rebecca_v's blog

Oh and the promises whispered
Ever so cautiously across
That thin web of phone line;

It was a sigh that released the
Anger, the
Terror, the
Jealously, the
Imperfection, the
Caution, and
Blew them to the wind,
Blew them away,
Blew them to the back of her mind.

And from there she dove
Surface tension broken and caution thrown aside,
Into a pool of no known depth,
Into the Ocean? (Oh, how she could hope)

Into the air went her heart,
And she let it fly,
Fly,
Fly away.

Oh you,
And you’re dignity, pride
Washed away like chalk flowers on asphalt.
Petals melting away as
The drops beat down
Beat down
Beat down.

The drunken man on the park bench,
Waiting alone in wonder, fearless
As he has nothing left to lose.
Oh,
But are we not all alone?
Are we not all waiting?
Are we not

Wasting away in our emotions,
Pooling together to be secure,
When really is it not every man that creates the essence of danger?
Pocketbooks held close
And eyes left empty
And the man who only wants compassion
Is left

Like that sketch on the pavement,
For another day,
Another day,
Another day.

Blurry photographs out the backseat of her mother’s car. Capturing the smell of cigarettes and wet dog, mixed with the old-man-smell of artificial pine hanging from the mirror. Highway flashes by in disposable memory. One minute it appears and the next it escapes the view out of this pane of glass and is gone. The feel of the cloth against her bare arms and the long hair tickling her neck in necessary comfort. The awkwardness seen in her movements. The silence in which she moves her arms and repositions herself on the seat. Her mother sits in silence, hands gripping the wheel so tightly that blood escapes her fingers and they are left white and lifeless. Her face is grim, a stretch of pink lips on pale skin. Eyes hard and stern from worry, from too many tears already shed. Read more »

Beautiful?
You think,
As she whispers down that staircase
Like the heroine of a particularly predictable film.

This is:
A film of your life
Playing before your eyes.
You block out the painful parts with tears in your eyes,
And whispers on your lips
That if you could make it better
If you only could make it better
If only...

This is:
An album left on the table
For someone else to dust,
For it is too much
Just too much
Just...

This is:
Her words in your ear,
So carefully placed to hang
Like ghosts
Because you have stopped listening
To her precious vocabulary
Her carefully predictable vocabulary
Her..

It was just a suit case
Placed above the stairway
Never would she think
Of what that meant.

Thinking of a family photo
Torn in too
And left for nothing.
She can’t imagine how she left
And never went back.

Sleeping in a bed that’s pulled in two directions,
She rests her head without
His whispered goodnight.
She never understood before
How close could be so very far away
When all she wanted was to see his face.

The television blares
To scare away the monsters in the darkness.
Of course her mother doesn’t know
That there are worse things hiding underneath her bed.

A photo album left undusted,
Resting in an empty drawer.
She steals away with their wedding picture
And leaves it underneath her pillow.
Pretending is so easy when his face
Is just a pillowcase away.

Her arm flings back in a perfect arch, her fist a flurry of ebony fingernails chipping at the tips. The impact of her hands smack and the Victim falls onto the pavement in unconscious confusion. There are gasps of dismay and disbelief, but Ebony Fingernails walks past them, the chains of her pants clinking in disarray. Her fist flies and then she is gone, her deed done, and she is through with this.
Lucy tucks her knees underneath her at her pant legs. Her hands are folded in her lap, and she sits on the grass before the curb. She is fascinated, her eyes playing over the flock of girls slapping lightly at the Victim’s bloody face. A crowd of boys hang off to the right, planning, perhaps, to disappear before she awakens. Ebony Fingernails is clinking her way down the sidewalk on the other side of the street, her arms folded over her chest. She’s skinny, Lucy marvels, so wonderfully skinny that she nearly swims in her oversized black zippered sweatshirt. Read more »

Girl
Falling into oblivion,
Taking solace in the words of her black pen
And staring back
Into the eyes of every stranger
That appear upon the pages
Of her sketchbook.
She will let them read her thoughts,
See her soul,
For they are as simple as they seem.

She signed her name
Long ago
On her forearms
Whispering every mistake
And she cut away the letters.
She was anybody
And she hated herself for that.

Long sleeves and black mascara
Cover the pain in her eyes
And in her heart.
He’s just a boy,
It’s just a class,
It’s just one cigarette.
Everything else can wait.

Little girl,
Where have you gone?
Your father misses you so.
Little girl,
In the sneakers and the smile
Your face is just as it was so long ago.

She takes a sip from her brown bottle
And slips her pills
Down her throat.
Her arms are scars
And her heart is on a permanent vacation.
She hasn’t made a wish since
She was just a

Little girl,
Where have you gone? Read more »

Her hands rest in her palms,
And should she lift her face again
The tracks of her tears
Would glisten beneath
This phosphorescent light of this pathetic eating establishment.
If I were to speak with her
I knew she would tell me
That Misery is whispering in her ear once again.
Of course,
A word has never escaped her lips
That was not riddled with her pain.

There is a knock on her door
And she is afraid to answer;
The last time her door opened
In walked Deceit.

Your whispers in my ear are a pathetic attempt at telling me you love me. I disagree, you see, with your quiet logic about how every moment with me is priceless, how I am some work of art that very few can touch but all seem to admire from afar. Of course, your words are rhythmic and sweet, but I know that you’re lying and that’s all that matter to me.

Because of course I am not some masterpiece painted by other’s hands. You neglected to think of other symbols of this seemingly sweet comparison that wrap themselves around my thoughts. I was not a splotch of paint on a palette before I came to be who you “love”, I was just a child afraid to speak in case someone did not want to hear. I was so quiet before you came and wrapped your greedy little fingers into my heart. My quiet words were not good enough for your ears, and so you molded me like clay and made me who you thought I should be. Read more »

She’s lying there
Trying so desperately
To drop into the floor and never return.
She’s singing words of hatred
At the floorboards
That let his anger drift up to her ears.
She wipes away the tears
That just won’t stop coming
And wishes she had someone who loves her
Just as much
As she hates him.

He scratches away with his penny
At his maybe-next-time tickets.
He wants to win it big
But I know he never will.

Now, boy,
There are some rules
To this complex game you’re playing.
Testing fate,
You are,
Because of her attitude
And how it seems to morph
From hatred to pleasure
In just an instant.

Of course, boy,
There is nothing simple about her.
Because even when you feel so close to her,
As if you know it all,
She may be on the verge of self-destructing.

But,
You cannot dwell on her flaws
Or she’ll find you all together too worrisome
And she’ll push you out
Of her door.

Please boy,
Just let her be.
Watch her chase away the butterflies
With the blue wings that she so loves,
And let her leap into your arms
Without a second thought.
She is,
Boy,
Who she will always be;

Your impulsive princess.

Of course you don’t understand
Mother;
You’re only around long enough
To tell us that you love us.
Of course you don’t understand
How hard it is
To let you drive away again.
You’ve never seen me cry for you,
Mother,
So you wouldn’t understand
How often I want to.

Man: He leans forward, preparing for this story. She would be the first to hear it. He nearly collapsed with hope, she was the only one who would really listen; the only one who could really try to understand.
I suppose this story should begin with a boy. His name was lost many years ago, and so he shall just be “the boy”. This boy was not very much to look at, very plain really. But, this boy was not like many other boys; he was very quiet as a child and talked very rarely. He was extremely self-sufficient, he could make his own meals at the age of seven, regulated his bedtime on school nights, and watched his diet to make sure he was getting enough vegetables. He lived in a medium-sized house in a good neighborhood, but his mother worked quite a bit and his father never seemed to be home.
Read more »

Scene: A messy room, clothing sprawled across the floors and nearby furniture, adorning desks with faded denim with ripped knees and tees marked with shiny acrylic messages. The walls are painted pink, and the curtains are spotted green and blue and flow freely across the room from the wind blowing through the open window. In the midst of the clutter spread across the white carpet, gray in the dim light, is a bed. A small twin with a canopy covering the stainless white ceiling is ruffled with pink and blue at the tips. The room is spacious and well-decorated, clearly the work of a little girl.
The room is empty. Read more »

I'm thinking about making a podcast, eventually. Tell me what you think.

Glass eyes
Fixed on the horizon
They don’t let her speak
Her mind.

She’s running in overtime
And lost
In the moment.
Words fly through her lips
Like sticks of dynamite
That strike him
And make him bite his lip in
Pain and perfection.

She’s speaking to him
Her words of wisdom
And he thinks that she’s lying
Because he has yet
To understand.

Quiet words
Quiet moments,
Let her think
Of her perfect collapse,
Dry her tears
Fix her makeup,

It won’t stop her from lying awake.

And he whispers in her ear about fairytales
And hopes that it will stop her
From giving up.

Too late boy,
She’s already fallen.
Too late boy,

She’s already dead.

Scene 3:

In the silent car
With Daddy,
Who speaks incessantly
To her
About her beautiful
Baby
Brother.

Hunter Joseph.

Mommy
Waits in the big building,
Tan bricks
And miles upon miles
Of never-ending cars
Parked and honking.
Loud.

Daddy speaks and she listens,
Carefully,
Stares out the window,
Leaning against the hearty plastic of the car seat.

Scene 2:

Sitting in a bedroom,
Soft light from the window,
Afternoon.
Mommy sits before her,
Propped on the bed
With the heavy comforter
The sheets poking out from beneath.

She traces the gold diamonds
And green circle patterns with her fingers
As Mommy
Speaks to her.

Baby?

She sees the cheer in her mother’s eyes,
The love,
The excitement.
Her hand falls to her belly.

Baby.

Scene 1:

Memories on the living room floor.
Green carpet invites her
Into it’s enveloping arms,
Stretches before her,
And expanse so similar
To the soft grass outside
That plays with her eyes
And tickles her knees.

A man’s face,
An oval of tan skin
Brown eyes peering at her
The light shining so bright,
So welcoming.
She is cloaked in his arms,
Smells his being.
Daddy.

The woman on the couch
Smiles
Hazel eyes
Alight with the warmth
Of the room,
Of the house.
Mommy.

As radical as it is,
Your face brings back memories
From before.
Before him,
Before everything,
It seems.

Back when I didn’t even know his name,
Back when my hair
And my face
And my body
Were good enough.

And it’s seeing you on the street now,
Smiling at me
As if nothing had changed
That makes me

Realize
How much I love/hate
People like you.

I have no idea where this came from. I'm having some major writers block so bear with me and this kinda sucky poem.

Not quite understanding
The soft meaning of your words.
I know
You’re trying so hard
Not to break me.

Let me snap
Let me fall.
I deserve every harsh word
For not quite being good enough
For you.
For anyone.

Singing simple lyrics
As I’m slipping away
From the memories of you
That only sting
As I see now
That you never could have loved me
Like I loved you.

This is my first real short story, so bear with me. Comments would be appreciated, Im not sure if this is really clear.

Blurry photographs out the backseat of her mother’s car. Capturing the smell of cigarettes and wet dog, mixed with the old-man smell of artificial pine hanging from the mirror. Highway flashes by in disposable memory. One minute it appears and the next it escapes the view out of this pane of glass and is gone. The feel of the cloth against her bare arms and the long hair tickling her neck in necessary comfort. The awkwardness seen in her movements. The silence in which she moves her arms and repositions herself on the seat. Her mother sits in silence, hands gripping the wheel so tightly that blood escapes her fingers and they are left white and lifeless. Her face is grim, a stretch of pink lips on pale skin. Eyes hard and stern from worry, from too many tears already shed. Read more »

This is nothing like you see
In the movies.
Every tear
Rolling from every
Perfect eye.
Simplistic villains
And heroes
Unknown to failure.
Fairytale images
And plots
And schemes
And minds.

This is real life
Red-faced
Angry
And sad
And exhausted.
And nothing.
Busy
And bustling
And not-all-there.

For Death
Is so crude
And so real
And so alive
That it’s hard to imagine
That this is what
We live for.

It began with a photograph. Not of the main character of this story, nor of her mother, as she left early on, bringing her baby boy with her. They had left long ago, just like her pride, just like her heart. No, the photograph was of a window. A window with sweeping violet curtains that were held back with intricate silver clasps. If you looked closely enough at these fastenings, you could see the faint outline of a bird. It’s shining eye large and innocent and soft against the rough exterior, the blank canvas. A bird flying into nothingness, seeming to move and stopping halfway. This is Lucy’s window, her curtains held back to reveal indigo sky laced with the remains of magenta and mandarin sunset. And in this indigo sky, in the nearly invisible foreground, just outside of her window, is the black and treacherous outline of a willow tree.
But in the beginning, this tree was not treacherous, or black. In the beginning, the willow tree was beautiful.

When she steps out,
The breeze
Lifts her hair.
Ears ringing with his voice,
His words.

Voice shaking
From his hands
And his anger
And his demands.

The breeze breaks through the door
To her heart
And opens in wide
And lets it leak
Out
On his doorstep.

Another thing
He has to keep now.
Another thing
She can not regain.

She’s sweating,
Tugging at the collar of her shirt.
The white polo,
His favorite.

She thinks it clings around the places
She wish no one could see,
Especially not him.

She hates him,
But he knows her like no one else does.
He’s seen every curve
And she’s afraid of it.

Inside she’s reeling with her simple defeat,
She needs him
To get by,
She needs him to keep moving.

He is the simple addiction
That leads her into the depths of
Every complex one she owns.

And there are so many...

Addictions she owns
Like old dolls from long ago,
Not brave enough to throw them away.
Not brave enough to say no.

Maybe because it hardens her up inside.
Changes the way she feels
And thinks
And loves.

On the outside
She rests her eyes
In simple peace
Because sense means nothing
To her.

Not now.
Not ever.

Maybe because she’s afraid to speak it,
Afraid it will change the way
They feel about her.
It sure has changed the way she feels about herself.

She bathes in scalding water
And burns him away.
She’s so afraid of him
But he just can’t leave.
He is her soul now.
He’s branded her with his name.

She feels like she wears his stamp
On her forehead.
She can’t ever forget his name.

Attention.
That’s all your pretty little tears
And perfectly smudged mascara
Achieves.
Waterproof isn’t for you
And your selfish little pity-parties
For anyone who stops by
To pat your arm
And tell you
That
“Everything will be alright”

You break into fits of sobs
When everyone’s watching
Because to you
It’s all fun and games,
And the sobbing is just your
Cute little trick.

Come here,
Come here,
See I need you more,
I need your sleeve.
Let me wipe my nose on your sleeve.
Come here,
Come here.

I won’t ever come
To you.

Who am I?
Stuck coloring inside the lines
With pink crayon,
Scraping away the fresh shavings,
Because I don’t think I can make much
Out of them.
What’s to do with the flakes of
Fuchsia wax
Staining the thin white paper.
What am I?
Secretly screaming inside my mind
Because I have so much to say
But I’m so afraid to speak it out,
Let it free.
Capture the moment
And let it roam outside the collapsible tent
That is my mind.

You can’t remember it all.

Who am I?

I can tell
That you see every
One of them.
Whispers behind carefully placed palms,
Just quiet enough
To yearn for it.
And you know you shouldn’t,
But it’s there.

Your simple addiction,

Left at the hands of those who
Know.
And knowing
Is everything to you,
Every whisper means power,
Every secret
Is one more thing
You can hold over her perfect little head.

Because really,
Everything is more complicated than that.
Really,

Your addicted to her.