Rebekah Froehlich

the book of love

Going away to come back different, changed. Isn't that what I've been taught to do? Trees peeking little kinds of green, mind lost on a loop. I'm over being over & over. Say it out loud, giant, big, fat, jinx. Curl my lip at

little hit #4

body moves in tandem, I'm aching from a cold place wipe tear stains on the soft curves of your face exiled in gas filled brain I used all my energy to try and contain

little hit #3

my mouth wants another to meet it soft, wet warmth familiar motion learned fumbling this is one thing I can't do myself

little hit #2

worn out memory, he longs to be my muse shelf full of half pulled clues make a shape, spilled ice cream stain not used to this from you

tiny ode to this & that

Do they know how much I think of them? Write of them? My boys. I hold their long gone image in the palm of my hand. I take them everywhere. Is this love? This thing that will never give up?

big, little i

Drag my two ton machine around your neighborhood. My bleeding body aches for your virilous touch. The picture of the male form visited me in a strange, ego-fueled dream. I saw him from afar, lying in the middle of an alleyway, all but a mirage as I approached. My astral

same letter, different name

mind races. soft grey clouds it's always never night somewhere they say the sun never set on the british empire distinctions quietly made between 1 & 2 funny question coming from you I'm open to this sort of thing a dead end line of inquiry

little hit #1

Men are more than sinew and bone. Chemical hit to the brain. Whatever way. Familiar form I crumple up. Base of my skull.

changing my mind

Is this what it's come to? Sit on snow covered ground. Sadistic smile splits tear stained cheeks. Hook stuck, save it, repeat over & over again. Cling to images I can only ever see in my mind. Foot made patterns. An animal's been here, too. Decipher

sickly decision

There's a sick sort of sadness to spring, and I love every minute of it. There's no more pretending that I don't understand. Doesn't it feel like I was here only minutes ago? Every time fearing I might be interrupted. I'

open ended

I’ve positioned myself in a section of the library where I feel even the clacking of my fingers along the keyboard is making too much noise. How do these other people type so silently? There’s a strict thinness to the air here. I feel I did not walk

tuesday

bore into the center of my soul taped up messages covering one side swallowing stale air cover the table with a nice tablecloth lone chair sits for three escaped messages lost in cyclical time organize similar thoughts in my mind here I am writing another line