Posted in art, poetry, writing

Privilege

Privilege  I licked my spoon in the pleasure of indulgence, treating my mom to a couple glasses of wine and two chocolate desserts, both split in commitment to forgetting about men.  I ordered another glass and she laughed at my hesitance. This is what life’s for, she said, she said, a woman that owned one dress growing up, a dress her sister had sewn her.

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Posted in art, poetry, writing

Too Much

Too Much  They call it Pain Tolerance, measured in a threshold determined by the wearer, a number of fingers you can withstand before two hands shortfall the scale,  a 10 spectrum limit that fails to consider all the categories of this feeling’s complexity.  Am I at a 9 because I’m still breathing?  There’s a numbness beyond comprehension that confuses the brink of my endurance, as if the ache resides in negative space. an inverted sensation, the vast white surrounding the ink blotches  that could explain this intoxication. I changed the last word of this poem at least 6 times, and with each revision, I found new meaning inside my own lines. I implore you to take away your own interpretation. Sure, I wrote the poem, but the meaning is not absolute. What it means to you is just as significant as the reason I wrote it. I write poetry for me, but you read it for you. We’re equals in this process.

Happy Monday!!

–Leanne Rebecca