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Apr 19 · 53
too much
Becca Lansman Apr 19
Do you ever feel like a dam about to flood a city
Like a cassette tape that cant be played

I am a burst pipeline
Oil, and soot, and storm

swirling, spinning, stuck
Between two unmovable ships

Like a child patiently waiting to be held by a distracted mother.

Like a ****** waiting for the blood of her first ****

There she is;
my womanhood, like a flag of surrender splattered on your white duvet

Laughing, sweating, waiting
Apr 2020 · 801
ode to my bathroom
Becca Lansman Apr 2020
finally; after i have clogged all the drains in my bathroom;

the tub--
stomach acid stained, a lingering ghost of putrid bile.

the sink--
gurgling chunks of yesterday.

i buy four XL bottles of drano
only to empty them within the month.

my poor ancient drains--
begging me to stop baptizing them in electric acid.

my throat pleads  the same.

i dissolve the body of my secret lover
but can't seem to rid her haunting memory.

i cannot pick up my sack of skin to confront the drug store clerk for just one more bottle of drano.

forced to my knees
singing  lullabies into the toilet bowl.

trying to wake myself of this bad dream.

hey God-- remember me?
I have built a shrine on my bathroom floor for you--

a well of unseen tears.

how am I simultaneously less and more body with each waking day?
trying to birth and abort myself with the same *******.

i am the sick twisted joke with no punch line.

i am drowning in my own toilet bowl--
i have built this grave; and now must swim in it.
Apr 2020 · 965
ode to my ED
Becca Lansman Apr 2020
It is comfortable here

The purging.
The pulling.
The pressing

Molding into less space.



Ornamental skin over bones

You feel safe here
the control
The confined
Closed Corridors

You have made a den out of your guilt
Now you must live in it.
Apr 2020 · 357
Color blind
Becca Lansman Apr 2020
A shadow enters my room
Immediately I turn to clay
Gripping and molding I become
The shape of his hands

I am a broken record
Making music in all the wrong ways
He throws me on the ground

and I go silent.

A cascade of force hurricanes my small frame,
I quake
A bee without a stinger

Our bodies orchestrate
like an out of tune violin
He tells me

“you feel so good”

How can two instrument play such different sounds?
The same chord just out of key.
He tells me again

“you feel so good.”

I dry heave–

he cradles my cold dry shape

how can two bodies feel
in such different hues?

Him- red, hungry
I – parched, pale

I think—
He must be color blind.
Mar 2019 · 1.3k
Becca Lansman Mar 2019
My bones bubble with lava
red pustules absorbing the hot air an angry cloud full of
hail and snow and sleet
blockades my throat
I am all feelings and no action
all body but no voice
Wet and Wanting
All ears and no mouth
All tongue and teeth and spit
but no words
A violent storm with no landing zone

What am I to do with all this wreckage?
Sep 2018 · 7.5k
the butcher shop
Becca Lansman Sep 2018
You walked into the butcher shop
eyes of blue determination
asked me to hand you the cow heart.
Still beating, i let it slip into you hot palm
letting the blood trickle down our arms as our fingers featherd each others wrists.
You took the corpse and slipped it deep into your jean pocket like a secret love affair.

You asked me if i wanted to go swimming sometime. It was not a question.
I cordially accept your wet invitation.

We splashed in the melted blue like children yet unbroken by the cruelties of living.

We ate each other.
you told me i was the first meal you had in months
and i, so innocently believed you.

The next day you invited me over for dinner. It was not a question.
Full on lust i accepted

you opened the kitchen door quickly and whispered down my spine,
my body like lava erupting before we made it to the first course.

On the dinner table lay the butchered
Still beating you asked me to take the first bite,
and i, brimming with your desire- did

I swallowed it like a rock.
pulsating through my core, shaking my small frame.

You kissed my stomach.

The next day i awoke in cold sweats.
Vomiting up my stomach lining chunky and undigested.

I left you three messages.

Sick. White. Quaking.
I waited.

Disintegrating into myself. The flesh melting off my body like a landslide.
A hurricane in slow motion.

I waited.

you skinned me like a thanksgiving turkey
left me on your kitchen table to be picked at by the angry flies.
A slow meticulous death.

You said “look into my eyes.”
And i was so lost in the blue i allowed you to take the knife right to the place where the world begins.

I was so in love with an idea.

I ate your heart without question not understanding that you cannot consume someone into loving you.

What goes in must come out.

Now, what is left of our lust lines the bathroom sink.

A bath of blood and bile
I obsessively pick though trying to discern where I went wrong.
Jul 2018 · 13.6k
The purge
Becca Lansman Jul 2018
My body and mind are at war
two beings occupying the same skin

the diverged desire firing bullets into the heart
creating a cacophony of chaos within me

******* the jar of peanut butter
hidden by the blanket of dark sky
hugging the fridge like a newborn
caressing the chocolate bar wrapper

crouched over
crying in the shower
pinching my skin until bright pink, hot
with anger

trying to resurrect myself into someone more holy
trying to starve
out the monster within

only to find myself back on the bathroom tile singing gospel songs into the toilet bowl.

a cyclical strom
that will not stop raging

like a perverted lover
always, somehow
dragging you back home.
Jul 2018 · 1.2k
Becca Lansman Jul 2018
I am a melting *** of guilt
overflowing and staining the carpet--
I will give all of myself to you

bones to eyelashes  --

let me bleed for you
hold you in my arms drowning
in what i could not give

I lay awake

counting the ways i could have done more
counting the ways it was my fault
allowing the guilt to fester on my skin the acid

burning holes
leaving scars

A reminder that I
could have done better.
Jul 2018 · 686
what I could not give
Becca Lansman Jul 2018
I will peel off my skin like a tangerine
open myself at the core and ask you to take everything.
Drink my nectar
bite my fleshy organs until my insides leak down your chin--

leave nothing.

Devour each part of me
until i am skin on the pavement
an empty sack of desire void of usefulness
danming myself for not giving more.
Feb 2018 · 823
Becca Lansman Feb 2018
I was never taught to say no.
Spit fire.
Only to duct tape my hands. Glue my lips.
Nod before the question was asked.
I learned niceness as synonym for women. I learned yes as synonym for niceness.
Aggression must be swallowed. Emotion only shown if it is full of rainbows and butterflies. Of high pitched yeses and forced giggles.
I must eat my guilt, my pain, my anger. Guzzle it with no water.
Choke down the rage, the irritation.
Tie up my suffering in pink lace; place it delicately in a Tiffany's box. Buried underneath my pillow.
like reciting my favorite song lyrics, over and over and over until I can’t remember their meaning but can’t stop humming the melody.

He asks if it is okay and I delicately peel back my skin.
“How could I not be” I say in flawless harmony.
Next time he doesn’t ask if it's okay but I don’t say no. I try to speak but my throat is a desert— hacking up the remains of my innocence.
In perfect pitch I recite the words as I gag back the hurt, the pain, the pain, letting the guilt leak onto my lips and crawl up my skirt.
More afraid of being accused of meanness than claiming my body as my own.

As a woman I have learned that being nice is more important than saying no. That no is synonym for mean, *****, *****. That mean is synonym for unwomanly.
And what am I without my womanhood?
I have devoured my words for dinner more often than not in hopes of saving my feminine.

I was never taught to say no.
I don’t know how to say no.

Only to sit in the corner like a trained dog and hold my breath. Only to sing along until my throat runs dry, until I’m coughing up blood all over your white carpet.
Dec 2017 · 657
Winter Climbing
Becca Lansman Dec 2017
Winter sweeps herself over the granite rock face
Icing the sheer sharp edges with her glare
She harness the mountains rabid chase
Totality encompases and flares

Savagely shoving hands in splitter cracks
Screaming for salvation from up above
My body weighed down by our heavy rack
Destroying myself in the name of love

Skin bitten with frost, beaten and bruised
Numbed nuckles, knees scraped and smashed raw
Suspended--my trust I bestow to you
I persist, I persist in crying awe.

Sickly frigid, iced to my deepest core,
I smile--conquering granite once more.
my first
Nov 2017 · 639
Becca Lansman Nov 2017
Opening day at the zoo.
Animals chaotically placed in close corridors. Running and hiding in careless confusion. Spilt ideas, half born essays, crushed cans of yerba mate.
Brimming. Searching ceaselessly for substance and student IDs.
Rushing through the discord.
Trying to arrive.

Glassy eyes reflecting reading assignments, brains turned garbage disposal. Grinding--
like raw meat. Turning words into better words. Like turning an animal into a meal--
we disguise our suffering with flavor.
Papers being born. Assignments raised out of infancy.
Nurturing our young into society.

Rushing across red hallways,
carpet stained with stress sweat and spilled coffee,
a cacophony of containment.
Clusters and Clusters and Clusters. Low whispers and loud yawns.
The heart is throbbing.
Nov 2017 · 8.7k
Becca Lansman Nov 2017
I do not know how to say no.

I am so tired of being
Left open
Bleeding on the sidewalk.
Staining the white carpet
Staining my new lace ******* I wore just for you.

Don’t you know you are only good for one thing? Don’t you know you are only worth something when I want you?  When my **** is hard?

My body: a piece of raw meat for you to devour like a hungry dog.

To be a woman is to never ask for dessert even if you want it.

I have etched these words into my skin, bled them out, swallowed them with no water.

Yes, yes, yes, smile, smile, smile.

I was never taught to say no.

I am so tired of being treated less human and more dinner buffet.

so tired

All I can say is *yes,
Nov 2017 · 425
all i have
Becca Lansman Nov 2017
I do not want to prove myself to you
I am all I have
an absolute avalanche.
on your door step, pouring, spilling, blockading the front of your home—
we are stuck here.

Stuck in each others arms gripping the cold edges, burnt brown and bent—unlearning each others bodies one limb at a time,
kneecaps to noses—

I cannot prove myself to you.

I cannot unfold myself
break my bones to fit a mold
we must dig through the cold snow until it runs brown, till morning light melts through, till we understand what it means to be frozen solid, stuck with nothing but our bare hands.
This is all I have
this shovel for us to share—
Dig us a new
dig us into morning.
Oct 2017 · 1.2k
in lust we trust
Becca Lansman Oct 2017
Hot boiling lava arises in my chest,
excruciating passion—
Overflowing onto your countertop,
the bent bridges—

I am in lust with you.

Spilling myself, splayed so innocently carrying your soft heart
in my
Golden glances, warm words hanging low in the air—

I am in lust with you.

Carmel cradled head let me nestle near your neck—taste
the honey that melts off your skin.
Sweet sweet savory Sunday—I have been waiting
all week for *this.
Oct 2017 · 489
strawberry boy
Becca Lansman Oct 2017
you held me when all the heat left my body.
when i turned skeleton, shaking like a tambourine beneath the trees. goosebumbed and gasping for fire,
i tried to ignite
light the sweet storm curdling in my chest.
i  have been cold for so long, i forgot what it was like to let someone else’s sun seep deep into my core.  
how could i be so naive, letting a man steal my flame once again.
Aug 2017 · 1.8k
Becca Lansman Aug 2017
Your skin is milky honey on a scratched throat. Let us explore each other’s bodies like we have been lost at sea. Like this is the first time we have felt land—and oh god it feels good to walk on solid ground.
We have been lost for so long. We are finally home.
I explore that map of your chest, arms back—the rigid edges, color soaked skin, ink pricked flesh, let my lips uncover each story. One by one I will unravel
Let me trace your map with my mouth—learning each side path to and from your lips. I want the journey that comes with the destination.
I want to ******* until the ocean around us contains no more salt. Until our bodies have climbed the tallest mountain. Until the waves stop crashing against the shore. Until we have lost ourselves so completely that everyone ****** is mistaken for a prayer—oh god—I hope we never find solid ground. How good it feels to finally be lost, while completely at home.
Aug 2017 · 618
Becca Lansman Aug 2017
Plump ripe peach
freshly fallen from the branch

let your sweet juices dribble down my chin, like my womanhood leaking down my leg.

Lick the sap that drips from my thighs
pick my  fruit. Shake my tree until I am a skeleton.


Waiting patiently for spring to return.
Aug 2017 · 1.6k
Becca Lansman Aug 2017
Let your wet lips leak the forbidden fruit onto my plate.

I will eat

Swallow you
whole and beg for more.

Sweet boy, let me into your Eden to pick your apples.

What a beautiful life we could live
as outcasts.
Aug 2017 · 375
Becca Lansman Aug 2017
I am an empty missile. A lethal weapon with no ammunition.
I ask for a drink—you pour me a glass of gasoline and I guzzle down the whole mug.
You were just trying to stoke the fire, start the flame within my chest.
I do not know the difference between desire and a death wish.
I poured you a cup of trust and you loaded me with bullets.
Ignited the feral beast.
Turned out the lights and told me to shoot straight.
Jul 2017 · 353
Wine Crisis
Becca Lansman Jul 2017
I sip white wine on the terrace contemplating life at its most primal.
Where do dogs go when they die? Why is there blood in my *****? If I die, but no one is around to see or hear it will god save me a place in heaven?

The evening sun hangs heavy on my shoulders, face melting, salty sips turn sweet wine into an ocean.

i am tasting myself.

For once in my life I am tasting myself.

Everything is happening so fast. A black oil spill down my face, clothes cling to body like a lost child at the beach, hand gripping a warm glass, hand gripping splotched paper, hand gripping pen, I am trying to tell you something. It is all happening. Too fast for anyone to notice.
Jul 2017 · 570
Club Crisis
Becca Lansman Jul 2017
You guzzle gasoline shots acid trips down your lungs until everything is warm. The club is sweaty and overcrowded body’s smashing into each other, a seizure of electric color. A man grinds his body against yours, he did not ask permission but nobody looks upset –so you let him.
After he violates you from one end to another you dive out the sliding glass doors for a breath of fresh air,

he grabs your arm

claiming what was rightfully his, no one looks upset except you so you let him
follow you.
Guilt leaks onto your lips and crawls up your skirt. No one looks upset except you so it must be okay. He will not remember your name but you cannot forget the burned handprints on your thighs. He did not ask permission and you did not say no. You wonder how many times you have let men take advantage of you out of guilt.
You wake up in the morning guilt banging in your forehead. You turn the water pressure on high trying to scrub the guilt out of your skin, rubbed raw; bleeding down the drain you cannot erase the way his touch felt against your un-wanting flesh. He will not remember your name but you cannot forget the way he turned your body into a yard sale. “Mine” he said-- and who were you to turn down such a good offer?
Jun 2017 · 735
To Release You
Becca Lansman Jun 2017
Every time I think of you my heart jumps out the fourth story window.
When I think of you I think of the soft waves of skin, gentle touches caressing each other until our edges were smooth. Sandpaper hands. Sandpaper stares. You were rough with kind edges.
I think of your fingers gripping my side like a seatbelt.
Squeezed the salt out of me, made my skin shrivel up, curl into a ball and pray to forget.
Forget. Forget. Forget.
Forget me— forget you. Forget the universe we created in the in-between.
How do I release you once and for all?

Becca Lansman May 2017
Give it back.
I did not build myself from paper mache only to wooed by a man undeserving of everything that makes me powerful.
I know I should not cry.
God—I know I should not ******* cry.
You are undeserving of the ocean that swells inside me— I will not spill for you.
I will not let you lick up the salt.
You have taken enough. Built this storm inside my chest only for it wrap itself around my lungs.
To the **** boy that stole my heart and threw it in the garbage as if it was leftovers: I am trying to dust myself off
but i am still  the **** of your sick joke. The ***** newspaper. Yesterdays comic.
“Just another *** that wants your ****.” They scoff. As if I am nothing more than a carcass.

Hollow me out. Chop off my *******. **** everything beautiful out of me until I am a shell of a woman. Sticking pins and needles in myself to keep from falling apart.
Wipe your feet on me. Twirl my hair in your fingers. Grab my ***. Anything. This is your world. Choke the feminist right out of me.

I’ll scream your name.

To the **** boy that stole my heart: I hope you fall in love with a powerful woman.  A woman who demands the respect I never could.
May 2017 · 1.1k
Coffee Crisis
Becca Lansman May 2017
the man ordering in front of me spills his coffee all over
Himself. A black portal appears on his once perfect button down. A new universe developed before his eyes. He sighs in frustration.
I blush in acknowledgement
I look up at the sky at night and I see the black whole again in different form. Everywhere. I think of the mans shirt. I think of the sun. How she kindly shares the sky with the night. I wonder what lies untold. I wonder where that man went next. Home? Did he change his shirt? Is he looking at the sky aswell ? What does he see?
I drink my coffee carelessly because I am wearing a black shirt. I am not afraid of spillage because no one will notice if I do.
Embarrassment is only true when it is shared. Farting in public. tripping on ur shoelaces. You only laugh when someone is watching.
I wonder if what lives beyond the black nothingness is looking down and laughing.
I wonder who sees me eat chips off the ground when no one is looking.
Who sees the lone ****** when I am so certain I am alone.
May 2017 · 2.5k
The Yin and the Yang
Becca Lansman May 2017
A green entry sign illuminates the dark void in the corner of your living room.
Luring you toward the unknowns of your suffering.
Sometimes the lights flicker out. The void becomes a black sharpie stain.
Other times the neon lights blind you and curiosity overtakes.
You only wanted to peek inside but before you know it you are head over heals tumbling in a downward spiral.
You are sitting in a dark room and you feel the nothingness creep over your skin like a parasite. Festering. Feeding. Fueling itself from the goodness within you.
The faint red glow of an exit sign is beckoning in the distance but you are too weak now. You succumb to the emptiness that surrounds.

Days pass and the exit sign glows brighter—shouting at you to run. Other times it is a distant memory. You are simply existing in a place between life and death.
The day comes when you muster the strength to crawl into the glowing red nameless void of redemption.
You stumble back to white. To sun. To warmth. The void becomes a stain once again. A dark desolate dream you dare not return to. You go into your yard and pick flowers. You run into the ocean *******. You stub your toe. Sensation pours over you like a faucet turned on high.

But only for a moment.

The black stain will always be there. Looming innocently in the corner of your conscious. Soon enough curiosity will overtake you as she always does.
You will trip on your shoelace and be thrown into this inevitable cycle again. Darkness to light. Full to empty. White to black.

The yin and the yang of existence.
May 2017 · 471
Becca Lansman May 2017
I am not brave.
Fearless. Courageous. Bold.
I am overflowing with panic and cowardice.
I still wake when I hear a creak in the stair at night, when the lights flicker unexpectedly. I simply choose to push past it like walking into a haunted house
with both eyes closed.
She will always be there. This nameless ghost. Who grabs my vocal chords, stealing my breath. The one who haunts me in the dead of night. When I climb tall walls or run long distances.
She is there.
Yet I am more afraid of acknowledging her. Looking her in the eyes and satisfying her hunger.
I am not fearless.
I am blinded.
Apr 2017 · 578
Cold Tea
Becca Lansman Apr 2017
I never finish my tea. I take one sip and burn my tongue, leaving it on my desk to cool down and become lost in something else; only to remember the tea once it is cold. I dump it down the drain only to repeat the next day.

The men in my life have always treated me in this same way.

Taken their sip—burned their tongue—leaving me in the cold. Forgotten until the morning after and then thrown away forever.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

I wonder if there will ever be a man patient enough to taste me for what I am. Who will hold my hand and drink me only when I am ready. Sweet and warm. Reheat me in the morning instead of pouring me out for a fresher taste.
Apr 2017 · 814
Airport Crisis
Becca Lansman Apr 2017
I prefer the chaos of the airport to the tranquility of my overpriced, air-conditioned hotel. I feel confined to relax. Dip my toes in the pool and exhale audibly. The pressure is at a boiling point. I can feel activity just outside the pool front and I itch to breathe the smog.

I leave the four white walls confiding me to comfort letting my t-shirt cling to my body as I exit. I arrive three hours early for my plane, just to watch the cacophony of it all.  My mind writes stories while they confirm my passport.

As I wait to board I observe the crying son and the yelling father; the dynamic duo. The elderly Chinese lady fast in sleep in front of me. The Korean child peering over my shoulder as I write this. The smell of duty free liquor and the loudness of foreign tongues fill the room with a possessiveness.

The family across from me stares at their iphones in a meditative state.

I sit here. Observing. Assuming. Telling. Like opening day at the museum— art in its most primal. The crying lovers. An empty bag of peanuts. The Japanese woman, robe, facemask and all-- preparing for the night.
Apr 2017 · 285
Ode to Mario Cuomo
Becca Lansman Apr 2017
Apr 2017 · 574
Becca Lansman Apr 2017
And here she is
falling down the stairs again.
No open arms, just the
concrete that peels the skin off her body, she calls your name--
but it is just another echo, a missed message.
she lies there; open. Bleeding.
And you laugh, turn her on mute,
wising she was road ****, wishing she hadn’t vomited up her secrets only to be kicked to the side of the stairwell, waiting—
only to realize that she has been left for the wolves. Discarded. Made into a meal.
The forgotten bloodstain on the bathroom tile.
Remember me. Remember me. She begs.
Feb 2017 · 1.3k
Tinder Boy
Becca Lansman Feb 2017
You were not worth the ten dollar bridge toll,
Nor were you the five dollars wasted in gas.
I should have saved the $1.49 I spent on gum for a man deserving of my  taste.
I should not have re-applied mascara-
You were unworthy of every effort. Unnoticed.
How silly of me to expect anything more from a ***** frat boy. Lust spilling over his muffin top. Desire exploding at his seems.  How could I resist the sweet misogyny he whispered in my ear?
Feb 2017 · 1.8k
Introverts Dilemma
Becca Lansman Feb 2017
The lump rises in my throat—
A blood clot—choking on my dinner
I press replay:

Our plans,
leaving home,
asking you about the weather.

I get my car washed two times.
I clip my fingernails till they bleed.
I make my bed for the first time.

I press replay again.

Escape route.

You talk yourself in and out of reason. You remind yourself of the comforts of solidarity. The warmth of an empty room.

You remind yourself of the king-size bed holding only one body.
Wondering if you could ever love someone enough to share the space,
To open yourself from the seems, rip out the comfort you have grown to hold synonym for your name.

You rewind
Press play
Fast forward

Planning the empty questions you will recite.
Hovering your finger over the delete button.
Your breathing accelerates.

You press pause.

Remembering it is just lunch— a casual hello to an old friend.
Not a ****** or a robbery—a simple goodbye.

"You are strong enough" you repeat over and over until you almost believe it.

press replay—

You are ok.
Jan 2017 · 1.0k
Ode to the Desert
Becca Lansman Jan 2017
This one is for the desert
For teaching  me how to watch orange dust be taken away by the wind. Dancing. Swirling. A glimmer of freedom.
For the tall looming sandstone walls. Humbling. Disentergrating  in the palm of your hand. The splitter cracks, that make you scream to something greater. Make you bleed.
The towers, aged, full of tales. Climbed. Worn. Wise. An art piece, hanging in your living room. Something dry and barren yet full of life. Challenging you. Reminding you or your humanity.

The spiders, the ants, the ravens above. The beauty in simplicity. The empty room full of laughter. A silent woman smiling to herself.

This one is for the desert. A place that taught me to stop and look. To appreciate the moments of spinning admits the storm, dancing to the rhythm of your own heartbeat.
The cuts in your hands, the prevailing cacti, the long sweat drenched days.
This one is for you,  for reminding me to be still. To open my heart, immerse myself in the collectiveness of it all. The wind, sand, juniper leaves, the arches. You have solidified yourself into my skin. I will remind myself of you when everything seems impossible, when the world seems to be wrestling my every move. I will go back to the feeling of sitting atop a 300 foot sandstone wall,  back to the simplicity of joy and fear. Of being fully alive and try to savor it. To hold on to that calm.
Oct 2016 · 759
Get away
Becca Lansman Oct 2016
I try to write about the flowers
The way the wind laps against my body,
Sending shivers through my vertebrae,
The way the aspen trees sway at noon
I want to talk about the purple flowers that grow in between the rocks. But I can't.
You are my pencil.
You take all the beauty out of my words.
Make me write your name In this trip,
In My vacation.
I try to write about the rushing river,
the way it turns your toes numb in the early morning.
How the mesquitos buzz above it. Bite your skin. Make you itch.
The way you made me itch. Itch to write about anything but how you left me. The emptiness I can't throw out. The way you sneak yourself into all my poetry. Uninvited. Like a robber of everything beautiful I wanted to say.
If only my heart and pencil could detach. Detach from the way you break me every time I look at the mountains. The large  never leaving mountains. surrounding you wherever you go. Challenging you. Holding you. Caressing you. The way you used to touch me. Gently. Made me feel at home in your arms. I want to escape that feeling. I want to skip carelessly through these meadows and eat the fallen snow. But you are too fresh. Ripe. enticing me like wild berries. Wondering if the poison inside is worth the sweet taste.
Aug 2016 · 434
finding it
Becca Lansman Aug 2016
When you have thrown up everything in your stomach: food—intestines—secrets—spitting blood on the carpet. Shaking. Maybe then you will find it. Or maybe it will be when you cut off all your hair and pierce your *******. Paint bruises on your knees—call yourself abuse. Call yourself a broken home. You will turn off all the lights hoping it will come in the dark. Or maybe it will be the day you cried in the Walgreens parking lot for 45 minutes, opening all your tiny paper cuts. Thinking about the spilt paint, split ends, and world hunger. Or maybe you will finally find it when you chug down that cheap liquor. The taste of nail polish remover trickles down your throat but you believe this could be it—peach Smirnoff and loud dubstep. You keep searching. Not for love or lust—A purpose maybe, or maybe just a clue that you are actually alive. A sense that this isn’t all make believe. You think maybe you will find it in the pockets of strangers or in a crack in the sidewalk. You look through magazines and old record shops holding on to the hope that there is something out there waiting to be discovered. Maybe. Maybe today I could feel anything but nothing you tell yourself. You tell yourself that if you look in the back of the bookshelf or behind the piano keys you will find it. You will be cured. You will stop spitting up blood and turning your body into a carcass. But you wonder after dusting off all the books in the library, throwing up your insides, and tripping over every crack in the sidewalk that maybe you are mistaken.
Apr 2016 · 508
Becca Lansman Apr 2016
Is it to late to pray on your grave?

Leave wilting flowers where there once was a body, where there once was once an illness?

Remember that night
You bled through your teeth
Called me a lair?


This is not a love story

We both drowned in this baptism,

I never loved the way you bruised me


the proverbs, plagued me with the unborn.

You left me cracked open to a god I could not relate to.

I prayed for our death.
Prayed for our musical to un-write itself.


I did not hold my tongue at your Burial

For it is wrong to mourn for that still living inside me.


I do not mourn.
Mar 2016 · 1.5k
Burnt Rubber
Becca Lansman Mar 2016
The last time we had *** I couldn’t stop thinking about
The wanting of both to be over before it’s beginning.
Our *** was like math homework
You tried to solve me but you gave up—
We tried to find where x and y intercepted but the numbers didn’t match.

Some people call it love making,
Our *** was like the feeling of having to sneeze
It was like 10 thousand mosquito bites on the bottom of your foot.
It was the 5-minute advertisements you cannot skip over.
Our *** was the spoiled milk in the fridge—
Both too lazy to throw it out.
Our *** was the leftover pizza crust—
The awkward ******,
It was the ingrown hair.
Our *** reminded me of checkers,

Long. Boring. Never-changing.

Our *** was everything I ever hated about myself.
Instead of orgasaming I thought of
cheese pizza
I thought of anything besides your ******* personality.
besides how much I ******* hate you.

I ******* hate you. I ******* hate you. I ******* hate you.

Don’t pull my hair. Don’t try to make this interesting. We are not in love, this is the sound of sharpening pencils. This is the smell of burnt rubber.  
Do not try to excite me. Hurry up.
Come already. Spill the milk. Break the glass.
Sing the prayer.
Mar 2016 · 433
Dear dad
Becca Lansman Mar 2016
You hide
behind everything you are afraid to hear:
“You will die alone.”
“I love you but only in memories.”

You hold my hand sometimes,
But only in moments when I do not whisper too loud,
Only in moment when I fold my clothes just right.

Sometimes you appear out of thin air.

Like when I follow the dotted like correctly,
Or ask you to speak at my funeral.
You Never took the blame,
unholstered your gun to look down on the mess you made.
Looked into my eyes
Asked if I would take the bullet.

You cower in the corner afraid that I might ask you something real.
That I might tug on one of your heart strings long enough for it to play a melody.

You tell me,
“You are a burden.”
What I think you mean is,
“ I don’t know how to love without suffocating.”
You tell me
“You are a disappointment.”
What I think you mean is
"I cannot give you what you deserve."

The thing is, you can only yell over the truth for so long
your vocal chords will seize and you will be left with the ringing in your ears.
The sour taste in your mouth.
You will be left with everything you never did for me.
I am tired of bruising my knuckles, bleeding for a cause that is not mine.

I tell you
"I love you"
What I mean is
"My wounds still have time to heal, yours don't."
Feb 2016 · 439
Becca Lansman Feb 2016
I want the fame that comes with being dead
All the love letters
From those that stepped on my toes, who used me like old shoes.
I want to know who would be at my funeral.
Who would weep at my casket?
Would the boys that pulled my hair, called me un-loveable, hold their tongues?
Would they choke on their tears like I did every time they compared my body to a horror film?
Would they feel the words they called me bleed down their wrists like I did?
Who would come to my burial?  Watch as they sprinkle dirt on my casket like a birthday cake.
Act like they didn’t laugh when I tripped on my shoelaces
Like they didn’t break my bones—
Twist my skin.
Turn my death into a pity party
into a concert,
Like suicide is just a new perfume
A new lipstick to match their fake depression t-shirts.
Make my death into a musical, cast all the roles of the people who were never there for me.
Make them scream my name
Taste the insults turn sour on their tongues.
I’m just
A piece of your paycheck.
A slipped noun or adjective in your therapy session.
If I’m lucky I’ll be a line in someone’s poem. “Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem,” they’d say;
As if those lines weren’t regurgitated, spit out, thrown in my face.
As if permanence was the scariest idea in this world. As if I am nothing more than your excuse.
Who would cry?
Who would throw up their lunch?
Who would use my death as their adversity.
Use my suicide as an acceptance letter.
How long would it take for my existence to become a statistic--
a name--
a whisper.
How long till I am forgotten?
Till I am nothing more than 1 in 33.
Dec 2015 · 771
You Are Not An Addict
Becca Lansman Dec 2015
This is where you scraped your knees
Where you lost the last ounce of crystal hope
You are sober now, two days freshly razored
Mouth dry
Eyelids tight
You are mopping the floors
Wiping away the sweat beads on your face
Wiping away the punch in your stomach
cleaning the blood stains
You are a ghost
Skeleton hunched body
Skeleton hung noose
Bones cracking
This is where the rehab hid itself
the white walls of recovery
You are not healed
You are two days sober with the after-taste of
The Drip drip drip
You can smell the bleach
The sweet release of acetone
Trickling into your lungs like firecrackers
Like a bedtime story
I love you never tasted so sour
You are on a one hit carousel
This is not an addiction you tell yourself
This is a one-time love affair
This is your Wednesday afternoon
Your Saturday dinner party
You are not an addict
You are not an addict
You are a dancer
Starving yourself one celery stick at a time
this is a love letter
a doctors notes
the last of your paycheck
this is the 99 cents left in your banks account
you are not an addict
this is just a dance routine
you are still learning the moves
you are still learning how to un-write every check mark on your body
you are still learning
deteriorating into nothing more than this addiction
*you are not an addict
you are not an addict
you are not an addict
Nov 2015 · 29.2k
When he tells you he's sorry
Becca Lansman Nov 2015
When he tells you he is sorry, do not hand him the feast.
Do not make him dinner like he never tore the tablecloth out from under the dishes.

You are not a menu item.

remember that his love is not a reward.
You are not a reward.

You are dinner for one.

Remember how you pulled yourself up on shore. Taught yourself how to breathe again.

You are no longer drowning.

you are the beach, you are the lifeguard, remember how you saved yourself.

Remember to say no.
Say it in the dark, whisper it in his ears, remember your body is not a love letter; it is not a vacation home.

When he says, “ I love you.”
 Do not mistake his lust for affection.

Remember how he ate pieces of your heartbeat one at a time? turned you into a carcass?

Made you believe you were road ****.

Remember how you put yourself back together? Mending each stitch carefully. Embroidering your heartbeat back one lull at a time.

You are still sewing.
You are still making dinner but it is ok.
It is ok to eat dinner by yourself.

It is ok to say no.

Tell him, you only made enough for one tonight.
Sep 2015 · 3.6k
Becca Lansman Sep 2015
I’m learning to reclaim my own
From the feeling of his
From the feeling of my palms sweating
Thinking my fortune had been told
That I am pillow covers, a word in the dark
A lost noun, a translucent adjective.
I am un-edited from the version he made me.
I don’t know if these red lines will ever be rectified,
there are too many grammatical errors.

So I printed out a new version
A play-list of my appetite –
Of my nuisance.
I printed it in the back of my journal
Where I hid the razor blade
Along with my scrungies –
A Redemption of innocence.
It is the playing pen
It is the large caterpillar that snakes through the playground but there never has been a kid there –
The playgrounds never had swings.

I am still trying to reclaim myself –
Warm my toes on the ceiling fan
Hold myself
in my own hands,
Tell myself that I am full,
I am holy –
I am permanent.
His breath was just a doctor’s note,
A slip into the disease.
His hands Do Not define me
His heartbeat is not mine
I feel sorry for the way he has never been whispered sweet melodies,
For the way he has built himself into charcoal.
He has no light –
But that doesn’t mean you can never be the sun again.
Sep 2015 · 3.8k
Broken Home
Becca Lansman Sep 2015
My body is the decaying floorboards
The rotten tile,
The cracked window.
I am a broken home
There is a no trespassing sign rusted over in bile.

People think I am haunted, they have seen my ghosts floating in their windows at night.
The neighborhood kids double dare each other to go up and touch me,
Like I am a horror film, a kamikaze.
I creak when they step inside me,
It feels so foreign to be touched –
To be explored,
They always run away.

No one ever stays to discover the decaying journal in my esophagus,
No one stays to look at the sunflower growing in the windowsill of my corneas,
The family portraits tattooed on my shoulder blades,
The love letters in my finger creases,
They only see the dust on my face –
The dirt covering my scars,
The broken glass shards in my eyeballs,
The thawed roof –
The dead plants.

I am alive as ever I am just waiting for someone to
Paint my walls,
Dust off the lampshade,
Ill be good as new -
I promise
Becca Lansman Aug 2015
I didn’t ask for pizza
Or your hands grabbing my throat
But I took both
I took the pizza and you took my body
Tore it apart
Skin from bone
Cheese from crust.
That pizza slice was 5 dollars
I calculated my worth into spare change
My 99-cent curves
My 10-cent fingernails
My 1-dollar cheekbones
5 sections of coins,
Spare nickels-
Spare crust.

I am the leftover money you find at a bus stop,  
In alleyways,
In the pockets of strangers.
You ate me whole and went for seconds.
I let you
Tear my bones apart-
I had nowhere to go.
I am not full
I am just a loose quarter on your sidewalk,
A pile of body parts in your trash can
I am leftovers.
Aug 2015 · 2.3k
Secret Surgery
Becca Lansman Aug 2015
You cut me
open with your scalpel-
Gorging out my inside; harvesting my organs.
You opened me
before I had a chance to sign the release forms, before I knew the side effects.
I did not consent to this.
You put your hands under my skin
like I was a puzzle you had to put back together,
you are not the missing piece,
trying to fit me into a mold-
I am not made out of clay,
I am not your mosaic.
You sliced down my chest but you forgot the anesthesia
I am wide awake
I am wide open,
I can feel
every cut,
every ***** beating against you,
you are covered in my blood and bile-
You tore off my pericardium
exposing my heart like a soldier in open fire,
I can see
my insides, my secrets sprawled out on your table,
you are picking them apart, like an archeologist,
I am not a ruin,
I am not your treasure map
there is nothing for you here.
I am not a reward.
I am a canvas-
and you are not the painter
You are not a surgeon
You are not the cure-
You are the disease.
Becca Lansman Jul 2015
When she kisses you with the taste of acetone on her tongue, do not mistake it for romance-
don’t mistake it for anything less than target practice.
You are her doormat,
she is only wiping her feet on her way to kiss him goodnight.
When she compliments your dress, do not tell her that she is beautiful, do not compliment her insecurites,
do not mistake this as flirtation.
you are not her night in shining armour
you are the horse she sits upon-
just say thank you.
You are making this up you start to tell yourself.
You do not love her, you do not love her.
She is a placebo pill,
a stomach ache - food poisoning
you will get over this.
When she undresses infront of you do not think about all the areas you could kiss to easily.
Do not think about the boys that have pressed their bodies against her,
do not think of grabbing her and holding her against you like the waves try to hold the shore,
trying to grab something that always pushes you back.
do not think-
look away.
When she tells you innocently how she could never be with a women
you feel your intestines growing roots,
strangling you -
you are stranded in the desert with no water
you choke out a laugh and say
“me too.”
When you watch her kiss him
you will feel like all your bones are broken,
you will want to turn your skin inside out
you want to throw up every vowel in the word lesbian
pour bleach on your tongue like candy-
you will want to eat yourself alive.

When you see her kiss him-
drive home drunk
Jul 2015 · 1.3k
Triggering Town
Becca Lansman Jul 2015
My childhood friends still wear their veils to cover their lies,
no one is speaking the same language.
I wonder if my father is still alive.
I walk down the street,
I see women clutching their bibles like newborn babies,
although no one is going to church -
not one ever goes to church.
The air is stale, the seasonless breeze blows away the never changing leaves.
It starts to rain, and my clothes are covered in ash.
I remember as a child I would wear all grey so the ash would melt into my clothes, making me feel like a raindrop.
I walk up to the home I used to live in,
I knock but I dont expect a reply.
The plants are hanging upside down, the the floors are thawed through, there is no roof.
I step in the beaten shack looking at the cracked pictures on the walls,
looking at the sky through my bedroom ceiling.
I turn on the faucet and only cold water splashes my hands.
I forgot there is no hot water here.
I shiver and walk outside,
I  see limbs scattered in the streets,
all lost pieces of people who gave up themselves up for a moment of pleasure.
Lost pieces of who they were for another.
I see a hand and a thigh and I smile at them, they smile back.
I see an ear and it looks familiar, she is covered in a vail, speaking a foreign tongue.
I smile at the ear, but it replies in a blank stare,
I walk closer and see that is is my mother.
I look for more pieces of her but I can’t find anything.
She is just an ear.
The ash starts to fall again.
Becca Lansman Jul 2015
You died and I forgot to tell you I love you.
You ate my insides
like a piece of fruit,
you ****** out the sweet juice
spit out the pulp
and left me
as skin.

You're gone and I forgot to tell you I love you,
I forgot to ask you to open your chest.
You are lying on my table- open heart surgery
I can see your organs, you are too far gone
But I love you.
I love watching your heart beat in reverse
I love
to see you so exposed
cracked open like a ******
you are holy-
you are not whole anymore.

I forgot to tell you I love you
and you are too far gone, I have to whisper
it to the clouds, moon, sun
anyone who will listen
I love you.

You came and went like a forest fire -
radiant, hot, dazzling
but you destroyed everything in your path-
you destroyed me.

I can't breathe
because you left me in a trail of your ash

I love you
I love you
I ******* miss you

I can hear your heart not beating
My ears are ringing with the words you never said to me.

I lost the last piece of our puzzle

I love you,

but  I forgot to tell you.
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