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 Dec 2024 Bekah Halle
Ayla Grey
That girl in the mirror is beautiful
Confidence worn like a crown on her head
But once I remember that girl is me
I think she's ugly again
 Dec 2024 Bekah Halle
Emma
I let him speak,
his words uncoiled like smoke
in the quiet room,
each sentence a serpent
wrapping itself
around the soft throat of the night.

He spoke of boredom,
of voices like dead birds
falling from the trees,
of his hands
searching the air
for the tender pillars of life,
and squeezing,
until silence became a god.

I listened uneasily,
my breath a quiet river,
my heart a stone
sinking into its depths.
His voice brushed against my skin,
and I held it,
like holding a flame
bare-handed.

Then he stopped.
The silence cracked.
His fingers felt my pulse—
a stillness I could not hide.
It betrayed me.
But I, too,
held his hand,
offering my quietness
as a gift,
a wall,
a mirror.

Now I wake in another room,
safe from his dreaming.
But the night carries his voice,
a tide that laps against
the shore of my memory.

Did I save myself?
Did I save him?
Or are we both
adrift in the dark sea
of what was left unsaid?
Sometimes he scares me although he has a lot of self-control.
 Dec 2024 Bekah Halle
Emma
He gorges on my mistakes, a swollen moon,

pale and taut with the salt of my guilt.

Each night, he leans close, his breath like frost,

presses a kiss to my brow, cold as bone,

and whispers forgiveness I cannot believe.
 Dec 2024 Bekah Halle
Emma
Husk
 Dec 2024 Bekah Halle
Emma
I am the shell of a cathedral,
my ribs stripped bare,
dust grinds against my marrow.
Smoke coils, ghost-thin,
a lover's last exhalation,
its fingers press against
the hollows of my throat.

Stained glass eyes—
shattered saints, shattered demons.
Their colors bleed across my skin,
an abstract of wars long silenced,
their screams etched in my spine.
I house their echoes
like a mausoleum,
their whispers scraping my eardrums.

The earth betrayed me once—
a trembling, violent lover.
Its hands split me open,
toppled my crown.
Now I wear my wounds like jewels,
a monument to collapse.

Sleep eludes me.
What lullaby holds the dead?
Their songs thread the air,
soft as ash, sharp as shards.
I lie beneath their melody,
each note a needle in my sternum.

And yet, I do not crumble.
Something fierce and hollow in me
clings to this ruin—
a hymn for no one,
a prayer to nothing.
The hills burn
Smokey cloud
Over the valley
Wind whipping up
Sparks of misty droplets
Through the windows
Of the house next door

Shadows genuflect
On the asphalt before
The streetlight
Thick foliage shrugs
Its burly shoulders

Smells of wet
Sage on the mountain

Gently the spring
Has closed the
Throat of thunder

I close my eyes
But no lightning makes
Its traces behind my lids

Summer waits...



SoulSurvivor aka
Invisible inc aka
Write of Passage
2016
More
 Dec 2024 Bekah Halle
Zazu
I wonder
What will cross your mind
When you see me
In person

It’s been so long
since we’ve seen face to face
I've only become a presence behind a screen
when does the poem end?


creation is never ending,
the earth is endlessly morphing

but you lean back and say
enough
not because the poem
is finished,
for it is never finished,
because an exhalation feels
satisfying, releasing

but the poem never ends,
nor does the need to

exhale

not with the final .


the next poem is

but a

continuation

of the previous poem;

a continuation

of you~poem,

inhaling

and

exhaling

& morphing.

Sat Jan 7
7:57am
Go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something. ~Kurt Vonnegut
The asphalt shimmers in the summer heat,
Mirages dance where the sky meets land.
I count the mile markers like rosary beads,
Each one a prayer, a breath, a memory of you.

I turn left and right,
Take detours through cities made of glass,
And mountain passes where stars guard the twilight;
As your magnetic force pulls me forward.

I've worn holes in my shoes,
And collected dust from a thousand roads,
But distance is insignificant
When every horizon holds your face.

Sometimes I wonder if roads ever end,
Or simply circle back to their beginnings,
Like my thoughts always return
To our first hello and that first smile.

My legs tire but I never waver,
You are both my journey and destination,
The map I follow and the home I seek,
And the reason that I keep going.

©️Lizzie Bevis
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