Tag: loneliness

Posted in art, love, my life, poetry

Insanity

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Insanity She imploded into the cavern inside her chest, fizzled from the outside in like a fading ember until he couldn’t see her anymore. She wondered if he’d ever seen her. She stayed trapped inside the hole, buried as deep as the years it took to dig, knowing only one hand could pull her out, a hand she knew would never come. From the darkness she yelled his name, pleading with his fear to reach into her heart and relinquish vulnerability, but he couldn’t hear her, had never heard her. Still she begged, chastised by the echo bouncing off his silence. She wondered how many ways she could write about the same emotion before she exploded.

My dad asked me a couple days ago if I knew what the definition of insanity was. Yes, I said, it’s trying the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. So he asked me why I keep trying.

Some things are worth going crazy over.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Irrational

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Irrational I sat inverted into introspection, ankles wrapped in tension, and focused on my insides, trying to perceive the sensations of the organs, convinced like a hypochondriac that I could feel something there. Fear imploded into my chest as if my heart had turned to lead, heavy with emotions that didn’t need to exist yet, or at all. I couldn’t feel the ground when I stood.

None of us can keep it together 100% of the time, especially when we’re afraid. We eventually learn that it’s ok to fall apart. We become pros at putting the pieces back together, so good in fact that most people around us wouldn’t know we were struggling unless we wrote a poem about it and put it on the internet.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

A Hug

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

A Hug I microwaved a mug of tea and cuddled with it on the couch, pulling my knees up, hugging their substance like I would a pillow or a lover. I needed to feel the proximity of tangibility, something to hold to funnel irrationalities into a moment of quiet— holding a mug of hot tea, holding the pieces of me together one knee at a time.

Sometimes all you need is a hug.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Photograph

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Photograph She nurtured the outside with as much sweat as she could, building her image with layers of lies to the point of almost believing, her ego stacked on new muscle, new clothes, a new haircut. She flaunted the addiction with calculated precision, presenting an edited version of self, tight skinny jeans to evoke jealousy, manipulating the perceptions around to see only what she wanted. They accepted the picture she showed them, unaware, uncaring what ticked inside, because a girl like that, so beautiful, so outgoing could never feel invisible beneath her designer t-shirts.

My friend Katie took this picture of me. I didn’t know she was taking it at the time, otherwise I probably would have made a silly face or looked away. There’s something about candid pictures that are the best because they expose a side of us we so frequently hide from the world.

Tonight’s song is “Fly” by Sleeping with Sirens. Loving their new album.

What are you most afraid for people to see? For me, it’s fear.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Daydream

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Daydream My brain got lost in making pancakes, hands moving in autopilot, measuring and mixing without need for consciousness, the steps ingrained in muscle memory. I wasn’t in the room, hovering over the griddle, sprinkling chocolate chips. I’d floated into my future, grasping at visions of the you that doesn’t exist and how you’d tickle my waist as I flipped our pancakes. I laughed and you hugged me from behind as I piled the cakes onto the serving plate your aunt gave us at our wedding. I’m sorry you had to go before you could eat any. I wrapped them in plastic so you could have them later.

I put my iTunes on shuffle this morning and the first 3 songs that came up all had the word “daydream” in the title. I wonder how much time in the day I spend lost in my own head, making up stories and pretending like I did as a kid. We never really grow out of that. We just learn to act out the scenes inside our brains instead of with toys.

I hope you have a glorious Saturday!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, beauty, poety, writing

The True Orchid

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The True Orchid I walked right past it the first time— hidden behind the ones begging for eyes like supermodels, asking for attention in the spotlight. The plaque at the entrance of the exhibit talked about the rarities of these flowers, but as I moseyed through by myself I felt underwhelmed. It was only on my second time around the room, that I caught the hint of pink peeking out from behind a white array, an interruption of the purity surrounding. I stopped walking, wishing I could step off the path and get a closer look at the most intriguing orchid in the room, the one hiding its splendor, the one that so many people missed.

I don’t often write about flowers. Though I love nature, I never feel particularly inspired by it. However, there was something about this experience today that grabbed me. It was as if the hiding orchid had an emotion, or at least scratched at the emotions I was feeling in that moment. I’m still not even sure what that flower looked like, recessed off the pathway, but by far it was my favorite one today.

If you’re wondering, the exhibit is at the Missouri Botanical Gardens in St. Louis. It’s a beautiful and historically significant place that I highly recommend you visit.

Good night lovelies!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Time and Space

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Time and Space He grabbed my hand as we walked through the restaurant to our table. He’d never touched me like that, so declarative so suggestive of intention, as if expressing ownership. I liked knowing he’d made room in his ego for my occupancy, reading into the gesture all the way to my seat, writing futures in fantasy, imagining what would happen if he never let go. But the images crumbled jarred into nothing as I blinked away the 3 am dream, woken by the buzzing of my space heater and an empty hand, eyes refusing to adjust to the night in the absence of stars, the alignment that skipped over my 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, poetry, writing

Solo Dining

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Solo Dining I’m counting the droplets as they accumulate on the other side of this window. I shiver, too aware of the chill trapped in the glass, drinking my water too quickly without pause of conversation. I’ve already been to the bathroom once, lugged all my stuff with me—purse, coat, phone— uncertain if I could trust its loneliness at the empty table. I’m pretty sure they had sex last night. My server tells me she remembers me from last time, it’s the side of peanut butter, my signature. She says she admires the solo dining. I chuckle, an utterance infused with amusement and lies, wondering when I got so used to eating alone. I lay my napkin across my lap, adhering to the good graces of decorum, even though no one is here to care if I pull the pieces of my French toast apart with my hands or if I lick my fingers or that I dragged my bracelet through my maple syrup, pulling a trail of sticky across the table or that I used my spit to shine up the charm again. I know they had sex last night. She’s in his bed now, a morning cuddle. My server asks if she can get me anything else. A shot of whiskey, I think. She fills up my water before bringing the bill. I’ve sucked it dry by the time I sign the receipt.

The weather’s bringing me down today. Side note: I’m also obsessed with this FOB song.

This is usually the moment I tell you to make the most of the rest of your weekend, but that would be hypocritical as I’m currently sitting on a couch in the dark basement of my parents’ house. At least I’m listening to pop punk.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

To Have You

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

To Have You I swallow nostalgia with the mucus building up in the back of my throat, a ball of what once was scratching as if I’d tried to take a pill without water. Behind every blink I see flashes of friendship, come and gone, the days when I never feared lonely afternoons, when tomorrow was a hopeful word, when I didn’t want to run from today and expunge yesterdays with a worn out pencil eraser, a smeared memory not quite deleted. Those were the days of club dancing, sleeping until noon, pajama parties and vodka, when none of us really cared that we didn’t have boyfriends because we had each other. I swallow the nostalgia, the distance of our cities stuck at the back of my throat, a lump growing like a tumor as we get older and farther away from the days of not caring that we don’t have boyfriends.

Today is one of the rare afternoons on a weekday that I have nothing to do. It’s in those times that I tend to think too much, thinking about every aspect of my life, and not in a healthy way. I have a habit of looking too closely at the minutes of a day, wondering too much about why I’m doing what I’m doing and making a list of all the things that are missing. I envy the people that live so carefree, loving the moment and embracing alone time with love. I wonder if they’re acting.

I hope you catch some sunshine today!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

I’m Not

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

I’m Not I believe in pretending for the sake of functioning, the persona of silence— what people see when they look at me. In the superficial light of artifice I believe in the beauty of my body, the posture of fitted sweaters and long necklaces draped across my collar bone in nonchalance, of tight pants and knee-high boots— the attitude of asking for jealousy. I believe in daytime smokey eyes because it means I can’t let myself cry. There’s strength in my beliefs when make-believe becomes truth. But not today. Today I lied and they all believed me.

Another week has come and gone. Today is the only day that matters. What will you make of it?

Happy Saturday!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, creative writing, poetry

Mischievous You

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Mischievous You I wanted to shut it all out, the thoughts of boys, the obsessing over the way I look for the boys, the glances into my future life with a boy, the frustrations of never finding the right boy, that the right boys don’t find me. Shut it out, so I could stop obsessing over what I was eating, to see the now, to love the now, to know I’m worth it. I set out to stop thinking, shut off feelings for a minute, just a couple of minutes for me, playing hide and go seek with freedom to breathe without racing heartbeats and blush in my cheeks, to guarantee tears wouldn’t find me for those two minutes of pause. I thought I could do it, distract desire, to trick the thoughts to get lost by turning up the volume so loud in my car that I couldn’t hear them anymore. But you snuck through, mischievous you.

Time has felt irrelevant for the past few days. Cheers to 2015 and the end to another weekend. Good night, my friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Grocery Store

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Grocery Store I lived alone for three months in a new city, didn’t know a soul. Every day I’d walk a mile to the grocery store, spend twenty minutes deciding which vegan cookie to buy and walk back. Sometimes it was Starbucks or the farmer’s market in Studio City. Or drive to Santa Monica to buy my cookie at a bakery and drive back to what I called home. Once it was a restaurant and I walked three miles in the smog to get there. I never cried in those three months. It’s only now, years later, when I go to the grocery store alone that the sadness shows. Maybe it’s the guilt of all those cookies piled up on my thighs, the leftovers of a time not quite forgotten or maybe it’s that I didn’t expect the loneliness to last.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Exchanged Digits

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Exchanged Digits At the very least I felt seen. Out of everyone at Whole foods he wanted to hear my voice, to uncover the mysteries of the girl in the off-white blouse and ripped skinny jeans. For a sliver of our timelines we aligned, syncing over groceries, drifting askew just days later, a dinner of hello and goodbye, departing the other’s eye like two cars turning opposite directions at a stop light. At the very least he’d honked at me, acknowledged my skyline, allowed my existence.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Emotional Creature

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Emotional Creature There's nothing wrong with me. I'm swallowed by feeling, the realness of feeling, feelings not wrong, just deep, deeper than yours, extreme manifested in shakes, holding my stomach. There's nothing wrong with me. I stand in front of the toilet weigh the pain, it hurts no matter what, hurts more than you could know. I'll never say, just hold my stomach in silence. There's nothing wrong with me. I curl my knees in, shoulder crammed to the floor pools beneath my face drowning in feeling. I feel. I live. I feel. There's nothing wrong with me.

I’m currently obsessed with “Out of the Woods”on Taylor Swift’s new album and that is the most important news I have to share. Sing with me.

Have a splendid Wednesday, friends.

–Leanne Rebecca