had the privilege of meeting Sierra and seeing her preform live. Her poems always translate better live but are still beautiful to read. Overall very beautiful.
I love what Button Poetry produces and publishes. Big fan.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 76 reviews