This is your year and time,
Weight-loss is a must please try,
The drop of a dime!
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More stories from Rachael Frazier and writers in Poets and other communities.
Rachael’s Memoir
Hi my name is Rachael and this is my reflection piece/memoir about how each idea led me back right here to where I am. I , when I was younger I was in foster care. I had only gotten in there because I told Mr.Wright who was my counselor at the time, I felt unsafe at home and that I felt like running away. By the time I’d gotten there it was a very different atmosphere. It was a tall thick blonde lady . I honestly thought she was a German girl. The for me to get home was a dream I shortly learned when I asked for a pb and jelly sandwich and she had it crowbar locked! I felt odd. I felt oddly. I felt curiously out of place. It was ‘relief’straight when I was taken back to my moms place because I remember going to 3 foster care homes. Later on in life I realized I was going to be alright when I saw her at the ice rink for the last time.
By Rachael FrazierExclusive • 3 months ago
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
Brainwashing, Soul Food, and Torches of Freedom: Eat More to be More
Eat More Bacon Now Smoke More Cigarettes Now Eat More To be More (“We are governed, our minds are molded, our tastes formed, our ideas suggested, largely by men we have never heard of.” -Edward Bernays, the Jew who Hitlter tried to hire.. . . )
By SAMURAI SAM AND WILD DRAGONS6 days ago in Poets
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart3 days ago in Fiction
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