“Journey To The Leaf”

I see you-

Your eyes extending out to see

Who stalls your journey to the leaf.

But you stretch your neck up to speak.

With ears I cannot hear,

But feel your curious words.

My legs mindlessly quick in stride.

As thoughts leave me-

To look where clumsy feet press against ground.

And you slowly slide on a blade of grass,

Like you’ve reached the peak of your

Next mountain to climb.

I hear the crunch beneath my shoes

And jump away in startling pause.

You know as well as I,

And read the sorrow of my face.

Run, feet carrying in caution now,

And take the sage off of my supple plant

And bring it back to you.

For now you eat,

And I do not know what will come of you.

You see me

As I walk away.

A snail of today,

That may not be tomorrow.

IMAGE BY: stocksy.com

“Stored Inside The Fridge”

This is in dedication to those who have or still suffer from anxiety, eating disorders, emotional/ physical trauma, substance abuse and anything of that sort, who find it hard to cope with life. This is for you who suffer from severe self scrutiny to uphold impossible feats of perfection. This is to simply say, you aren’t alone.

I see it everywhere, I feel it in my bones as I watch you, comers and goers, my closest friends, my flesh and blood- the ticking time bomb inside of you that doesn’t in some aspect feel good enough. I see you, because I am you. Of course we cannot be the same person. I am uniquely me as you are uniquely you. But I see you, I feel the gestures, the flutter of your eyes, the hesitant voice that sounds of desperate plea to share, the dismissal of original thought, because I, too, suffer from not feeling good enough.

We suffer daily from talking down to ourselves in mostly private thought. A cocoon of swarming lies we tell ourselves, because that’s what we’ve grown to believe and accept. I am not advocating for victimization. I want to reveal what truly goes on in the mind, in this case, mine. I think it is extremely important to share the parts of us no one sees, that we don’t dare give chance to be heard. We so often think fluidly without saying what’s really going on from fear of being misunderstood on some level. I want to share a very personal moment that I usually keep to myself or a very short few around me. Here is a poem that is from the darker, more ‘repulsive’ as I call them, parts of my mind I tend to push aside. It is quite vulgar, just a forewarning, as the mind can get very much that way.

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“Stored Inside The Fridge”

I feel the fat fold over my pant line as I sit. Tears form uncontrollably in rage. I scold my self, ‘You dumb fuck, how could you do this to yourself again?! Haven’t you learned your lesson?’ I feel every inch of how it lay, protruding from the seam, how it snugs against my shirt that once was too big: too small, too big and then too small again. It’s like an endless cycle of torment to myself, looking at every chance of reflection to see if I’m good enough, am I approvable to the eye. ‘I must be perfect, I must be perfect..’ Thoughts that scowl inside. ‘You will get hurt again. They’ll call you names behind your back and reject you like they have before. So many times before.’ Like the times you walked in late to class in 8th grade and they greeted you by calling you fat ass. Standing on 3rd base to try out for school softball, pants snug mid stomach high, wind blowing your shirt against the rolls that formed around the clothes that never fit well, how could you ever forget the way that felt. And the same boys laughed at you from the sidelines. You quit that very day. Instead you came home to pull out the tub of whip cream from the fridge for your extracurricular activity. And boy did you eat the whole thing in one sitting, watching Harry Potter, always waiting for your invitation of escape. Or the moment you first realized what fat even meant as you watched your family obsess over their bodies, your young eyes absorbing what love was supposed to mean, doing the exact goddamn thing you are now. Showing your own girls the gift of the trade. Or the time you gained so much weight from carrying children and then your husband didn’t love you anymore, and you thought for sure it was because you failed again, you weren’t perfect. I curl my fists tight now in thought, hate permeating through my fingertips. I feel it’s heat boil through and onto now sweaty palms. Voice finally breaks through my gritted jaw and whales in horror, “This is fucking bullshit!” Mom watches as clothes fly past her face onto the counter, the bed, the hallway. I feel her watch without watching, thick concern and building sorrow. ‘I’m dying.’ I contemplate in panic, gut rotting away in twists and turns bulging up into my chest. All I can think is ‘DON’T LOOK AT ME!!’ As my hate is put out on display. ‘Don’t see me this way.. I’m fine.’ But I’m not fine. I never was. I walk toward the kitchen spitting profanities under my breath. My fingers pull down at the hem of my shirt, and I go back again to open the fridge.

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Reflection: One thing I didn’t realize until now, is that I still hold a lot of shame and guilt from my past revolving around self esteem. (Which I’ve been working diligently on healing) And because of that, it made me even more livid. The absence of acknowledging the root of where pain derives causes a reoccurring cycle of self discrimination. But it can be so easy to dismiss these flowing thoughts and feelings that consume our entirety in that very moment we’re triggered and it be deemed as ‘normal.’ So it then never becomes healed or resolved. These thoughts in the poem, “Stored Inside The Fridge,” above were verbatim of that moment I had experienced of struggling to see my entire beauty by simple clothes I put on to go for a walk that day. It really was something as simple as that. Memories flood in to relate to current situations stemmed from deep hurt of the past. And if you take time to look long enough and see why, you can then notice those feeling signatures that run deeper than the mere ‘moment’ of complete meltdown. They carry throughout your whole duration of life until you choose to look them in the face and recognize them for what they are. It took everything out of me to stare myself in that wretched mirror and identify why I felt that way. We are not in the past anymore, always in the present. Every second that passes becomes the past such as those scarred memories, so my encouragement through this whole post, is to really identify who you were and who you are right now. And that whatever caused you to feel that way happened, but only you can create the better future and NOW that you truly desire overall. We all want to heal, be it what we’ve done or what was done to us. Let’s start to recognize that what we need first and foremost is to look first inside to achieve who it is we truly were meant to be.

I love you all, —💚Bekah.

Caring Conversations

By: Bekah Turney

We came upon a pair of peacocks,

Poking noses into dirt near the road.

We drive in puzzling awe.

A couple happy herons extend their necks

Amidst cowering cattle,

Pure snow, stoic angels

Against the tattered brown and black of cows

And vibrant green fur of rain kissed earth.

Road curving endlessly,

Lips pressed to our coffee lids,

Talking of revelries and

Philosophical life resolutions.

Like the treacherous loose blacktop

Beneath barreling wheels

Of beauty we penetrate.

Beautiful Resentment

By: Bekah Turney

1.Phantom, walking up my street, come take my breasts. /Cup the void of your palms into gaps filling my reassurance. /Anticipation of empty disappointment. /Cradle the gateway close to my heart. /Touch my skin and enter in. /Swift as the breeze your mist swirling in winter, the coldest of nights. /Smoke screens, blurred lights and repeated melodies. /I’m the Dickinson to the tale of your ghostly passing.

2.Thoughts, lemon drops and candy- /You cut with a knife of lustful insanity. /I suckle your shell, sweet and uncanny. /Melting on my tongue, drips fall into my throat /And your center seeps through, bitter resentment. /Sour pools bleed from your core and shock me into distance, /Lands far From where your vibrant taste once drew me near.

3. “Meet me on Sunset and Granada.” /I forced music into my ears. Lacing shoes, ready to walk for miles. /”I will be there.” / Feet meticulously carry, not too quick, not too slow- /Warmth of sun beaming into my chest, /As elusive darkness wraps my body down dark streets where passion spreads like fire. /Shadowed figure not far, drawn by street lamps. /Sun once in my chest, now illuminating my existence in the night, /Treading flames with every step. /White teeth glistening behind lips soon to take in my embrace. /No days have passed, /And the melting heat of your eager passion blankets my reckoning.

4. Hungry fingers pressed against keys, songs of beautiful resentment- /Can you hear me? /Summer spits beads of sweat down my forehead. /You come back to turn off the thermostat, as babes soon return to misery. /Nestled in a corner of our home where shadows eat the day, fail to hide light sneaking into streams, /On hands that search desperately for grey amongst black and white. /Your silhouette drifts out the back for another puff of cigarette.

5. We drive, window cold, pressed on my cheek. /We sit together, but repelled apart like Backwards magnets. /Obligation drifts us to where family makes light of scattered infidelities. /Children, all of us, with lines on our weathered and pressured grins, /Carrying our tired wheels into hopeful destinations- /Like grasping at unprecedented prizes in machines with mischievous claws. /”This is a great band!” you say, shouting validation to my gaping heart, /Absorbing all the pain of your constant confliction. /Lyric cries through forceful song, “these feelings won’t go away, they be knocking me sideways..” /As my body clings to the barrier between me and fresh air. /Distasteful resemblance, I repeat the note, /And hold captive words where I relate, /But only hope, with your schooled art of song, can hear.

Morning Dew

By: Bekah Turney

I dance around in playful turning tides. / You drip off petals, like early morning dew, as the sun warms the earth. / The wheel spins, grasping tight what force cannot refuse. / It’s time for you to go- / You fall to kiss the outstretched necks of grass. / Sliding down its blade, slick, / Cutting through like truth. / It’s time for you to go- / Turning rhythms dance in tune with cycle’s song, / Soaking in the crumbled soil, / Planting seeds of your own and in turn helping them to grow.

Image by: wall up.net

Blue Bird

By: Bekah Turney

Sharp chills. Cheeks a crimson pink. I walk to the door, break from the chill and pool into the prickling warm. Dead bird in the doorstep, cold, hard. I scoop you in my trembling palms and feel your yearn for heat from inside. You dreamed, waited in longing, and then you slowly faded away. We walk together to the oak tree and I place you in its protruding roots, cradling you in as its own. I lay you on the side to reflect into the lake. We talk, and I tell you of how special you were- that you must have surely been. Goodbye sweet freedom of your pale blue wings. You fly now into the lines of the tree.

Image by: Lavery ART

Darkness

Wrapped in darkness

I sit,

Painted into the night.

Fragments of air so thick

I can taste the stars

That break what shadows hide.

Isolated depths between

Land and sky,

Bleeds hot of its illusionary tales.

It seems cold and mischievous.

Twinkles of light in the sky

That tickle the fantasy of

A warm kindled fire.

Bursts of light that

Turn to flame-

Swift smiles of a lying face.

I dig into your trenches of

Mystery.

Where you burn and

That of me,

Sweet, hungry embers,

Are not far.

Like how you lied with me in

Torture of your pain.

Torment of your touch that crept

Over the top of my naked waist,

Skin soft, and calloused palms that grazed.

Finger pressed upon the lips of my heart

To hush the sound of pain we

Both now share.

I see your light,

Distant and out of reach,

Yet still consuming the empty

Answers

Of a soul’s entrapment that which

Could not express.

Cold but wrapped in warm cloth.

I Walk The Streets Alone At Night

Poem by: Bekah Turney

I feel my teeth

Sturdy in my gums,

For decades they’ve sat.

Tonight they illuminate

With noise through tingles.

Glistening eyes and an urgent mind.

Walk down dark streets,

Hands tucked warm in my pockets.

Late at night I squabble

In solitude I find,

My feet carry alone,

And nothing has come to bite.

I carry a corn poker

In my right pocket.

First thing I could find,

Like I needed to use it at all.

I feel the repel of anything

That comes to detriment,

But also my abuse

Of knowledge’s leverage I hold

On these midnight squanders

Gains a peace of mind.

This town grows thin of safety,

But I push its limits

To find the sanity of hope

And what’s left of its humanity-

The meaning of all that lies behind.

I torment the thought,

Come find me-

But the street stretches long

With sorrow’s empty halls.

Halls I walk alone.

And I ponder what it is

I am searching for.

I provoke the un-provokable-

A force unmet by my hungry eyes.

Give me something to rally off of,

As I wander the streets at night.

They rest inside warm tucked away,

With nothing but another day

They tended.

And I, the one who has unmet agendas

Blames the duties of my day,

Again to others who have their own

Legacy.

I, the one who’s floating,

Much to give

But has been un-attended.

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Photograph from: medium.com; by: Hannah Brookes Olsen.

Brown Berry Girl

“Beautiful brown berry girl.

She’s so beautiful.”

As I awoke each morn,

An expectation of excellence.

I dance, I eat and I grow plump.

Don’t tell me my beauty fades,

I never thought so.

Magic in my core

A yearning for a rift in the world

A difference to be made.

My confidence was built.

Smug and aware,

But with rich talent seeping through my

Screaming gut.

I am more-

Than the cheeks that were pinched,

The “round mound of sound,”

Though I much enjoyed hearing those words.

‘Twas the day grandma lie in the

Hospital bed,

Kidneys failing,

I stood, growing in width and height,

The one person that changed my life

Told me I’m not the most

Beautiful thing she had seen.

“You’re beautiful, but not the most.”

You saved me from a delusional fate.

You gave me peace

Showed me a shocking truth

And put me in tears.

That’s all I ever wanted.

Moments

It’s like we are back in the hot tub under the cold black sky, clouds that hover atop our exploding heads. Cold trickles of rain float down kissing our exposed skin. Crisp winter air like a new babe drifting into this new season, never stops growing. Energies wildly suckling at our grins in this inevitable flow, we shed, we become new, alive and full, endless cultivating love we share. I lay now, warm in my bed, secure and at home, and it reminds me of how the water wrapped us up like this blanket here, defying the cold that entraps this night air, inviting us three, in the water floating like fetuses in the womb. Pure, new and evolving. Friends, for now or forever, moments that are infinite.

Image by: Jessica Sharmin for Stocksy Inited