Back

Back  I whispered it when you turned your back, back to the party. I watched you throw back that shot and clench your teeth, head spinning, backwards stepping into the coffee table.  I lean back into the wall, arms hugged to my solitude, holding what you didn’t hear against my stomach.  You’re across the room now, back with the ones I’ll never be. Her smile.   It’s too late to go back in time, for you to hear what I said, the words dispersed into fog, droplets of sentiment clouded by reticence, the rain that wouldn’t drop, stubborn background mist to wade between.   I promise I said it. I’m sorry.  Please come back to me.

Well, I’m back. For the first time since starting She’s in Prison I feel the need to say I’m sorry to all of you. I appreciate your support and I fear I let you down with my disappearance.

Life’s been a struggle. I recently started a new job and have been transitioning into that role. Also my grandma died a little over a week ago.

I’ve felt overwhelmed and honestly, I haven’t felt like writing. I’ve stared at the same blank page for two weeks. I couldn’t move my hand. Just stared.

But here I am. I’m trying and I thank you for listening.

–Leanne Rebecca

Split

Split  She twisted the earbuds as if turning a key, locking a barrier into place, the separation of outward space and privacy. Music silenced the sounds of elsewhere, shutting out external influence, forcing reflection, introspection on where —who— she wanted to be.  She listened to the beats of yesterday with an unfamiliar curiosity, lyrics forgotten,  apathetic to digest them again, past desires dissected into fragments of memories sputtering like a radio tuned one channel off. Static. She looked at the other people swarming  with headphones glued to their thoughts, blind drones mimicking one another, deaf  to sounds outside the brooding melodies, forgetting to free their ears for a few moments and listen to nothing.

I’m a different person today than I was a year ago. I was a different person a year ago than I was two years before that. I’m a stranger to the person I was in high school. Do you ever think about the evolution of your own identity? I certainly do and I wonder if anyone else notices the same changes that I do. I’d like to think they’re changes for the better.

I wish you a top-notch weekend full of yummy food and pumpkin ale. Hey, it’s autumn now.

–Leanne Rebecca

Making Sense of It.

Making Sense of It.  A sheet divides the ramblings of my desires and the secrets beneath his ribs.  I see the shadows of his hungers through the fabric, obscured intentions taunting when the light hits.  Neither of us speak, playing the game, pursuing, hunting, manipulating.   I only know what I feel.

This one may not be about what you think it is. Just consider it.

Have a great weekend!

–Leanne Rebecca

Tiny Brains

Tiny Brains  It was a Sunday night, the day before Labor Day.   We laid on the ground outside of the bowling alley.  She sat on the curb first. I mimicked her artistry, knees crumpling,  muscles oozing like jelly, slinking to the ground in a glob until I’d surpassed sitting and settled on horizontal stargazing.   We played out the therapy session, a cement couch counting the justifications— why I texted him,  why she felt betrayed— we vomited honesty, beer-numbed confessions of hearts the size of our confusion, the hearts that led us to fall on our backs in a parking lot and brains too small to sit on a bench.

Katie, this one’s for you.

I’ve gathered from my Facebook newsfeed that Monday was rough. Too many hearts and brains are fighting. Thank God it’s Tuesday, folks. Call a truce, and then celebrate with pancakes.

–Leanne Rebecca

Sensitivity

Sensitivity  The skin on my fingers is peeling, stressed by the newness of strings beneath. I misstep, stumbling in misjudgment, too far, a sour sound.  The distraction cracks the exercise of muscle memory, fumbling through overthinking I know I said all the wrong things, deafened in the aftermath of mistakes, a ringing of dull notes and your silence.  The calluses flake off my fingertips, daring raw flesh to try again.  But it hurts.

My inner poet disappeared for a few days. She hasn’t been that quiet for that long in quite some time. She’d like to say hello again and thanks you for listening.

Have a great weekend my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Scouring Introspection

Scouring Introspection  It built up like dirty dishes— starting with a bowl and a spoon at breakfast ending with months of fungus coating every kitchen surface.  One ignored doubt—an errant fork— spiraled into a collection of soiled utensils, pretending they didn’t exist, the most annoying part of washing dishes.   The smell was the trigger, the bacteria of rotting confidence permeating beyond the kitchen,  drawing attention to the neglect, the lack of attention  the need to reflect— the introspection that only comes with plunging hands into soapy water and scrubbing.

I’ve been thinking lately, like really thinking and facing my inner self. I’ve been looking at her in the mirror and not just seeing her but talking to her, asking if she’s ok, asking what she wants and what she’s willing to do to get that. I let her speak and I listened, like really listened. She had a lot to say and I know she’s not done talking. So I promised her I’d give her more of my attention. I’m not just going to let her talk; I’m going to let her sing. 

Happy Tuesday!

–Leanne Rebecca

Guest Post: Tokoni O. Uti

17 by guest poet Tokoni O. Uti

About the author:

I grew up in Lagos, Nigeria and developed an interest in literature from an early age. I began writing when I was 10. I attended the International School of the University of Lagos and I’m  currently at Bowen University, Nigeria. I am a Novelist and poet and have  previously written poetry for the Huffington Post, Portsmouth Daily Times, Space Bar magazine, S magazine,Girslife.com, San Diego Free Press, Collective Lifestyle Media, Op-ed News, The Brooklyn Reader and Los Angeles Free Press.

Find more from Tokoni O. Uti on Beautiful Insanity.

The Saga of a Heart

The Saga of a Heart

This was one of those poems that poured out without intention or thought. 20 seconds of real life. 

–Leanne Rebecca

The Last Word

 

The last Word  A poem can be a line, she said.  I couldn’t leave it without justifying, barking thoughts after the fact, a defense mechanism, an expression of my own apprehension to accept simplicity.  I worry what they all think, what he thinks, fear manifested in ramblings that say nothing.  A poem can be a line.

I’m having an out of body experience at the moment, looking at the last week of my life from across a room. I see it and I think I feel it, but I can’t quite believe it’s mine. 

Celebrate luck with wine, good food, and many many hugs. 

–Leanne Rebecca

Speechless

Speechless  My wit atrophies into a freshly erased chalkboard, smeared with dust, remnants of brain activity dragged into a blur. I listen to what you say but cannot speak in return. I taste the chalk of words caked in my closed mouth, too dry to write them with sound.  By the time I find a pen to transcribe my silence, you’ve left. I hit repeat on the same song 9 times while working on this post last night. Every play hit me harder than the last, a compounding obsession culminated in the fact that I’m talking about it right now. Maybe it means something and maybe it doesn’t. All I know is that today is Friday.

Sometimes I talk about the days of the week because I don’t know what else to say but most of the time I talk about the days of the week because their existence seems just as important as anything else. Wow, it’s Friday. Find a song you love and listen to it 9 times in a row.

–Leanne Rebecca

Sprint

Sprint  They gave me a clipboard and a shot of authority, power chased with adrenaline, to prove to ride.  People asked me questions, these followers that consumed my words like salty snacks.  Handshakes locked congratulations into the day that disappeared, the nibbles of a midmorning  munched into crumbs of memories	 by the afternoon, a déjà vu of fleeting confidence.  Maybe someone will remember my face despite the finish line.

This wasn’t the poem I set out to write last night, but it didn’t matter. It’s always ok to let flow take liberties and even though my intention wasn’t quite satisfied, I accepted that my initial concept was a title for another day.

Break your own rules. Happy Monday. 

–Leanne Rebecca