Cold, dead and dark.


 
I sew with limited visibility, trusting that my thread will be led the old-fashioned way by the abundance of natural flame dancing before me in an old jar, long shadows flickering across the table’s surface like spiders legs and winter branches or ageing crone feet.

Icy, cold: it makes for poor physical company, channelling chills into my palms and fingers, up my arms and into my head and neck each time I let my limbs connect. Like my mother with her carefully painted face and colour-coded outfits, it’s all for show. Behind the veil, inside… it’s a different story; cold, dead and dark.

by Rebecca L. Atherton


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Like my dog, I like to hide inside blankets…


 
If I wasn’t afraid, I would run home now, pack a modest bag, grab my passport and head for the airport. Scanning the boards, I would pick a hemisphere, a climate, a culture, then confidently stride up to the information desk and push across my savings, knowing, as I did, I was making a commitment and honouring a contract.

But I am afraid: so my desire to travel is suppressed, along with my yearning for learning and adventure.

Playing it safe, my life curls into a ball: minimum challenge, limited contact. And while it doesn’t alarm me overly much, it doesn’t really excite me either.

Waking from a nightmare last night, I am full of agitation. Abandoned by my friends, left alone in a strange location which they, when they were here, trashed, my day is haunted by flashbacks. I feel nervous and scared too, too scared even to dig for the message my inner me wishes me to know.

All around me there are signs. Every day I am presented with options and choices of things I might do if I were brave enough and every day I shy away, fearing the consequences of standing up. And while I speak my truth and honour my feelings, never withholding even when speaking out might at times appear unkind: it is not enough.

I was born with an inner yearning to not be here. On earth I have never felt at home and I long for the peace that I know I used to have. In meditation and sleep I find it but like a drug the effects are short-lived. So I hang out with people who will leave me, seeking others who will let me down, knowing that because this is a repeating pattern, they will take everything I have.

by Rebecca L. Atherton


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Rabbit Holes


 
Uncanny
how a minor deviation
expands,

the desire to find a link
check a word
confirm a phrase

s t r e t c h i n g
until it becomes a map-less journey
of useless escapades.

by Rebeca L. Atherton


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SAD / sad /


 
1. Sad: a word, a whisper, my body throwing out distant echoes from within.
2. Sad: a baby crying, a lonely heart, an abandoned daughter.
3. Sad: a despondent mind and spirit, a thing of little worth; a dull, somber colour.
4. S.A.D: a mental disorder; depressive episodes during certain times of the year.

Feelings, thoughts, emotions…
All individual, independent, truth.

Another line.
Another journey.
More fabric touched.

by Rebeca L. Atherton


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Grrr… 


 
My boyfriend is like an angry dog.

Sometimes,this is useful…

by Rebeca L. Atherton


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Care Instructions


 
Store in a cool dry place
away from direct sunlight.

Once opened, keep refrigerated
and consume within two days.

by Rebeca L. Atherton


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Unforeseen Obstacles


 
The person I’m meeting isn’t there;
which is quite normal, in Mallorca,
where time moves slowly,
is fluid,
has no consequence.

Standing in line at the bank,
in a shop:
you wait…
for conversations to spin out,
attention to be ministered.

by Rebecca L. Atherton


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High Alert


Pressing anxious paws against my lower arm,
she marks my skin,
3kg of stiletto feet.

Easily startled, nerves like gum,
she twitches like a bird:
permanent fight or flight.

Even asleep, she is awake
and I worry:
what does this do to her?

by Rebecca L. Atherton


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Miscellaneous


 
A bent pin,
rainbow thread,
burnt umber:
stitching today.

A fly bothering me.
Cleaning my whiskers.
Remembering that men can be kind.

by Rebecca L. Atherton


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Stupid


 
Stubbornly insisting on persisting
when the rocks on the bottom
say the surface cannot be healed.

by Rebecca L. Atherton


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