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Rebecca Easton

We are not this

The Boat




 Rebecca Easton is an English major at Elizabethtown College in Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania. In her experience as a writer, she has received three Scholastic Art and Writing Awards keys on the regional level, as well as a silver medal on the national level. Rebecca attended Messiah College’s Young Writers Workshop in the summer of 2014, and joined her local library’s writers group the following year. She has been published in Vox, the on-campus literary magazine, participated in an open-mic event at Elizabethtown College, and taught a writing workshop in her hometown. When she is not writing (which is quite rare), she is playing video games or singing.

You might as well chain

me up to a goddamn

wall and feed me the

scraps that your pigs

won’t touch.


Even now, I can already

feel the bite of your

whip as it lashes

my spine and leaves

craters on my back. If

being myself is such a

crime, then why don’t

you throw me in jail?


Why do you have to

stretch out my pain

while I am helpless to

put a stop to it, because

you’re “more than welcome

to do what you will” but

I have to “suck it up and

deal with the real world?”


In this country, where

justice is as common as

air, why is it so difficult

to breathe?

She sees calamity abound,

and hears agonized screams resound.

Yet she stands tall to face her fears

as she has done for countless years.


And though waves batter relentlessly,

she paddles her boat on tirelessly.

Chasing the horizon, where the sun

is ever rising, but never done

with its ascent. And towards that line

she rows and rows, for all of time.


Though she is lonely in the dark

she sighs and dreams of meadowlark,

of tree and flow’r and mountain peak

covered in snow, and robin beak.


To find land once again would be

the greatest gift, which is why she

continues to press through the storm

hoping one day she will be warm.




I want you to push me, but not too far

I want you to hit me, but not too hard.

The pain makes me feel like I’m alive

The pain makes me forget I’m dead inside.


I want you to bite me with fangs like ice

I want you to scratch me, don’t play nice.

I like how my body reacts to the hurt

I like how I lose track of what I am worth.


I want you to burn me ’til I turn to dust

I want you to drown me ’til I start to rust.

And I will find peace with the muscles that ache

And I will find peace with the bones that break.

There’s tension

it’s hot and taut like a flaming

rope and your chest is full of

lead and stone and you can’t

breathe and you can’t think and you

can’t see anything around you but you

feel it all too much, the details seep

in through your fingertips and race around

your veins and enter your bloodstream

and the lights are bright—who turned them

on and why are they so intense—but it doesn’t

matter because you’re on the ground with your

fingernails scratching the carpet as you try to

tear something, anything that isn’t a part of your

body but the fibers are too small to grip onto so you

start tearing at your hair, even though you said you

wouldn’t hurt yourself again maybe just this once you

won’t break the skin but you do and it bleeds and it burns

and you feel like you’re on fire from your feet to your lungs and then


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