rebecca-mcdade
Scottish
Hello there. I'm Rebecca. / / I'm a Scottish girl currently attending Oregon State University in Corvallis, Oregon to study Psychology. I love words. There are words that live in my head, and I suppose they sometimes come out rhyming. / I hope you enjoy them. / / If you like, you can find my music at rebeccamcdade.bandcamp.com
How many people know you?
Know how many times you roll up
the cuffs of your sleeves when it’s warm?
Or know how many sugars
you take in your tea?
Or how you handle yellow bees?
How many people know what
you tell yourself before you go to sleep?
Do you count sheep?
Or the stars on your ceiling?
Or your scars that are healing?
Do people know you have those?
Nobody knows.
How many people know you?
Know how much you resent the gap
between your teeth?
Or what number you group things in
when you’re counting?
Or what the smile on each side
of your face means?
Or where to find the seams
Where you’ve been torn open
just a bit.
Where those little slits
under your raised eyebrow are.
Do people look hard?
How many people know you?
Know about how much having dirt under
your fingernails drives you mad?
Or how you don’t like to
drive in the rain?
And how you add brown sugar
to everything?
And how you wish you had wings
To fly away over all these people
who think they know you
When they don’t.
They don’t know the first thing.
But they never will.
You won’t let them in.
How many people know you?
Sometimes,
I
certainly
don’t.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
When I wake up in the morning
When I open my eyes
for the first time in the day,
I am orange.
Like the moments between blinks
and the glow on the horizon
and my unkept hair
sitting whispy on my head.
As I get out of bed,
I am orange.
When I am walking down the road
As I’m passing people I don’t know
and who don’t know me,
I am purple.
Like the bright darkness of possibility
that we all can’t see yet
and the faded fabric of mens’ jackets
which I’ll never wear.
When I’m walking there,
I am purple.
When I’m sitting beside him
With our knees touching
under the table,
I am red.
Like the table cloth I picked out special
and the apples on the counter
and the blood that’s rushing
too fast between my ears.
When I’m sitting here,
I am red.
But when I’m sitting by myself,
Alone in my room
calm and quiet,
I am blue.
Like the song that is playing
and the rain keeping time
and the glow from the computer screen
where I try not to live my life
but to which I’m prone.
When I’m alone,
I am blue.
It’s a real shame
that blue is my
favourite
colour
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
I’m sorry that I’m broken,
that I’m sprawled out on the floor
that I’m crumpling into pieces
as you open up my door.
I’m sorry that I'm broken,
that I leave trails wherever I go
and that I never tell you how I feel
so how I am you never know.
I’m sorry that I’m broken,
that I always am unkept
and I’m sorry for those long nights
for me that you have wept.
I’m sorry that I’m broken,
that I’m never in ‘good health’
but I want you to know, I’ll be okay -
I’m trying to fix myself.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
I want to be a part of you.
A part of you you miss
when it’s raining
and all you want is to
feel my heat under the blankets,
or when you’re driving
with the windows down
pretending to be in a music video,
and when it’s night time
and counting all the stars is
impossible without me there.
I just want to be a part of you,
Like you are of me.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
The little lady in the
pink jacket and strappy shoes
passed a man who’s
outfit, she thought,
cost less than her new handbag.
She scoffed.
The tall man in
his father’s good jacket
passed a lady who’s
tight dress, he guessed,
took too long to put on.
He shook his head.
They looked at each other.
Briefly.
Then looked away.
The man who watched them
for the other side of the shop window
reckoned he’d write a love song about them.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
Stretched out
in your Sunday morning way
with your mouth
slightly open
and your hands, together,
curled up by your jaw,
you look like
the best thing
that has happened to me.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
I want to be the quiet girl
who every boy falls in love with.
I want my sideways smile
to steal the hearts
of anyone who steals a glance
at it from the side.
I want to be fragile,
so that people want to
take care of me
as soon as they see me
with my knees curled up
on a chair that is too big.
I want to be the stuff of novels,
and of films,
and of love songs
whose melodies are
picked out on a guitar.
I want the idea of me
to be so delicate
and so alluring
that I’ll never have to worry
about being hurt.
I want to be a beautiful
heart breaker -
the one that they tell their
brothers, mothers, and sons about.
I want to be
what they describe as
the best thing that ever happened
to them.
I want to be
I want to be
I want to be all the things I’m not.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
I have a question.
When you see your reflection
in my eyes,
do you see yourself
as you see yourself?
Or do you see yourself
as I see you?
Either way,
please stay so that I can
figure out my answer
to the same question.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
My head is a picture book novel.
The words and images my mind’s
camera collects every day
have been shaping me
since I’ve been very small,
so that I use phrases from books
I read when I was three,
and I cry at songs
that are meant to be happy.
My actions are reactions
I’ve learned to use
from watching my parents talk
on the phone
or from a clip of a movie
I scrolled past while surfing channels,
or hearing lyrics on the radio
that tried to make a point.
My head is a picture book novel,
but sometimes, even I skim
past the words.
My heart is a palette of colours.
Every person I’ve come across
has made their mark -
be it the sloppy spattering of indigo
from the girl I bumped into in the hall,
or the delicate transition
from amber to scarlet
from him with his uneven smile.
I’d like to think that
I leave everyone’s heart
more beautiful than I found it,
but I know that that’s not true.
I know that sometimes
I forget to apologize,
so I never remove the stains
of grey and charcoal
that I perhaps didn’t accidentally leave.
Maybe in my quest to be a
better person, I should try
to remember to paint over
work I wouldn’t want myself
to be remembered by.
My heart is a palette of colours.
But right now, I wouldn’t
hang myself on a wall.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
There is a time
and place
for everything.
You may not
feel like
the top of
a mountain now,
but that is
alright.
You can feel
like the dried line
on the inside
of your coffee cup.
You can feel
like the leftover
crumbs
on the floor.
You can even feel
like the rain must feel
on a day
the world wants sun,
but do not reduce yourself
to the cobwebs
in the corners
because you feel so.
For even if you don’t feel like
the first ray
of sunshine
in the morning,
or feel like
the comfiest cushion
on your mum’s
couch,
or even feel like
your favourite character
from your
favourite book,
remember that
you would not know
happiness
if you did not know
sadness.
There is a time
and place
for everything.
Do not worry if your’s
is not now.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC