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bekka walker Mar 2020
I scraped the skin from the mannequin I made of myself.
Beginning to graft it back onto my slippery insides.
Numb and dry,
While everyone politely admired my outsides,
carefully poised behind the glass of my storefront window.
Reaaranged and redisplayed to fit the scene and season.
But I dumped my bucket of innards on my crusty bones and as my skin grabs hold-
It hurts like a sonuvabitch.
Have I died?!
And if I've died, who is this frankenstein rising up from inside?
Will she be kind to me?
Will she wash the matted dirt from my hair, and kiss the smelly flesh of the hands that put me back together?
Will she tell me goodmorning, and tuck me in safe at night?
Will she listen to my heartache when it's 3 AM and the rest of the world is in deep slumber, unaware of the pain of the observer?
Will she love me better than the one before?
Together we've cross stitched a body that looks like a girl we used to know-
So tender and red with a long way to go.
Her hand is left, my hand is right-
We grab tight,
fall to our knees,
and thank the GOD WITHIN
for bringing us back to life.
bekka walker Jan 2020
I’ve hung around too many open bars,
Took a pre game a little too far-
Looking for one more shot.
A shot through my own foot.  
Shot to pieces- shocked.
Tell me, is it a shot in the dark,
to ask for your heart,
one more time?
All the shots I’ve shot before cinged my insides,
Leaving me warm,
For a time.
But when I drink you in,
I burn in all the ways I searched for at the bottom of the bottle.
I’m sorry I forgot,
loves a long shot,
For the short sighted.
No quick fix,
But I’d rather shoot the ****,
Than shoot the shot that landed me here in the first place.
With a birds eye view,
I’d rather be at home with you.
But a birds eye shot has filleted my insides,
Openly sifting for all the things I despise,
about myself,
to excavate and place on display as a target on my back,
And I’m asking you to take the long shot,
Across the chasm I created.
All I’m looking for,
Is one more shot.
bekka walker Sep 2019
Crawl into the crevices of my heart and make yourself at home. I hope the familiar has you feeling warm, and if this is your first time in here, I pray you’re feeling welcome.
bekka walker Aug 2019
I daydreamed the places I'd go,
the sights I'd see-  
but no one told me the people I'd be.
How the things I’d know-
would shake,
and mold.
That I could be,
more than one me.
Philosophy I'd held as identity,
could be ransacked &
turned to
something raw and tender.
I'd defy attributes
  so vehemently considered my nature, and
the relationships I'd make would become like a mirror.
I pictured the planes, trains, and cars-
but not the fractals of my heart
they would continually move,
yet, frozen in history.
I believe,
among all these,
there is one me-
but a me,
that only exists in this moment of time,
being defined,
by those places and people and experiences combined-
and in every passing moment-
I'm leaving her behind!
That girl, in that place, with those people, and that time.
This poem came sitting in my stomach before a last minute trip to yosemite.
bekka walker Aug 2019
The way I crave you is not at all passive.
Unlike you.
So calm and reassuring,
Killing me softly as I inhale your warm breath.
Coaxing my anxiety away with masochistic pleasure.
The way I crave you is not at all delightful.
Unlike you.
Stepping outside with me to enjoy the moonlight.
Joining me on chats with a stranger.
The way I crave you is not at all glamorous.
Unlike you.
So beautifully posed up against me,
curling around my hair, framing my sweet face.
The way I crave you is full of nicotine and rat poison.

I never published this from 2016. I've most generally quit smoking. But still indulge occasionally.  boy, i still love my vices.
bekka walker Aug 2019
Hop on your motorbike and buy me some smokes,
skinny cigarettes cost 45 cents.
Grungy green, lawless supreme, with delicate golden trim.
Youths full of dreams,
occupy decaying castles,
with marble staircases,
and cobwebs on the ceiling-
I get the feeling-
It will fade with my memory.
This place, that is-
as it is.
It's own special rhythm,
drowned out,
by the capitalist drum.
** Hum Hanoi.
I wrote this in Nov 2018 in Hanoi Vietnam. A special city. It gave me very 70s america vibes interestingly enough.
bekka walker Aug 2019
He says the cows are laying in the pasture,
a sure sign of rain.
Cicadas are singing a song so natural,
the brief moments of silence
***** my senses.
I push off the warm concrete with my bare feet,
setting myself in soft motion.
Warm wind brushes against the layer of sweat
collecting on my face.
Across the street, yellow giants tower,
swaying a hello,
their necks craned to the sun.
I feel a velvety snuggle brush against my leg-
I watch the porch tiger
slink past to
retire to the house.
I follow.
Onto the cold leather sofa I think about
with lemonade, and pool days that drift into pool nights,
soaking the energy right out of my bones,
leaving me wrinkled and properly exhausted.
I close my eyes,
I dream of the june bugs,
bouncing into one another,
bumbling through the tall green grass.
They invite me to follow.
I do.
Summer in the south.
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