Category: truth

Posted in loneliness, poetry, truth

Wake Me Up

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Wake Me Up The crumbs of yesterday aren’t moving, irritating this space with hyper-stillness: the trash on the kitchen table, yoga mat rolled out on the floor, electric guitar left plugged in, the empty beer bottle and the peanut butter jar on the counter. The ghosts of the girl I was yesterday haunt the room with whispers of what I couldn’t find today: an identity. —Leanne Rebecca

This is the type of poetry I write when I’m listening to Wake Me Up When September Ends on repeat. I spent all night learning it on the guitar and the melancholy of it has infiltrated my entire body. A weird place to be right now.

Good night.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in poetry, truth

Journal Entry

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Journal Entry I converse with living lines that promised they’d keep my secrets, trust binding in blood, loyalty flowing into open arms that will never let me go. I wrote them so that I’d never have to tell anyone the transgressions and truths housed in secret pages, afraid to crack open this vessel encrypted in a handcrafted image. I’m ready to confess the emotional violence burrowed inside, ready to invest in a tangible presence, stop hiding, stop fighting, let insecurity fly: I thought about throwing up after I ate those cupcakes, flush the mistake down the toilet, convinced none of my clothes would fit if I didn’t. I thought about calling him even though he’s ignored my existence for weeks, lost in persistence, disregarding his decision. I cried a couple times this week, worried I’m too selfish, too fragile too dramatic, unstable, emotionally incapable of falling in love with someone that loves me too. I share these truths, terrified.

Posted in beauty, poetry, truth

Empowerment

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Empowerment It’s the neck of a guitar worked by painted nails, edges worn, life’s living evidenced in imperfection. It’s wind dried hair flying across sun blushed cheeks, car windows down, driving 80 on the highway, music so loud the engine’s silent. It’s doing another set of 10 dead lifts as that man watches again, hovering like a wasp across the room, obsessive eyes flickering with a stinger’s bite. It’s sweat soaking the back, snaking down the collarbone, stinging the eyes and blinking through it, not letting 90 degree heat or parched lungs win. It’s crying with zeal, the passion of explosion, admitting truth in tears, relinquishing all control and letting it out, saying it all, feeling it all, the bravery of vulnerability. —Leanne Rebecca

Empowerment is writing a poem instead of falling apart. Empowerment is writing a poem in spite of falling apart. Empowerment is falling apart and writing about it the next day.

Good night my friends.

–Leanne Rebecca