rebecca_v's blog

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.

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.

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.