Category: writing

Posted in art, poetry, writing

You and Me, Baby

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

You and Me, Baby I remember the 5 am day and I hold it with a clenched fist, grasping at 3 am tunes in your car, curling my fingers around the east of being in that moment, you and me, Baby, moonlight driving through the Boston streets. I feel the memory in my palm and squeeze tightly, holding hands with your imprint in my timeline, a forever history I won’t rewrite. I remember the 5 am day, the exhilaration of waking life and the turquoise shirt tossed to the backseat. You held me, just as I hold that glimpse of you now, in the lines of my hands, 5 am come and gone and how your face changed when the sun eventually rose.

A new week, a new day, a new opportunity to read poetry. 

Don’t forget to smile today!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Static

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Static If we moved millimeters we’d touch, strangers on planes forced in proximities reserved for intimacy. I keep my arms crossed, compacted in self-inflicted binding, hands to myself like they taught us in preschool. I shift a little, stimulating blood flow to my tingling feet, but in the move our skins meet, that man’s and mine. I perceive of his flinch, the jerk away masked in the stealth of reaching for his drink, his repulsion of contact, one second that makes me question why I fear physicality.

Happy Friday!

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Overlooked

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Overlooked I wore a pearl necklace to feel pretty. I wanted the attention, for the guy making my latte to look twice, for my coworker to shoot me a jealous glare, for a young girl to see me with envy gleaming in her eyes and think someday I want to be her. I wanted to taste affection’s dessert, the outpouring of desire in salivating mouths, to be the chocolate mousse that causes moans, irresistible. But all they saw was the necklace. I like your necklace. What a gorgeous necklace. They saw the chocolate shavings decorating the mousse, snacked on the garnish like kids sneaking a finger full of icing from the cake. They saw pearls on a mannequin and finished their window shopping with a cookie from the food court.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Something Else

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Something Else The cheese in my guacamole. The distraction of a fragment, if only for a second, a moment of heaven— a Something Else. I covet that nonsensical anything else that washes the brain, that gifts reprieve from thinking about you. I didn’t want cheese in my guacamole. They should have indicated it on the menu.

It’s the little things.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Extract

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Extract I throw my lunch away, too disgusted to chew. The sickness hollows deep, painful, as if hairline fractures snake through the ribs, a searing that travels the blood and hibernates in the stomach. It’s crippling, this emotion manifesting in physical illness. I swallow, unsure if the few bites choked down will stay, insides ravaged by love so raw that it’s extract could be harvested and bottled, baked into poisonous desserts and gluttonized by the daring.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

My People

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

My people There’s a part of me in every one of them, split projections reflecting back so that if they stood in a circle a hologram of me would appear in the center. Each one carries a different trait, an elemental slice of who I am— the way she cowers behind her hands, diverting and accentuating the social awkwardness of interacting in public places; the way he relinquishes his soul to music, making sense of emotion through lyrics, expressing a mood in a song choice; the way she overthinks; the tempo that he sings; how she doubts whether she wore the right earrings; that he laughs at inappropriate pauses in conversation; her resilience evidenced in getting out of bed and trying again. They’re my people, friends so familiar we share tears, so close I see their faces in my mirror— without them I’d disappear.

I think it’s important to notate that the rhyme in the last  lines is completely unintentional! The last step in my writing process always involves reading the poem out loud (which probably gives people the impression I’m talking to myself, especially if I’m in a coffee shop or something). Anyway, I didn’t notice the rhyme until that moment and in utter honesty, I liked the individual lines too much to change it. Deal with it.

Happy Tuesday!

Posted in art, poetry, writing

That Thing Called Trust

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

That Thing Called Trust I opened my heart to it, relinquishing power into your volition, touching my palm to yours and memorizing the comfort of unrestrained connection, allowing the circle around my fear to bend for you. I liked the way it felt, to grant you access to my sealed chest, leaving the door a little ajar, the nightlight always shining just in case you wanted to come in, even in the dark hours, in my dreams, the recesses of my head. I found faith there, faith that I was safe, that as long as I trusted without doubt this taken chance couldn’t hurt. I never expected you’d force me to flicker the light, that you’d be the one to swallow my love like whiskey, with a wince.

It’s a new week and I’m pumped to be back. I’m ready to write and so blessed to have you all here to listen. Thank you for standing by my side on this poetic journey.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Glimpse

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Glimpse Sometimes I forget that the sounds are audible because I can’t hear myself. The music’s too loud in my earbuds. I wonder if the headlights coming towards me reflect the glass coating my eyes, even though it’s dark. Would that man walking on the other side of the street notice If I collapsed? My hands shake with the violence of my breath, unable to find pause in the measure of worth. Can you hear me choking on silence, coughing with the helplessness of an asthmatic? Do you care?

This weekend was rough. As such, I’ve decided to take a little She’s in Prison vacation, just for a week. Isn’t there a saying of some kind about having too much of a good thing anyway…?

Have a great week and check back in 7 days for fresh schtuff. 🙂

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Exiled

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Exiled He walked next to me, a foot between our bodies, a distance that only grew to divert obstacles in the middle of the sidewalk— trees, trash cans, mail receptacles. He’d point out a café he liked over there and I’d say I’d never been, a suggestion. We chatted about work and food addictions, ebbing in and out of the serious stuff, family and insecurities, teetering the line of divulging too much, choosing to trust in the other, mostly. And then he hugged me and he left, the sight of his back stabbing me, exiling me into invisibility, just a glare from the setting sun, dissolved into nighttime.

This one’s inspired by “Invisible” by Hunter Hayes.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Protect the Heart

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Protect the Heart The natural cage makes sense, a rigid encasing to guard the soft tissue underneath— supposed to ward off destruction, to support the breathing underneath so we can stand tall, heeding the strength of construction— our innate barrier of warning— be wary of the heart’s fragility I count the ribs beneath my T-shirt. 12 pairs, still there. So why then does my chest ache late at night?

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

To Listen

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

To Listen I skipped every other song, brushing aside the lyrics scribed in MP3s, at my ear’s whim to dismiss whichever ones I wanted. I was walking outside, so I needed beats, the kind compounded with stimulants, adrenaline, to spark my shoes to rebound off the concrete as if springing from a trampoline— I was trying to get a workout after all. I turned the corner onto my street, readying my hands to pause the music, to wipe my sweat and recede back into my house, subjected to an atmospheric beige, a poetically devoid space, a television two napping parents and a microwave. I reached the door, but I couldn’t go in, stopped, as if someone had grabbed my shoulders and yanked them backwards, pleading with my instincts to yield. I sat down on the porch swing, sinking into the darkness of pause, listening more intently to the words rapped in my headphones, and for a moment, I let the stillness rest, let my sweat dry on its own, and waited until the song reached its end before I went inside.

‘I hear your music and I’m listening. Thank you for sharing a part of your soul in your art.’ That’s what I’d say if I could tell anyone who has ever written a song how much I appreciate their work and their passion.

Posted in art, Music, poetry, twenty one pilots, writing

Quiet

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Quiet It’s the stillness that scares me, when time collects in a jar and thoughts settle like dust, caking every blink, every swallow, every breath with extra weight, a heaviness that enslaves the body like an anchor strapped to an ankle, chained, trapped ruminating in one room inside the mind, consumed by the freedom to think, suffocating in the privilege of thought, the torture hidden in the violence of quiet.

The last couple days have been action packed. For one, it was my birthday on Thursday. Secondly, I went on my first business trip. In other words, I grew up a little in the past 48 hours. I like keeping myself busy because it allows for optimum productivity and fun, sticking by the cliche of living every day like it’s my last. But every once and awhile I’m forced into solitude–the three hours I hung out in the airport yesterday and the subsequent three hours on the plane. It’s those moments, when I’m by myself, that the world feels big , and I’m invisible, just an ant in the crowd. Sure, quiet can feel calming at times, like when I curl up with a notebook and spill my feelings, but that’s the kind of quiescence I choose, the kind of quiet that begs for reflection. I wish I could remember to savor that sensation of stillness and learn to live devoid of loneliness. My company should be enough.

This one’s inspired by “Car Radio” by Twenty One Pilots. Quiet is violent.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Gag Reel

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Gag Reel

Don’t forget to laugh today.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Tunnel Vision

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Tunnel Vision

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Breaking

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Breaking