Tag: time

Posted in heart, poetry, trust

Get There

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Get There I held on to where I was going like a baby clutching a necklace, grasping at what dangled in my face, fixated, as if my peripheral vision fogged. I only saw that one thing I wanted, that one person, that one boy, and no matter how much people yelled to let go, my heart clung, comforted by an autopilot grip. I didn’t understand why anyone would peel my fingers away from that one thing I wanted, until it was gone, my empty hands opened, understanding at last the only way to get there, was to walk away from it all. —Leanne Rebecca

It’s been a hot minute since I wrote a poem. Lots of life has happened in the past couple weeks and I’ve barely been able to catch my breath. I’ve had to let many ideas die in the wind, barely able to find the time to eat dinner, let alone write anything. I wish time could pause sometimes.

Side note: everything right now is inspired by Paramore.

Good night!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, honesty, poetry

Fade

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Fade Forgotten at 80 miles an hour, headlight after headlight found and lost again, boxes kicking up dirt from the road, moving the dust of passing time, the remnants of traction shifted in changing flight, machines, the people inside faceless to the night. I’m invisible as I drive and know the tail lights ahead can’t see me cry or wonder why my hand rips at my hair as I choke on lyrics, words caught like flies in my windpipe, bowing to the mercy of whatever needs to be screamed and silenced before I reach home. Would he notice if I faded into the shadows between the street lamps, pulled the car to the side of the road and abandoned this enterprise? Or has he forgotten my face, my name as I speed along the highway in my box, collecting dead bugs, nameless to sight.

This poem didn’t capture everything that I needed to say tonight. I’m not sure what it is that I need to say right now or really what emotion I’m currently feeling. Everything tonight is nameless and blurry, and that’s how I feel about this poem. It works because it’s messy and introspective and unclear and honest, but it’s still missing something. It’s missing heart.

Good night my friends,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, time

Tricked

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

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 desire

Deja Vu

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Deja Vu She fought old habits with an almost perfect record, suppressing the desire inside her stomach with the willpower of ignoring nausea, swallowing until the feeling abated, closing eyes until the chunks receded, breathing through each moment and winning. All it took was a single lapse in control for the sickness to rise and remind her of how it felt the last time she fell and his touch and in that second of concession she made the mistakes again in characteristic progression, a single sliver of time to lose herself and everything she’d worked to change. —Leanne Rebecca

My biggest life advice at the moment is to try not to overthink everything. Easier said than done, I know.

Have a splendid rest of your day, friends.

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in life, love, poetry

The After Poem

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The After Poem I couldn’t tell if the light shinning in my room was from the sun or the street lamp camped outside my window. Time was irrelevant, days blurred together by Fireball, unsure if the sickly gnawing in my stomach was hunger or the early stages of a hangover. I rolled over and covered my head with my comforter, choosing the sweaty hotbox of blankets in the summertime over spilled light in my eyes. When I woke up again I heard my roommate talking. Morning. Another human. Still alive. I drank a glass of water and realized I felt ok. The slosh in my stomach had abated with sleep. All I’d needed was time. For the first time in two years I was ok, more than ok. Ready.

The most cathartic moment of struggle is when you realize you aren’t struggling anymore. Yesterday was my 25th birthday and today is a new beginning.

Have a great weekend my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, rhyme, writing

The Not Quite

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The Not Quite I only thought about it for one hour a day, in the hours of bedtime tea, my reflection staring back at me while brushing my teeth before the siphoning of light as night’s shadows settled in my eyes. Only in that time did I feel like the not quite, drifting to sleep in the lullabies that haunted the air in my lungs, analyzing too intensely the songs sung in the daylight. Only in that hour did I give permission to disclose this expression, my secret anxieties to flood my sheets as pinot noir pinked my cheeks, a rush of heat in a kiss of honesty. Only then did I question everything, the not quite searching for a reason, deciphering the origins of these lesions, falling into dreams gripped by a heart stripped to its vulnerability.

Uncharacteristic rhyme tonight. There’s something about this poem that I really love. I almost didn’t write one, just thought maybe I’d let the TV drown out thinking until falling asleep, but I couldn’t just ignore my inner poet fighting to come out. She didn’t want to be ignored and I’m so glad I listened.

Good night!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, friendship, poetry, writing

Roommates

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Roommates Every time I blow dry my hair I think of you, us sitting on the floor on opposite sides of the dorm because the outlets were under our desks. Remember how we didn’t vacuum the entire first semester and that place where the baseboards meet the carpet was caked with errant strands, a second carpet on top of the shitty stuff already there. I still use the same dryer six years later, the same $18 pink one with the retractable cord. I think I told you this but I always thought your hair was gorgeous, the type of hair that had an essence, that reflected the type of person you are, carefree and beautiful with hints of originality, like how you’d wear it in a loose knot on the top of your head. I swear you were the one that started that trend. I remember how you never brushed it, just combed through with your hands and how I stole the practice for three years after that, convinced that if I ripped through the knots with the claws of a brush that I’d do more damage than good. Mostly I just wanted to be like you.

Hopelessly nostalgic tonight. This one’s for one of my favorite people in this world.

Sleep well my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

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 poem, poetry, writing

Jawbreaker

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Jawbreaker I caught my mistakes in my throat, choked on the acidity of sour reality staining my tongue. My lips tinged purple as if I’d eaten a grape Popsicle the blue of not breathing, suffocating as time and energy blocked my airway as if a Jawbreaker had lodged there and I couldn’t cough it up. My neck cramped and I waited for the sugar to dissolve, the lump to melt as I tasted all the flavors of my choices. I swallow now with freedom as intoxicating as spring air, but the scar’s still there, a scratch caught in my throat, the mistakes etched in the memory of my breath.

I sat here in front of my computer for a solid ten minutes, staring at the screen, trying to think of something to write here. Maybe it’s more profound that I couldn’t think of a single thing.

Have a splendid Wednesday!

–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

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

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

Breaking

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Breaking

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Inside Out

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Inside Out