Stetson Scented Memory

It finds me sometimes,
on a stranger’s coat,
or aisle seven of the store.

Stetson cologne.

Scent.
Traitor of the senses.

It summons the echo
of smoke and leather
bruising the air
with hands I've tried
so hard to forget.

And I’m there again,
pinned on my back,
silent.

Still.


--

*With apologies to Stetson, and men who wear it - it's not your fault, I'm sure it's a fine cologne. But every time I smell it, I want to puke.

Us

It's in the pause before each breath,
the way my sigh melts into your skin,
my heartbeat softens in your hands.
No words. No walls. No armor.
Just trust.
Just love.

Just us.

 

You Never Let Me Fall

I won't let you fall.

I know the weight you carry,
the years folded tight in your chest
the ache of old expectations
crumbling under new realities.

It's dark in there,
come out, come out,
embrace who you are,
and become your own shelter,
a place where your softness is safe
and your voice doesn't echo back as doubt
but sings steady and real and true.

Even when you want to vanish,
to stay small,
stay tired,
stay hidden,
I will remind you

That is not who you are.

You are stronger than that.
You think you've failed already,
think you were born with less to give
because someone once told you so.

But I’m telling you now,
they lied
they didn't see you.

And if I kept quiet,
let you believe it was true,
I would be no better
than the ones who taught you
to hate your own skin.

I'm not perfect,
not wise in any way that counts

but I see you,
the real you.

And I'm not going anywhere
until you look in the mirror
and see what I see.

--

*For my dear friend who has always been there for me, and now it's my turn.

 

Wrecked (a poem by 13-year-old me)

He didn't ask.

She wasn't even a body,
to him she was just
virgin ground to be claimed,
a thing to be used
and left behind.

A swallowed scream,
no poetry in that.
Mechanical grinding,
like sandpaper
pressed hard into
the softest place.

After that
she was nothing,
a worthless hole,
then the world turned
and called her broken
because she bled.

Whispers followed:
She let him.
She wanted it.
She's a whore.

No one saw the burn
still pulsing beneath her skin,
the way she scrubbed herself
until it blistered.

Virgin blood
spilled in the wreckage.
 

--

Another one from deep in the archives. Sorry it's pretty raw, and maybe a little disturbing. I was 13 when I wrote this - it was one of the first poems I ever wrote. It expressed what I was feeling at the time, and I still believe poetry saved my life by giving me an outlet for all this. If I kept it inside it would have killed me. It almost did anyway.

It's not very good poetry, but it's a peek inside the mind of a broken 13-year-old. I've come such a long way from there. I have a huge stack of journals filled with stuff like this - some of it much more disturbing, and most of it I'll never share with anyone. But it's there, on paper, where it can't hurt me anymore. 

 

Fitting Into The Lie

Stuffing rage into cracks
too small for healing
endless clawing at the bones
of what was taken
her body an abandoned property
that can't be scrubbed clean
and still she drags herself
to bury hope in shallow ground
pretending the stench
of violated prayers
isn't seeping through her skin
masking the stink
of betrayal with brittle smiles
biting down on sweetness
until it tastes like rust
trading dreams for colder, sharper lies
carving out pieces of herself
to fit inside a coffin
too small for what she was
just to fit into the lie
that this is strength
that this is living

--

One from the archives. I wrote this one just a few days before I almost jumped off a bridge. I can't believe that was only 4 years ago. It was a dark time, and I was a different person then - and maybe a better poet? Raw, unfiltered emotion here.

 

Continental Divide

We pack the boxes in silence,
each lost in our own thoughts,
as the clock sheds minutes
like petals from a dying rose.

You fold my sweater,
the one I wore the night we met,
lay it gently in with the others,
like you're putting a child to bed.

Your hand brushes mine,
and we stay like that,
barely touching,
but not letting go.

We'll be okay...right?

And you nod,
though we both know
how many minutes there are
in two years.

You kiss my forehead,
a gentle reminder
of our promise,
pressing a petal
back onto the rose—
refusing for just a moment
to let it fall.

 

Night Lights

From this distance
they look like poetry,
but it’s just the physics
of atoms and gravity,
helium constructed
from hydrogen’s collapse.

Still,
we make wishes on them,
as if they aren’t
just explosions
still unfolding,

a fusion-based
thermonuclear lighting system,
blasting photons through the void,
silent reactors hung like a tapestry
across the vaulted ceiling
of the night sky's cathedral.

 

Being There

Somewhere beyond the old wooden fence,
all those summer nights we spent
down by the river blasting Van Halen,
drinking beers you stole from your dad,
we planted something unseen.
A vine, maybe, twining the spaces
between words we never had to say.

It was never grand gestures.
It was the night you found me
unraveling on your doorstep,
and you sat with me
like a warm blanket,
until morning.

Or the time I called you
at 1 am and you drove to Boston
because you refused to let me drown.
No questions, no judgment,
just a steady hand on my shoulder,
and a promise that I wasn’t alone.

I am here.
I am here.

If you needed my last breath,
I would give it to you.
I am here, and stronger now.

I will carry
whatever you can't.

 

If I Could Turn Back Time (Would I?)

If I could hold time in my hands,
rewind it like a ribbon,
back to the edge,
before the storm unraveled me

would I?

I dream of the softness
that might have been.
A life untouched by his hands,
where the mirror never broke.

But then I think
of the eyes I’ve met
mirrored with my own pain,
the trembling hands I’ve held,
the words I knew how to say
because I had already drowned
and learned to swim again.

To undo it would be to silence
the voice that reached
someone else in the dark.

Was it fate,
or is that just the shape
pain takes when we give it meaning?

So I stand in the doorway
between selfishness and purpose,
and still don't know
if I'd walk through it again

if I could.

 

The Circle

A circle of young faces,
in metal folding chairs,
the youngest just eleven.

They all look to me
for answers I don't have.
All I can offer is my story,
and hope it makes them feel
less alone.

My name is Becky,
and I was raped.

Just like an AA meeting,
but with younger voices,
and eyes still learning
what's been taken.

So I tell my story,
and I watch their eyes.
Some look at the floor.
A few make eye contact.
Some look like they wish
to be somewhere else.
Anywhere else.

I scan the circle,
already knowing
some won't make it.

Some will die
by suicide or drugs.
Others will grow up to a life
of depression and rage
and hopelessness.

But still I plant the seeds,
and water them,
hoping just one will bloom
and grow and learn
to laugh again
like I did.

 

Lessons From Birch Trees

He sat beneath the window
where light spilled in like slow honey
on his thinning hands,
each one a map of years,
a prayer folded open.

We didn't talk about dying.
He spoke of the wind
and how it bent the birch trees
without breaking them,
how silence was just another way
of communicating.

I asked about regrets,
and he laughed.
Like a leaf, he turned toward the sunlight,
You waste less time
when you know it's running out.

Tuesdays with Morrie,
except it wasn't Tuesday,
and his name not Morrie.
But each time he grew smaller,
my questions grew larger.

He gave no answers,
only stories
that now linger like steam
in a room still warm with
his last breath.

 

Not Enough

The hallway echoes with footsteps,
nurses with folded arms
and clipboards like shields,
each one passing as if
this room doesn’t exist.

I sit by the bed,
his hand cold in mine,
watching his chest rise and fall
until it doesn’t anymore,
as life collapses
beneath the weight of time,
witness to the unbearable truth
that love can't keep a heart beating.

I want to call him back
with every memory—
the way he laughed without apology,
how he held the world
like it was worth saving,
held my hand
like it was everything.

The next breath doesn't come.
Just the incessant beeping
of machines giving up,
the finality of stillness,
and the impossible task
of letting go.

Outside, someone is laughing—
a sharp, startled sound
like breaking glass.
I want to hate it,
to rage against its brightness,
but it only reminds me
the world still turns.

The nurse enters,
switches off the machine.
My eyes blur as she touches my shoulder
like a punctuation mark,
and leaves me
to finish this sentence
without him.

 

It Wasn't My Fault

The face in the mirror
says it out loud.
I don't believe her.

You didn't say no.
I didn't have a voice.

You didn't resist.
I didn't know I could.

You could have run.
I didn't know where to go.

You could have asked for help.
I didn't know who to trust.
Anymore.

You could have screamed.
I did.
No one came.

It wasn’t my fault.
It wasn’t my fault.

It wasn’t my fault.

The face in the mirror
starts to cry.

If only she knew
how hard I’m trying
to believe her.

 

All I Need

I can't sleep.
I lie next to you
listening to you breathe.

I whisper your name,
ask if you're ever
scared of tomorrow.

My hand finds yours,
and without waking
you squeeze it just enough
to let me know
tomorrow will be okay.

I love you.

 

Somewhere On The Internet

It's still out there
on a dark-web server
in some guy's basement;
you can find it
if you know where to search,
but I don't recommend it.

She was only twelve.

But it's there,
beyond her control,
downloadable
to some sick fuck's
private collection.

God only knows
what goes through his mind,
or his hand,
when he watches it.

 

Not My Body

Most people don't know
what it feels like
to be

powerless
degraded
used like a toy

everything collapses
in on itself

buries you in
shame

and all you want
is for your body
to shatter
and disappear
like dust

so it can finally
be free.

 

The Insidious Legacy Of Control

Ripples scatter your reflection
into a thousand shifting faces.

Desires spill into an ocean,
its currents all shouting
in different voices,
none of them yours,
but all of them
convincing.

Tightening spirals
drag you into deeper water,
pull you under,
spinning, spinning

and you learn to doubt
the compass in your chest,
because it was held too long

in someone else’s hands.

 

Expectations

What an opportunity!
You've earned it!
You're really going places!

A thousand held breaths,
none of them mine.

Chains of expectation
around my neck.

I can't stay.
I can't go.

what if...?
what if...?
what if...?

How do I know
I'm not just following the path
of other peoples' dreams?

 

Three Thousand Miles

You take my hand in yours,
kiss the ring on my finger,
remind me of our promise.
Your eyes whisper,

We will be okay.

Your arms surround me,
silence the storms in my head,
and in a single breath
I'm at peace.

It's not goodbye.

But somewhere beneath my skin,
something small and restless
still claws at my chest,
begging me to listen.

Two years seems so long.

The ground rumbles
with arrivals and departures.
Your arms surround me, warm as August

but slipping, slipping,
like tidewater
after a wave.

 

Dark Circles

Dark crescent moons
hang low beneath my gaze,
swallowed sighs and black coffee
feed dreamless shadows,
while the clock's ticking hand
counts heartbeats.

Ink stains spilled
from the pen of sleepless nights,
violet smudges pressed deep
into the parchment of my skin.

Medals earned
in the trenches of 3 am
fighting off ghosts
that haunt my dreams,
proof that I’ve danced
with the dark,
and lived to see the light
of another day.

Dreaming

Sometimes I watch him sleep
moonlight illuminates his face

he smiles slightly and I wonder
if he's dreaming about me

or the girl he wishes me
to be

 

Knowing

At the bend in the river,
watching the current

where you pulled me up once,
hands in the cold rush,
gravel cutting your feet.
You wouldn't let me thank you;
said I didn’t need to.

Old friends are like that.
Some people just fit,
like a favorite sweatshirt.
Not new, not glamorous,
but soft and comfortable,
and strong enough
to keep me warm.

Under the stars,
your truck idles low.
I lean against the fender,
you finish your beer, crush the can.
Not much to say; never needed much —
some things you just know.

Would I do the same for you?
Would I wade in, bare feet on gravel,
hands bloodied on jagged rocks,
to drag you back?

Don’t ask me that.
You already know.

 

Honesty

All I ask
is that you tell me the truth.

I don't want perfection
or smiles forged in fire
or a stab in the back
when you think I'm not looking.

I don't need grace
if it's hollow,
or kindness
that turns on me.

Give me awkward pauses,
trembling words,
the silence that follows
when you don't know what to say.

Let it be bare.
Ugly.
Truth.
Yours.

Just honesty.
I don't need sugar;
just say what is.

I can hold a jagged thing
as long as it's real.

 

Julia

She was seventeen and tired of waking up.
No note, just a shattered mirror
and silence in a red bathtub.

They buried her behind the church,
next to a man she didn't know.
Just another name on a headstone,
a short lifetime carved in granite.

Sometimes I leave flowers,
hoping someone will notice
and pause, at least long enough
to read her name.

I don't think anyone does.
The world forgot her,
just like she knew
it would.

 

Confession

That day we strolled through Harvard Square
peeking in shop windows,
sharing Ben & Jerry's
from a pastel paper bowl,

a warm spring breeze
lifted my dress just enough

We laughed, and your eyes
whispered something soft,
like the moment before
a kiss.

I wanted so much more than a kiss.

 

Little Things

I watch his muscles
flex with each turn
of the screwdriver.

He's fixing the lock
on the window by the fire escape,
broken since I moved in.

My heart melts.

Not because he's fixing it,
but because I know
he wants me safe.

 

Before and After

Her days were filled
with bike rides
chasing butterflies
spinning through meadows colored
in pastel violets and daisies.

She danced in her pink pajamas
dreamed of handsome princes
and being an astronaut
orbiting Jupiter.

She wrote stories about angels
drew pictures of horses
wore dresses with white lace
and purple flowers in her hair.

She prayed every night
for God to keep her safe
and watch over her mom.

Once when she was ten,
a boy in her class
told her she was pretty.
She pretended not to like him
but secretly she did
and it made her smile inside.

And when she was twelve,
her mom's boyfriend raped her
over and over.

She doesn't remember much
after that.

 

Grandpa

Sitting by his hospital bed,
his hand cold in mine,
watching his chest rise and fall
until it doesn’t anymore;
the helplessness of life
collapsing against the weight of time,
the silence that follows,
and the unbearable truth
that love can’t keep a heart beating.

I can hear the echo of his voice in mine,
his eyes, my eyes, that see the world
in a way only we could see it,
the soft curve of his hands
where mine learned to hold on.

He carried the world on his shoulders,
strong arms that built and mended,
that held tight when I needed strength,
and let go when I needed to grow.
His wisdom quiet but vast,
lessons tucked between stories,
truth folded into the space between words.

The father I never had,
he taught me how to live,
how to face the world and not bow to it,
how to feel everything and not break,
and most of all
how to love without fear
of what it will cost

when it finally yields
to the passage of time.

Neighbors

The walls are paper thin,
their bedroom next to mine.

At night the bed creaks,
low groans and gasping rhythms,
she cries out for more,
a front row seat
for an audience of one.

Morning light, voices sharpen,
one deep and angry,
the other raw, pleading,
something shatters,
a dull thud, then another,
a fist or palm or skull
knocks pictures off my wall.

I hold my breath,
helpless,
count the seconds,
listen for footsteps,
for a door slam,
for anything

but silence.

I pass her in the hallway,
she knows our walls are thin,
she looks away,
and I pretend not to see

the bruise beneath her eye.