Posted in heart, poetry

As Emo as the Moon

As Emo as the Moon  I thought I’d write about the moon, relate the spectrum of stasis to its phases, as anorexic as its crescent thaw, unhinged in the glow of its full peak.  I thought I’d write about him, the waiting game of lust’s impatience, aging though his silent draw, intoxicated in obsession’s keep.   But as I sing the moon’s luminosity, its brilliance heating in a fever’s stage, I rethink love’s blind fall, and reclaim this heart, this shadowed heap.   The moon will rise tomorrow night and I will scale the expanse of darkened sky, my shoes untied from desire’s draw, free, swept through stars by poetry.   —Leanne Rebecca

Today someone said to me that the light in my eyes has returned. It struck me (in a good way) to hear that. I know the moment that it came back. It was the moment I decided to stop dating.

For three years I’ve bounced from date to date from guy to guy, crashing and burning over and over and over again, convinced in the end that I was incapable of sustaining a romantic relationship, that I was somehow less than, unworthy. The more I dated the more I lost myself.

About a month ago I called it quits, not from exasperation, but from a deep desire to explore my own heart, discover what I love and feed my passions with as much attention as they deserve. For the first time in three years all the pressure is gone and I’m rediscovering the girl I once was, a girl unafraid to sing her spirit, that dances in the car like no one is watching.

I never thought I’d say that the best decision I ever made for myself was to stop dating, after all, we all want to find true love and everyone says the only way to find it is to put yourself out there. But if there’s one lesson I can take away from this last month of soul searching it’s that there’s no hurry.

Take care of yourselves my loves!

–Leanne

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Posted in art, poetry, time

Tricked

Tricked	  The room dimmed with the sunset, the space that hours before had been filled with conversation— friends drinking champagne, investing fractions of their lives in sharing time— now faded into shadow, the imprint of connection dying  as we drifted back to segregation, alone in introspection’s isolation as if the party had never happened, as if he’d never talked to me, as if they’d never met, as if our imaginations tricked us into believing loneliness isn’t a chronic disease.   —Leanne Rebecca

There’s something about the close of the weekend that requires epic introspection. Now is the time, when everyone is winding down and setting their Monday morning alarm clocks, to take a few moments and reflect on what’s running most prominently through your brain.

Sometimes I struggle with these hours of solitude, feeling lost in their isolation, afraid of the silence. Other times I welcome the freedom. Tonight I feel both with equal weight.

Sleep well my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in honesty, loneliness, poetry

It All

It All  It all hides what I know they know that none of us will say, that connections fade like the end of a song, that no matter how much wine we drink and how many laughs we discover, the ache still penetrates once everyone goes back home.  Some of us pour another glass, write a fucking poem  to keep the room from spinning, some of us sing the same song on repeat until we’ve hit all the stages of grief— pretending we’re not bothered, pretending we’re empowered, falling prey to obsessions that eventually break and that last glass of wine comes back up in perfect cue with the final ringing note and two fingers clutching desperately  to this idea that we can erase our transgressions, and live tomorrow  like we’re not embarrassed, as if we don’t know this is all wrong, and we’re hurting each other, suffering with mouths shut, fucking ourselves wishing the whole time he’d call and that I could be a better friend and drink less.   We never wanted to hurt you.  We never wanted to hurt ourselves. But we did it anyway because we didn’t know what to do when the song ended and the produced track fell silent and all we were left with was an empty bottle and an empty bed and no one to tell us what was right.

I used to write all the time, even when I didn’t have a poem in mind. I was a regular at a couple cafes and coffee shops and would set aside blocks of time to make myself at home in their booths, put my feet up, and figure out something to say that day. I can’t write like that anymore, can’t draw inspiration from nothing, concoct a story or rework a random memory into anything with any meaning. These days I only write when I have no choice, when something is going through my mind that I need to get out, and that itch to write is so consuming that I won’t be able to sleep until it’s out.

Today was about obsession. I listened to the same song on repeat all day long. I’m not kidding. This isn’t an exaggeration. I’m not so secretly crushing on the band’s frontman and I can’t get enough of it. The song, “In the End” by Black Veil Brides, is a metal anthem that begs for attention. There’s a reason the video has 49 MILLION views on YouTube. Today I added a couple more hundred to that count. After a day like that, trapped in the grips of passion, the outpouring of emotion, the crying of an entire generation summed up in about 4 minutes, I needed to write a poem. I NEEDED to write a poem. I needed my voice heard too.

Tonight I feel like I could write forever.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Competition

Competition   She learned the hard way that hearts aren’t for winning, that we can fight like wild animals for the eyes of our desire’s prey, but even the fastest of cheetahs and the bravest of lions and the determined of wolves can’t rearrange evolution’s chain.   Some ducks aren’t destined to fly.

Our hearts are our own to hold and our own to love. One of my good friends made the point a few days ago that 99% of all our romantic relationships will fail until one day it doesn’t. Through it all, we must always remember to love ourselves no matter how hopeless we may become at times, no matter how much we feel like the ugly duckling that no one wants.

Have fun this weekend lovies!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Daydream

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, poetry, writing

Eyelash

Eyelash  I make the same wish on every errant eyelash. I peel the escapee from my cheek and capture it on the tip of my finger, think my dream in the capsule of a blink, pucker my lips and let a single wisp of air carry it into infinity.  I inhale reality when I look back in the mirror— one less eyelash to cover with mascara.

I’ve started writing in a diary. I’ve found I like the senseless entries, writing whatever comes to my mind, confessing secrets, knowing no one is ever going to read these words (hopefully). One of my favorite teachers back in college used to tell us to write for 15 minutes a day, no matter what it was. The whole point was to develop the discipline to write. I used to write lists of what I did that day or complain about my homework. But then I finished that class and the journal entries stopped.

About two months ago I started them again, maybe not every single day, but whenever I feel like it. This poem is inspired by what I wrote in my journal today during my lunch break, scribbles about it being February and how it’s the month of love. It provoked a particular memory, something profound that happened to me in a February past, and before I knew it, I’d written this poem.

What do you think of when you think of February?

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Solo Dining

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

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

The Search

The Search  It was a bad match, he and I, the clash of sarcasms the platitude of the air between the unmerged points of view and the stubbornness to see into the other, trusting the existential suggestions of the stomach— duck under the table and run.  Square one— the loss of faith in star alignment and the relief to escape  the confinement of public image, rather be singing in the car than crossing and uncrossing legs in a restaurant, excusing myself to the bathroom— seething at the necessity of first dates, playing a game of would you rather be doing fill in the blank 	anything than continue the conversation with this someone that said I was beautiful.

Who knows what makes two people compatible. What is it about someone that ignites the spark and electrifies our desires? It’s breathtaking when that happens, but equally as profound is the absence of that spark, when just getting through dinner feels like crawling on hands and knees through the mud.

Have a wonderful Saturday my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca