Tag Archives: writer

flashes

image

the turn
the white car
the scream
the swerve
the grey car
the hit
the skid
the flip
the escape
the hug
the kiss
the cries
the thank god
we’re alive

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© Sara Febles

the next scene

This moment that I face
Could be my hardest yet
Time has passed
But my memory didn’t fade

I’ve seen this scene
Been the person across from you
Seen the hurt and pain
Thought of all the mistakes
And believed in the promises
That the ache would go away

This moment that I face
Could be my hardest yet
Time has passed
But my memory didn’t fade

I’ve seen this scene
Been the person in your arms
Seen the smile and heard the laughter
Thought of all the happy moments
And believed in the promises
That the ache would go away

This moment that I face
Could be my hardest yet
Time has passed
But my memory didn’t fade

I’ve seen this scene
Been the person crying on the floor
Seen the cracks on the wall
Thought of the empty picture frames
And believed in the promises
That the ache would go away

This moment that I face
Could be my hardest yet
Time has passed
But my memory didn’t fade

But my memory didn’t fade
Time has passed
The next scene I face
Could be my hardest yet

I haven’t seen this scene
Been the person standing on my own
Seen the horizon and felt peace
Thought of dreams and my purpose
And believed in my promise
That I would never ache again

My memory didn’t fade
Time starts now
The next scene I face
Could be my best yet

.

.

© Sara Febles

When the words come back

There are times
When I have no words

There have been times of pure happiness stemming from somewhere deeper than the pit of my stomach
From somewhere deep in my core
Where a shriek and a giggle and a twirl and a spin and a leap and a funky little dance live
Where a glance and a beat skipped and a gasp and that warm tingly little feeling travel from

There have been times of pure sadness rooted from the place where dreams were heartbroken
Where tears and ache and crumbling to the floor in dark corners grabbing my knees to shake take place
Where routines and must do’s paralyze fear in my chest making it almost impossible to run from

I’m at a loss for words on those days
Both feelings so overwhelming I haven’t got synonyms for them
I don’t speak or write any of the thoughts that leave me staring up at the popcorn ceiling
Eventually I’ll grab at the tail end of one and pull it back I study it and organize it and connect it
Sometimes I swim or drown in it taking my time to understand it

But when the words come back
I could explain it to myself in my writing

.

.

© Sara Febles

This is my space

This, my space
Is not the only place I can write

I can write on the back of receipts while I wait at a red light
On the back of pay stubs after rummaging through my purse
On my yellow and white memo pads as I pretend to take the minutes of boring meetings
In the last pages of those hard bound notebooks I left blank three years ago

I can write on flimsy grey notebooks
With a blue pen dragged on lineless paper
Cursive endings joining beginnings
I could
And I do
And I would more often
If it didn’t bother me to hide them in drawers

So I write here
This is my space
To let the words that press my mind
Escape at the time of their choosing because they must
And they need to become
A tangible thing I can feel more because I’ve made real that ghost of a feeling that flowed through me without understanding

And then suddenly it’s clear
I’ve worded some sort of internal complexity at the spur of the moment
Or after at least seven unedited drafts that pour from me
I don’t intend for others to understand
Anyone can make their own meaning if they choose to try

But only I know their truth
The meaning behind the words that I chose
I’m the one that set them free after all
Because they don’t belong on scraps of paper soon to be thrown away
They belong here
This is my space

.

.

© Sara Febles

The hardest part

It’s not the loss
But the feeling of being lost

It’s not the emptiness
But the feeling of unfulfilled potential

It’s not the broken pieces of glass
But the feeling of having absolutely no path

It’s not the tears you hold back
But the feeling of your soul torn in half

It’s not the things you wish you would’ve said
But the silence left at the end

It’s not the second it happened
But it’s all the lonely moments after it

It’s never what you think it is
But it’s all the things you miss

It’s not that you’ll never be happy again
But it’s that you’ll never smile the same way again

.

.

© Sara Febles

Murmured lines

A writer loves to be read
To know that her words
Have been thought about by you
That they’ve traveled
The depths of your mind

A writer loves to be read
Her words murmured
Lines depart your lips
Leaving traces of want
And raising your need
For her language so deep

A writer loves to be read
Directly from the dark ink
Which flows beneath
Her translucent skin
For her words to be traced
By your fingertips

A writer loves to be read
By the reader who reaches within
Connecting the night to her ink
Helping her write
Her stories to life.

Stranger

If my body had its way, in your arms it would stay.

My mouth meant to whisper things just for you.

My teeth meant to scratch your flesh because my need for you is so great

Fuck that this is a mistake

My breath exhaling your name while we sway

My hands grasping tightly in the darkness

memorizing the muscles contracting in such a way

I say please and more and fuck me I’m yours

My thighs holding you tight tangled kisses from the outside

Make me lose my mind to not know how to be

anything other than what you’re holding me and molding me to be

Explore the unknown with me

Teach me how to exhale the truth trapped

by so many who don’t know what to do with that

Release that part of me that growls

with primal want and desire

You have no idea how much I hold back

I want so much to be within an inch of your skin

My nearness to you isn’t enough for me.

Drown me, suffocate and intoxicate me,

Change me and transform me.

Leave me a stranger to myself in the mirror the morning after