Becca Brown

Becca Brown Jul 2012

Writing

i've always written best when my emotions run high
when tears spring from my eyes
when my cheeks flush
when my fingers tingle
when my stomach drops
when my heart skips a beat
when my muscles lock up and my breathing stalls and my head feels too light and the room starts to spin

and when i'm done writing
and i drop my pencil on the ground
and the ringing in my ears is gone,
then i have to go back
and reread
because i have no idea what has been written.
i have no idea what words my brain has spat out

That is when I am most proud of what I have done.

Becca Brown Jul 2012

everything is Okay

All day long,
there are explosions all around me.

Some times they're blue
or yellow or green,
orange or purple,
and even some new colors that I never knew before.

Mostly they are red,
and always they stain my clothes
and mark my skin

And at the end of every day I take the debris
and pile it around me.
On my desk, on my bed.
On the floor and stacked on shelves.
Neatly put away,
or strewn about chaotically.

I hold on really hard,
and struggle to keep my door closed
to keep it from spilling out
to keep it all contained.

The explosions make me think.

What's left afterward makes me think.

I think about why this and why that and why them and why me
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

The more I ask, the less sense it makes.

And so when it's too early in the morning
and the sun hasn't yet risen
I use all my pent-up energy to clean my room.
I don't pay attention to what I throw away
I just want it all gone.

And after, when I've let everything go,
I lay back on my bed
and let out a Deep Breath

There are a few hours left until my family wakes up
and the explosions start again,
so for now I will stare at the ceiling
of my debris-free room.
and think
that everything is Okay.

Becca Brown May 2012

The Lost Battle

You broke open my ribs,
and pulled out my heart,
flattened it out,
and sold it for cheap.

Now, like a slave,
it marches in time
with all the other broken hearts,
who lost their own fights.

Why does she deserve you more than I do?
Why is she so much better than me?
Why does she get to call you hers?

It makes me so sad
and so angry
and I feel pathetic
and stupid
all at one time.

My emotions are in a bottle
and I want to throw them away.
I want to open it up
and let them float free.
I want to yell at you
that she's not right,
that she can't make you smile like I do.

But I keep it inside
because I'm scared that you won't see it.
I'm scared that it's all been a lie.

Is that what's been going on?
Have I been lying to myself?
Maybe I'm just holding on too hard.

I don't know what to think anymore.
I'm not sure what to do.
I just want to hold your hand,
and I want to be with you.

Do you miss me? I can't tell.
Give me a hint.
Please. Give me anything.
A secret smile,
a sweet gesture.
Anything
just to keep me going for a while.

I don't want to get off this ride,
but I'm hanging onto the framework.
She belongs here.
Not me.

It's time to give up, I think.
It's time to walk away.
I've lost this fight.
You won't be mine; not today.

Becca Brown May 2012

Lullaby Love Song

Every look
and every sound
everything I get from you
is so valuable.

Time is ticking
and she isn't going anywhere.
I think that I've willed
you to love me so hard
that I'm starting to imagine
that you really do.

"I miss him so much."
"God, he's so cute."
I've thought either one at least ten times today.
No doubt
it'll double by tomorrow.
Triple in a week.
And soon I'll be singing to myself.

I love you.
I love you.
Love me back!
Please oh please oh please, love me back.

Wasting all my wishes,
all my money, all my time
for you to open up your eyes, m'boy
and see who we could be.

I s'pose 'til you come 'round
I'll have to
sing myself to sleep.

Becca Brown Mar 2012

This Game

I shoulda wore a beard
to be (not) myself.
I stand out,
looking dead to the neck,
sitting in the dugout and scanning the dusty field.

I keep my eye on the pitcher.
My heart is going tight;
tighter . . . too stiff to move. (Weakening.)
I let it get a butchering.

I shoulda got myself outta this.
I never saw such a disgusting joke as myself.

I ask to be a fisher, but He exclaims,
"Oh, old geezer, skinny and bearded,
calm down, ease up, and be quiet.
You've worn yourself to threads."

I belong in an old man's home.
I'm a helluva mess.
I'll ask if he found a **** good joke in me
when I head into The Tunnel.

I was broke in the head and paralyzed,
had rolled "unlucky", with an epidemic of "frightening and hair."
But he laughed,
"Quiet, fisher. You'll pay for your sobbing.
I'm only asking you to give the best you have in you."

I know; think of the future.
I will be in this a long time.
I came for more than the ride
and headed screaming into it.

I won't end this lying in a pool of my own blood.

This is a found poem from Bernard Malamud's novel "The Natural".

Becca Brown Mar 2012

Maya

Skinny girl,
why don't you feed yourself?

Aren't you disgusted with your body?

Look how your clothes are baggy.

Look how your bones stick out.

I would hate to be you.

I am happy fat.

"I'm not happy."

Of course you are!
You have to be!
Everyone knows that
when you're skinny, you're happy.

The lighter you are,
the freer you are.
You can fly away if you want to.
You are happy.
You're a liar.

*I will never be happy.

Becca Brown Mar 2012

Best Friends

I thought I had a best friend once.
She was smart and
blonde and
ethical and
great.

We don't talk anymore.
Because she is
vain and
rude and
better than me.

I don't miss her.

I have a new best friend now.

She plays video games,
and likes to read,
and is nice to everyone.

She doesn't start rumors
or tell me she's better at everything
or use me to drag herself out of her sister's shadow.

And even though I'm not myself,
and even though things hurt right now,
I don't worry that she's going to leave me.

Maybe it is unfair to compare them.
Maybe I should leave Was and Is alone.
Maybe I shouldn't
I definitely shouldn't
let it get to me.

But do they ask you, too?
"Do you still talk to her?"
"Have you heard from her lately?"
"What happened to you two?"

She wasn't a good match for me.

I hope you're happy.
(No, I don't.)
I'm sorry that things aren't going well.
(No, I'm not.)
I know that it will get better.
(I hope it doesn't.)

She and I dance in our pajamas
at three in the morning.

She and I danced in a deadly Tango
that never seemed to stop.

We see each other whenever we can,
and kickandscreamandwhine when we can't.

We didn't see each other often,
and it rarely bothered us.

I'm terrified that it will happen again.

Maybe I should leave Was and Is alone.
Very alone.
Maybe I should knock on wood
and pray that Was and Is
does not become Was and Was and Isn't.

I'll keep dancing.
We'll keep playing.
You'll keep keeping.

I hope you're happy.
(I really do.)
I'm sorry that things aren't going well.
(I really am.)
I know that it will get better.
(Everything will be okay.)