Link to audio recording below👇👇

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Poem by: Bekah Turney

I try to remember what it is like to be alone.
I feel the grip of independence slip 
Through drips of drink off of my lips
And proceed to draw within.
I see myself sitting inside looking through-
Large thick paned glass window,
Lack luster with its frame, paint flaking away from the edges.
Long grass dances in sync with the
Tides of wind,
Along with my mind’s wild rhythms.
Green, slim blades, elongated,
Gently intertwining whispered words only they can hear.
My ears perk
To listen to undiscovered sound-
Intrigued by my unnatural intrusion.
This plays a harmonious song
Through the fantasy of my desire.
Thoughts boiling
Pondering how a simplistic mind can find a way
To obscure this dense reality.

But I see-
I see them caress one another
In imaginary thought,
Like gentle hands sliding hungry along a soft tender waist,
And between my legs grows warm.
To think something so beautiful in any form
Can draw the body in such ways
That gradually defile it’s beauty,
And make one’s hair stand on end.
Prickling upward like the green pointed blades of grass,
My passion rises,
Like a mallet colliding against a teetering metal plate,
And the weight inside the clambering scale rises higher,
And higher.
Climbing farther up towards that clang.
I wait, 
Suspense opening more my every pore, widening my tiny pointed ears.
Knowing they have something of true value to say.

I’m 5 years old again, 
I sit, molding the dirt beneath my bottom, 
Pulling weeds and see conversations between 
Completely different beings, 
As I imagine in kind through the illusionary window now. 
Singing their song- 
Green hedge and bulby violet petals bob. 
I sit here in current actuality, 
At a long drawn wooden bar, 
Spirits sliding into my palm. 
I feel these fizzling thoughts, 
Like the soda in my whiskey, 
That entraps my brain, 
Escaping quickly into a state of release- 
I write readily. 
Construing the words I feel deemed to say, 
And hope that they are honest. 
Alone I sit, waiting for my unintended tab to close-  
For the game on the tv to make its final pitch  
And end the game of this nights revelry.  
Because these spirits have sank in,  
To the parts of me I wish to hide,  
And showcase their existence  
Through what is real inside my mind,  
Slipping with every sip I take. 

On the balcony now. 
Words vomit onto your lap From the spillage of my tampered soda. 
I ask you, 
“What is life and what are we doing here?”- 
You say your shift hasn’t ended 
And you cannot contemplate this strand of thought- 
The only thoughts that run around my head like chickens Waiting to be fed. 
I look back through the window of my mind. 
Tall vibrant grass curls away in disgust, turning brittle yellow. 
The hand digs it’s nails into the delicate waist 
And pushes with force the other body away. 
Beauty ripped into a million ugly reasons 
To fall here off this ledge. 
Fall away dead to what reality isn’t serving.

• 

By: Bekah Turney

“Ground control to Major Tom..”/ Record spins as you stand near the player./ Tall, stoic, vibrant hands that easily touch things/ And make them work at your command./ Grounding myself in a warping haze of beauty,/ Feeling the couch beneath,/ Thumbing intently through vinyls/ To avoid entrapping myself in/ Your colorful hues.

“Are you sure you can see the tv on that end of the couch?” You ask./ Nice line./ We talked of the yearn,/ How our lips would feel pressed against each other’s./ But that was over text,/ And I couldn’t see your eyes and pretty grin,/ Hair tickling the top of your lip and filling your chin,/ Mouth peeking through/ That swoons me now./ My heart races as I meet your changing irises,/ resistance of embrace,/ Failing./ You call them mood rings./ Your eyes, pupils dilating with every passing second,/ Lighter against the growing black as I draw more near.

I turn my head away, after the soft pillows of your lips collide against mine./ I hate that./ And they feel so damn good,/ So right./ Always turning away, afraid to let in something tangible, genuine./ Something unknown./ But it wasn’t long,/ You cradle your arms around,/ Tree branches pulling me into your nest,/ Fusing our tall bodies together,/ Until we disappear./ I turn to face you as John Cusack fades away from thought,/ Attention pulling away like a magnet./ On our sides we lay/ And stretch my leg to climb above you,/ Wrapped in flames.

My legs, limber, walk readily,/ Confusing the nerve stricken rush of blood,/ Rapidly beating in my chest/ Ready to burst with pumping force inside its cage./ A kaleidoscope of monarchs flap their colorful wings inside my gut/ As you stand in comfortable ease./ Whisk me away as you have the moment I first saw you./ Beautiful creatures you tell me of with fascination,/ Adoration for incredible things,/ In your eyes I see,/ Through all their changing hues,/ The same peculiar being.

Fingertip on your bowler, that sits hugging your head,/ A stoic angel silhouetted in the night./ Whisk me away and show me everything I’ve yet to see-/ Thumbing through vinyls of your soul,/ You place the needle down and I listen./ A soft hum,/ And unspoken rhythms.

By: Bekah Turney

Today, as my mind frenzies with outlandish and infuriating thoughts, the water boiling inside my head finally reaches the edge, spilling over only to burn my skin and awaken me. My emotions push and pull, like the aggressive wind outside this open door I sit near now. And as this all occurs with whirling winds of rage inside my being, I pause in complete understanding, like a light bulb clicking on and my wide eyes stare mesmerized into it.

It’s the feeling of trying to claw out of your own skin, as if in attempts to flee, yet being completely paralyzed to it. Like a reoccurring cycle of self inflicting torment continuously being fed around a painful spinning wheel. As I continue staring into the illuminating light in the bulb of my mind, I recognize my resistance to that which paralyzes me in cyclical torture: it is the idea that I developed into my belief system, that I cannot trust anyone ever. I talk to myself inside my head, bantering back and forth with what seem two of me, ‘How can you lose control of your emotions when you have done so much work and healing? What is it all for then if you keep running into the same problem of letting go?‘ Then the other part of me that counters replies, ‘Well there must be something you’re not seeing or paying attention to that desperately needs your recognition.’ There is a scar I have not yet faced, and seems for a very long time. With every attempt to reach and grasp its truth in my hands, I feel the blade sink further into me. With the unbearable pain I recoil and that is when I try to crawl out of my skin, stuck inside like a hamster on its wheel. It’s like hesitating to take a shot, because the needle must pierce through your skin first to release the medicine that in turn will help you.

Still gazing into the light bulb of my mind, I dissect why the need for mistrust takes residence in my belief system. When I love someone deeply, I feel them integrated as a part of me and open the most beautiful part of myself to them, the most vulnerable and true part of me, I then become the most afraid of losing that person forever. So, the beauty of what love really is feels more like pain. And as I feel this way, because the love is so vulnerable, so deep, I push the ones I care about most away. This means at one point in my life, I believe as a child, at my most beautiful and vulnerable, I was rejected.

Now that I am recognizing this, still not able to remember a specific memory or possible cluster of them, I see that this isn’t who I am, but rather a belief I integrated into my head. I allowed myself to lie about who I really am, because that is how I knew to survive at the time. So, rather than beat myself up for the flaws I created from all I knew at the time to protect myself, I can embrace the truths I have grown to learn at this time right here and now. Oh, and it is painful, it hurts straight down to my core to look at the flaws and try to grasp the concept that they don’t define me, anyone, as a person, ever.

Belief systems are hard to unlearn. But like the analogy above, if you let that needle pierce through to give you the medicine you need, you find the pinch of pain will soon fade, as rather the pain of continuous torment from neglecting your truth will haunt you until met. The pain of the blade that I found sinking deeper in me as I looked at the issue closer each time, is the cry of liberation- after being neglected for so long , it is finally again seen and understood. That is healing. That’s when we say, “Hello again, stranger. It’s so nice to be back home.”

I hear the wind still blowing to and fro as it did when I first started this journey today. Sitting, blanket warming my lap, and my coffee is now cold against pressed lips on the cup’s edge. I see in front of me again. Coming out of the clouds of thought, I watch the breeze through the trees without relating it to the chaos from before, but more now soothing as it passes through. Like the pain I pursued.