Tag: heart

Posted in art, honesty, poetry, writing

Black Hole

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Black Hole What do you write about when you’re listening to songs about love the week before Valentine’s day, holding on to how breathtaking the sunset was yesterday as the melancholy of another year is settling into the cracks of your skin? You can’t, because you can’t describe the way it feels, that numbness in your chest, that buzzing of nothingness that hums like florescent lights, tinting the surroundings a little sickly, a green and yellow hue that accentuates the purple veins in your skin, the only proof there’s blood still flowing, that you’re not invisible. You listen to the acoustic melodies of someone else’s beating heart and pretend it doesn’t bother you that no one’s ever told you they love you.

I couldn’t sleep last night. My brain raced and raced and finally at 6 am I decided to just get up and shower. Isn’t it strange how sometimes the things we want the most we just can’t have. I just wanted to sleep in on a Saturday, but some force out there in the universe had a different plan.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, creative writing, poetry, writing

The Key to My Heart

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The Key to My Heart It’s tied around my neck with a leather string, fastened against my chest, guarded by proximity, touching the beat, monitoring its safety. I fear its future keeper, of relinquishing trust to the wrong person, them breaking into my world and destroying what little I own. I tuck the key under my shirt, wondering who will find it.

Today didn’t feel like Thursday, whatever that means. Enjoy your nights my friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Moved

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Moved I wonder if music gets inside other people’s souls like it does mine, if it resonates as deeply, shifts their feelings, affects their physicality. I breathe vibrations of melody into my whole being, evoking memories and sentiments, implanting dreams and fantasies, living lyrics in imagined movies, crying at all the right places, gullible to the director’s verse. I become addicted to the story, listening on repeat, exhausting my ears, singing as I lose perspective on what’s real, living the performance, inventing nuances, dancing to drums, heart jolted by bass, the undercurrent that holds it all together, rounding out sound with breath. I hum the harmony, part of the choir, the life behind the necessities, so engaged in every element of the piece that I forget I’m sitting in the cafeteria at work, chewing.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Fundraiser

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Fundraiser They all shared the same memory, all those moms and dads dressed up in black, shirts ironed, wined glasses drained, purple teeth exposed in opposition to the tragedy lacing their hearts. She told me she couldn’t look at any more pictures, the blue tinged lips, more tubes than days old, the hands they’d never hold again, ghosts smiling slide after slide on the screen in the corner of the room, the babies that inspired the sad moms and dads to tie their ties and sip wine, signing checks, praying for miracles for the sake of someone else’s child.

Dedicated to my sister Becky, whom I never met.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry

Back

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Let Go

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Let Go I want him to squeeze me to the brim of can’t breathe, trapped beneath his muscles, saddled to his chest, counting his heartbeats. I remember how we fit, connected in embrace, synced in sentiment. Hold me and never let me go. I ache for the sensation, a single hug, a hunger settled in my tissues, a dull throb, a fever, a headache emanating from my neck and melting through the entirety of my body. He sits in my memory with a smirk, a smugness of dominance, distracting, waiting, not calling, holding me, his arms existentially holding me. Let go.

Almond butter creme filled dark chocolate #vegan #notsharing

That was my Monday. Bring it, Tuesday.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, creative writing, poetry

Making Sense of It.

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Tiny Brains

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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

Posted in art, poetry, writing

The Saga of a Heart

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Stance

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Stance It’s the stance of someone beaten. I don’t need to know the origin of your bruises or why you hunch your shoulders to deflect eye contact. I hear it in your silence and see it in your hiding, buried beneath pretend apathy, the lies of a fight too fresh to pass the lump in both our throats. I’m not asking you to speak, but beg you to believe we can look west together, comrades of pasts not yet set. We’ve got time to face each other when the sun bleaches the marks on your heart. Writing has been a struggle lately. I spent at least a week and a half incapable of finishing a single poem. I’d start them, sometimes even reaching the second to last line, and then shut my notebook. But this one just happened. I didn’t fight for it or resent it halfway through. It was organic and soothing and I think I know why. I’ve been focusing on me lately, focusing on what I’m feeling and holding on to negativity like a magnet. This poem was a break from that. It’s about someone else and I’m super relieved that something inside me compelled me to reach outside my own brain for inspiration.

Have a great week!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Are You Ready?

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Are You Ready? She asked the question in the earnestness of choice, offering me an out despite the unspoken plea traced in the words hiding behind the weight of decision, my decision to box up my heart --my needs, my fears, my selfishness— and store it on a shelf, collecting dust and waiting. She explained: you can’t expect anything back, must act without being asked, that’s what it takes, effort, your effort. I nodded, a yes flying from my lips in auto response like an out-of-office email, true and direct, but impersonal, shallow. She glared into my irises like a lie detector assessing genuine intention. But she didn’t say anything. Did she not see the waver in my thought which screamed in every blink breaking our locked eye contact? She didn’t say anything, reiterating her faith in me, her compassion to see beyond my flaws, the reason why my mother is the most selfless person I know. I reach down my throat and pluck out my feelings. This isn’t about me, I think, but if there’s one reward to this choice it’s becoming more like my mother, my selfish caveat tainting her altruistic purity.

This one’s a bit different. But I wouldn’t be a poet if I didn’t play, right? Thanks for stopping by and as always, have a happy Wednesday!

–Leanne Rebecca

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

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

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, poetry, writing

Gag Reel

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Gag Reel

Don’t forget to laugh today.