Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
  Jan 2020 rebecca
at midnight
my hair had been a tangled mess
pulled back in a bun

at one a.m.
it had been a wave atop my head
greasy but beautifully dramatic

at two a.m.
it had been a nuisance, oil at the roots
but i said i looked too pretty to take a shower
(that’s such a funny and sad reason)

at three a.m.
i got the idea to cut it
i said, “i need a change, talk me out of it”
and you tried; thank you for that
but even so

at four a.m.
i cut my hair

and i didn’t feel any different.
i cut my hair to feel something and i just feel the same. it’s like that, sometimes. at least it looks okay. no complaints.
rebecca Oct 2019
She acted like diamond, and
shattered like glass.
Some odd mix of beautiful,
and terrifying.
I loved her like that.
rebecca Sep 2019
Do you ever wake up, wistful
for a dream?
Knowing you left an entire world-
a better world-
behind, moments before,
as you woke?
What that world was, exactly, escapes your mind.
But it was yours.
And you want it back-
it was just a dream
rebecca Nov 2018
Anytime you really, truly want to just walk away,
Not glancing back or up or sideways or
Down, come to me.

We can hop in the car. get a bike. hell,
Even just walk. sounds good enough for me.
‘Course, we can’t just walk away. we’d lose-
Lose what semblance of a normal life we have now,
Lose the majority of the people making up that life.

But we’d get out of this place, this place
Eating away at our souls, our very beings.

Forget those people. forget this life. take my hand, let’s just
Run until the desert finally kills us. but maybe, we can escape.
Escape what we already know, already despise-
Escape into something better.
“And We’ll Be Free”- I Will Wait, by Mumford and Sons
rebecca Oct 2018
her breath caught,
her tongue tied.
why does she always feel
like she has to hide?
sometimes it's hard-
keeping it all inside.
  Oct 2018 rebecca
She Writes
You were not forged with wings
To spend your life perched upon a branch
Watching the world pass you by
rebecca Oct 2018
I’m not going to take a razor,
and slide it down my own arm.
I won’t go grab a knife, or scissors, or a flame,
and cause myself physical harm.
I won’t be falling with a noose around my neck,
begging for it to take my last breath.
Nor swallowing a bunch of pills, in hopes.
No, I won’t be causing my own death.

But if I saw a car, coming right at me,
while I still had a chance to get away,
I can’t say, with certain certainty,
“Oh, I’ll step out of its way.”
And if an older, stronger, bigger man,
was stopping me on the street,
knife at my throat, gun at my head,
I don’t know if I’d have it in me to scream.

I write poetry to escape,
though I’ve got a smile as I do.
No one knows the kind of thoughts I’ve had,
no ones ever honestly asked me “how are you.”
I feel like I’ve been begging for help,
sending out pleas, screaming inside.
But no one has the vaguest idea I’m in pain-
there’s just too much that I hide.

But hey. I’m not going to take a razor,
or a flame or a noose or some pills.
You don’t need to worry about me,
It’s not going to be me who gets me killed.
Next page