Author: becks

Hello, I am Rebecca and I tell stories.


zus died yesterdaywe say in her sleepbut the truth isher lungs startedfilling with fluidand she neededinjectionsand phone callswith doctorsbecause lifeis sometimesmessy that way zus was almosta century oldwith very little hairleft on her headbut a lot of joyin her eyes anda certain clarityof mind the last timei saw herei bumpeda wheelchairagainst her tableit made herchuckle […]


how to die a littleon the inside shut the doorand close your eyesas you cradleyourselfon the floor my lovethe concrete is coldand why are youreyes leaking didn’t theytell youthat all youhave to dois notlet them seethe blackpouring out to not let themhearthe soundsthat leaveyour mouthat nightwhen timeis just this thingthat passesand woundsare still woundsare still […]

rat race madness

a fox stretched outlike a bird in flighteternally restingin the gravelbeside the train track a woman’s humon random intervalsbetween the townswhere faces change bodies pressed togetherlike sardines in tinstumbling over chairsapparently worthfighting for

Doctor’s Office

it smells of vomitand cleaning productsred chairs packed togetherlike in a theatre but the drama is onlyunfolding in my headtoday no stagefor actorsto faint onor cry onor die on justthe smell of vomitsliding doorsa splash of depression mixed with human decaybodies decomposingin a brightly painted room what a showi thinkas i try diggingdeep within myselffor that sparkthey […]


“What are you afraid of?” she asked. I was silent for a minute, then looked at her again. “I am afraid of growing old before my time, of waking up one morning and referring to my youth instead of living it. I am afraid of being mediocre, I am afraid of not living every day […]


my body is tired it pays for every single trip outside my comfort zone


someone sprayed ‘king’ on the side of my electricity box i still think about it when i clean the car dad said i was cleaning the car when it happened i place my hand on the box when we pass it a force of habit the symbol of life after death where my bike came […]


it rains all day
we call it poetry
as we soak in it
marching for
our mother