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 Jan 2014 Becca Brown
carmen
lists
 Jan 2014 Becca Brown
carmen
I make lists
to organize my life into lines
on a page
some lists are for groceries
others for wishes
I make lists of "to do's"
for the satisfaction of crossing them off
I scribble thoughts onto paper in the late hours of the night
I make lots of lists
of things I'm grateful for
of goals still awaiting their accomplishment

to remind myself I exist

I guess it's also a form of obsessive compulsiveness
that comes with not knowing who you are
or being unsure of where you're going
I make lists
to slowly, deliberately, write myself into a person
cp
 Jan 2014 Becca Brown
Megan Grace
fin
it's just

that I hope macaroni and
cheese makes you miss me
and that you'll be downtown
and drive by my building and
see my car and feel an ache in
your chest because you are not
allowed inside anymore and
that your hands can barely
play all those songs you wrote
about me at your shows and
that the book on astronomy I
gave you glares at you from
the shelf and that no one will
kiss you like I did, no one will
make you shiver like I did, no
one will light a fire inside of you
like
I
did.
is it wrong to be this mad?
 Jan 2014 Becca Brown
mads
From afar I stand structurally sound,
No large gashes or permanent pinkish slashes,
But wind your way closer and peel back your eyes
The rust begins to show,
Climb inside I'm slowly eroding,
And collapsing.
Most feel it's better to partially admire
From behind a series of cement structures
Only glimpsing at my strength and stability.
So tired, so done
 Jan 2014 Becca Brown
Peach
You fill my lungs with smoke

Your body burns
Between my finger tips
While ash falls slowly to the floor

I know that you are toxic to my health
But I've been addicted in the worst possible way

I....
Crave you in the morning

I can....
Taste you in the back of my throat

I need you
Like no other

I want you
More than my next breath

You are just like a cigarette
You’ve infected me with your cancer
Quit you I must,
Before you bury me in the ground
And turn my body into dust

© 2013-2014 Peach
 Jan 2014 Becca Brown
Peach
My lips have never known the taste of yours.
My nails have never scraped down your chest.
My legs haven’t wrapped around your waist.
No my body has never had the pleasure of being pleasured by you.

You haven’t slipped off my dress to caress.
You haven’t pulled my hair just to kiss down my neck.
You haven’t ****** me until I’m left screaming.
No your body doesn’t know the heat of mine.

But here we are covered with guilt,
Wearing that scarlet letter for this emotional affair.

© 2013-2014 Peach
 Jan 2014 Becca Brown
bc
One
I hate myself.
Two
I'm scared to sleep at night because whenever I close my eyes it's as if the ruthless words of hatred and disgust that you throw at me relentlessly replay over and over in my head as if it was a broken record perched on the top of a dusty shelf that isn't within a reachable distance.
Three*
I don't know who I am anymore. I lost her somewhere within this sea of sadness I plunged myself into.
Four
Fat, Ugly, Worthless. Fat, Ugly, Worthless. Fat, Ugly, Worthless.* These are the words that taunt me everyday and latch onto me like a bloodthirsty leech that just found a new piece of flesh to feed off of.
Five
Whenever somebody tells me to be who I am and that they won't judge. I laugh. I laugh because being who I am is just a distant memory. I cant be who I am because I lost when I skipped my first meal. I lost who I was when I learned what it felt like to genuinely hate myself. I lost myself when I learned how to numb myself so that I feel nothing at all. Now here I am in present time, curled up in a ball of my own self pity, crying out all the feelings I wish I had.
Six
Somedays, I wish I could find the me that loves me, but I can't because the horrid words that you uttered to me stabbed her over and over again relentlessly and when you finally walked away, she stood there bleeding out all the love and trust she used to have.
Seven
I hate telling people how I really feel because they take it as a yearning for attention, not a cry for help. I hate telling people how I feel because they would treat me as if I was a problem and not a human.
Eight
I just wish that someone would paint on me as if I were a blank canvas and turn me into something magnificent because I am tired of continuously painting
myself in hopes that my tear-stained cheeks, lifeless eyes, and pain will turn me into the beautiful girl society expects me to be.
Nine
I just wish I was normal.

-b.c.
First poem I published on here, I hope you like it. -b.c.
 Jan 2014 Becca Brown
erin
Cold bathroom tiles
press against my face

nausea, regret, shame, guilt

I lie in a pool of thoughts,
not blood
because it's not liquid
but invisible words that pour
out of my veins
and form puddles of paragraphs
growing on the floor

Around my wrists and up my arms
I've transcribed my pain in ink
but it smudges now against
uneven grout

The vocabulary of my anxiety
I've tried so hard to conceal
flows freely

My biggest fear:
that someone will find me
drowning in subconscious
only to decide that
I'm not worth saving.
 Oct 2013 Becca Brown
Redshift
my anxiety makes me feel like someone has cramped me into a little box
and my lungs have shrunk
and i cannot help but tremble
and i wonder if the millions of other people
who are so afraid of existing
would crawl out
and sit with me
so we could try to make each other
braver
cut a lip
with a fist,
maybe

these melt-away anti-anxiety tablets
don't work well enough for me
the coiled spring in my chest
is threatening
 Oct 2013 Becca Brown
babydulle
You were always the last bus home
As though
If I didn’t catch you I’d be stuck waiting for a lift I’m not sure would come
I missed you often.
Always went to the wrong station
I read your numbers wrong
You were vivid, neon flashing
But I wasn’t wearing my glasses
I couldn’t see you properly
I thought I deserved the long walks home
As if chalky hills and borrowed books torn up into pieces were the only things I could hold onto
I always managed to lose my return ticket
Some days I did it in the hope that you would let me on for free
Let me in
Do not close the doors automatically
As if I am not worth the wait
I am worth the wait
Don’t drive away from me again
I am not begging
I am not praying
I am asking you to come back for me
Reverse to a time when we discussed frame sizes and half flamed dreams under fairy lights
Come back to a time when you thought I was something special
I met you in gold and black shadows
Like we were sweeping statements of colour
Thrown together
Into a palette
Paint with me
Do not separate me like ink and oil
Do not separate yourself anymore
We are not cheap materials
We are quality
Treat us like it
Treat us softly
Take my hand and follow me across the canvas because honestly, it’s all I am good at doing
Making a rough pattern of a future I was never sure I’d have
I can find the destination but I need the petrol of your spirit
I need your headlights, your windows into things I don’t understand, your compass into things I am not brave enough to dive into
Guide me
And once you have finished
Please. Take me home.
 Oct 2013 Becca Brown
Tim Knight
You’ve paid for somewhere pretty to smoke
yet not realised that your decorated,
thin cold icing and sweet to taste, lips
will be ruined from every second cigarette ****.

But I forgive you
because your eyes are olive,
tried and tested and true.
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