We’re no good at hiding secrets
This is one thing
I can say for sure
Is not worth keeping
My mom’s already calling my bluff
She can tell what’s up
That’s just how it goes
A mother always knows
My friends tried to tell me
That you would fail me
And that you most certainly did
But you also helped me
I needed to grow up
Because I never showed up
In the way I should have
In the ways I knew
That what we were up to
Was just no good
Now your wife’s calling me
I think she suspects everything
She knows I’m more than a peer
What we feared
It’s all finally here
I feel guilty
Your so-called love, our treachery
Wasn’t enough to fulfill me
I’ve got to let this go
Be on my own for a little while
It’s been so long since I’ve seen myself smile
You know my mother?
She would tell me this story
Of this woman in all of her glory
Going ‘round town
And wrecking havoc
In every naysayer’s path
She never cared
Didn’t matter when or where
She was gonna let you know
She was a ballerina
As a way of saying
She knew how to put on a show
They say extravagance
Is of the enemy
But that doesn’t matter, you see
Because the real villain here
Always was, always has been
And always will be
Those on the outside
Thinking they know what’s within
She’s standing on her tippy toes
And watching as the world goes
Because time stops for no one
Neither does she
She went by the rules of live and let die
But not before you send your neighbor the best goodbye
In the form of a cat dyed the color key lime
They say extravagance
Is of the enemy
But that doesn’t matter, you see
Because the real burden here
Were those who chose to pretend
They’ve never lived a day in sin
Thinking they know what’s within
As I approach the years
We tend to hide from
I commit to the honesty
Of my wild beauty
For how I am
And not how they made it out to be
For I degraded this temple
Ostracized on a strange planet
I forgot Her wealth of appreciation
Naturally that all things
As they are beautiful
please find me on ig: @tiffanychammer or fb.com/groups/rockonwithtiffany
here lies the house you dreamt up as you were reading folklore
just like the girls growing up here, collecting daisies and trying to catch the sunlight
as they competed for the dirtiest dress and the best kind of princesses
that much preferred history pages and embers over glass slippers or true love’s kisses
they were here first, before the rainstorms and the whirlwinds happened
they were here first, wandering the halls pretending the glitter on their face was pixie dust
and the freckles on their wrists were constellations
they were here first, but they left the fairy lights for you
they left the daisies carved in the front porch railings for you
and the hollow tree behind the swing still cherishes their drawings
just like the rose bushes still hold onto their lost hair ribbons and long forgotten tears
the luscious garden a gorgeous kingdom just large enough for their secrets
and for the stories they wish were in their books
the story goes that the butterflies atop the driveway gate were the girls’ idea
the story goes that the house wasn’t theirs, that they were travelers desperate for a home
the story goes that they were sisters, not by blood but by stars
the story goes that the ivy climbing the walls and windows of the mansion
could no longer be tamed once their epilogue came to an end
people say that once the girls learned there was no Neverland
that the midnight hour was an actual monster, that losing your voice was not just fantasy,
that poison did in fact come in sweet, that beauty could be cruel,
that happily ever after was a fight rather than a given victory,
it was as if a rainstorm broke loose and never stopped
but maybe that wasn’t the girls’ fault
maybe they were just the ghosts that predicted what was to come
come inside the gate, walk the driveway
the neighbors live a million little worlds away, telling their own stories of this place
as they sip tea so sweet it makes you wonder what all the sugar in the world is meant to hide
stories that are a thousand dimensions away from the actual truth, if such a thing even exists
come now, ring the bell of the olive door as you are bewildered by primroses
listen carefully to the sound of cats meowing and wings rustling
that almost overshadows the soft tingling like wind bells that make your heart tingle
come inside, enter the hallway with constellations decorating the mauve wallpapers
rumor has it the female assassin woman who lived here painted them herself
she turned the library into an armory and the parlor into a room filled with gowns and frocks
after buying the house from the notorious roaring twenties socialite for whom it was a palace
but oh well, that’s just the rumors
let those mauve constellations catch your every heartstring
as you stand on your tiptoes on the scarlet carpet studying the paintings of wonderland
that are said to be drawn by the apocalyptionist couple living here after the murderess’ downfall
come, proceed, the tour only lasts an hour
take a look at the stunning vinyl player in rouge and lavender that will make you feel
as if you are in a butterfly kaleidoscope
some say it belonged to the notorious socialite
some say it was stolen by the villainous woman who supposedly ate hearts she cut out of bodies
others say it was the last gift the woman who always wore cardigans got from her boyfriend
that night he admitted to cheating on her all summer long at her graduation party
he stood on the front porch of this very house, naïve enough to still believe in a true love’s kiss
that would patch it all up
but word is she just took the vinyl player and shut the door in his face
come, this house has a magnificent thirteen rooms
in the color palette of a storybook
close your eyes, don’t be shy
inhale the scent of rosé-perfumed memories and freshly baked cinnamon rolls
sweet tea greeted by epiphany sunlight and garden beets cooking
Sunday afternoon candles and Monday evening cocktails
take a close look at all the spice racks and recipe books in the kitchen
you can see the sepia photos and love letters sticking out, half lost, half never meant to be found
listen to the soft indie music playing on the rouge vinyl, take a look around
at the tea leaves drying and the apple sauce stewing
as you catch glimpses of a telescope and a typewriter on the back porch
and remember the front porch with the fairy lights and jars filled with ocean rubble
remember the rocking bench and the painting supplies
the back porch was for the happy memories, but the front porch holds the scars of broken hearts
the promise of a happy ending crumbling as the boy who risked it all left empty-handed
the loneliness after a day full of people, as the notorious socialite was left alone
the darkness of a woman so scorned she ferociously screamed into the void for an apocalypse
the woman standing on the doorstep of her most infamous murder
that same woman curling up on the porch steps clutching a blooded knife,
hands shaking for the first time in her life
oh well, that is just how the stories go, there’s no telling the truth really
moving on, make your way to the drawing room
where two cats sleep in blush armchairs, one tabby named Ella, one grey called Cinder
from here, feel free to enter the breathtaking observatory
where young papillons prepare to take flight as doves and bluebirds sing you a song
and don’t forget the library, which holds every fairytale ever written, both cruel and pretty
these too were left here for you by the two girls who started it all, savoring every single story
run your finger along every history page ever forgotten, every dream ever conquered
and realize that it was the woman called wicked by many collected them with her bare hands
priding herself in bottling the starlight of a life envied by many, spinning twisted tales of her own
remember to visit the attic, where you will find crescent moons and faded canvasses
as the remains of a world ending while the earth kept on travelling around the sun just the same
take a peek into every bedroom: they all have their own lipstick secrets and vintage myths
just like the theatre where, as whispers say, the notorious socialite spent her final hours
desperately trying to get lost in a world of sunken secrets much like her own
do make sure to skip the gallery of ghost stories, though,
for it will haunt you all the way to the manor’s other wing
the tales of names buried, faces covered and blood shed for absolutely no reason at all
will draw tears from your deepest cores
and please, fiercely walk past the museum of open books in the south wing
perhaps it was the cardigan girl, or the notorious socialite, or the vile assassin,
but one of those women, you know, had a strange relationship with endings
for she never could let go of what was long gone
take your time walking the corridors
and imagine, just imagine, the voices, the footsteps echoing, the rustling of dresses
the silhouettes, the brushes of rosé-perfumed memories
imagine the kingdom of ‘’what if’’ and ‘’if only’’ and ‘’could have been’’ inside these walls
imagine the stories of moments, seconds behind the portraits gracing the staircase
imagine that you can hear a rainstorm tearing this house apart
imagine the windows shattering, the door break, imagine the roof collapse
imagine the ivy, the willow trees, the rose branches desperately growing into all the rooms
trying to protect the stories of their kingdom
imagine the thunder in the attic, of all the times the world ended without ending
imagine the lightning striking on the front porch
every time the assassin woman’s knife ignited a fire in her own eyes
imagine the kitchen, the parlor, the library and the observatory flooding
taking away everything like all the women of this house once lost everything
imagine an earthquake running through all the fairytale books and secret garden spots
terrifying the fireflies and chasing away the young butterflies not yet ready to grow up
just like those two girls with whom it all started, who had to grow up before their time
imagine the whirlwind that tore illusions to pieces so many times
imagine the hurricane picking up the pieces that could never make something whole again
imagine the eclipse darkening everything like all the times the sun went down on the daylight
imagine a sky full of stars coming down on the house to take back their constellations
imagine a cyclone ripping the house apart,
like all the words, minds, hearts and souls that were ripped apart here
imagine secrets floating out onto the driveway and out the gate
imagine truths flying out of burst windows into the garden and beyond
imagine the dimension between true and false finding a way into the universe
imagine the flood waves bringing along every brittle bit, every piece of paper
and leaving it on the streets, like ashes ready for erosion
imagine all the whirlwinds, tornadoes, thunders, rainstorms, earthquakes and hurricanes
imagine all the floods, fires, lightnings and apocalypses breaking down this house’s every inch
like the stories of those who lived here were broken down by each and every inch
until every shout, every scream, every whisper, every word was silenced, hushed, muffled
and left to folklore’s mercy
they still haunt this house today
the age of their era is never-ending
so, as you take one last look over your shoulder before stepping out on that front porch again
remember; this is the house you dreamt up
while reading folklore
but it could only ever be a home
to ghosts and their stories
The woman who lives in the house on the hill creeps down to the shoreline. Her neighbors have switched off their reading lights. She climbs atop the tallest rock and stares out into the mystery. It’s an endless sea.
Her home is the backdrop to her wayward thoughts. Only she can hear the blue hills crashing, her mind rolling with white-capped waves. She fills her days without caution, but what of the lonely nights?
In the daylight it’s as if she can see their thoughts. They know things about her that she is not. It gets too bright, their harsh false insight. So, it is in the quiet night that she takes flight.
To take her mind off their cruel delight, she fills her time with engagements of frill. She gets a thrill out of giving them something to fret about. But when the day slips into darkness, they escape to peace in their dreams. The woman who lives in the house on the hill gets no such luxury.
She swims in champagne and lives off her last name. She drowns in the rumors and dies a little every day. Smiling, smiling, laughing, crying. Her friends and her foes are the same. None understand how she could be suffering, but she lives in a mansion of pain.
Sometimes they all go home. The beach is once again calm. She can’t relate. In the quiet she must face the only partner life won’t let her escape. She wrestles herself on those boulders. They tumble around in the darkness, one guarded and one that keeps swinging regardless.
That quiet beach becomes a boxing ring when the lady of luxe loses her audience. The sand is bloody from her self-inflicted blows, but no one would know. Her body stands still, challenging the ocean that heaves and breathes below.
She stares out at an unknown object. She admires that ultimate pool. They say she shouldn’t be out at that hour, but they’re not who she answers to. Maybe there’s a ship on the horizon, a great vessel to take her away. I hope she finds what she’s looking for. I wish her well, no matter what the people might say.
Seven years old.
Naivety knew me well and insecurity held me tight.
I was happy, I was innocent.
I loved to play pretend in the trees
And chase snakes in the grass.
I had a mother and a father,
I had God and I had imagination.
I had music in my ears.
One by one those things, they left me.
Goodbye daddy, goodbye Jesus.
Goodbye childhood, goodbye love songs.
All that was left was a fearful child,
It happened in just one day.
A sunny afternoon.
Innocence taken. Age seven.
There in the closet, no one to catch my streaming tears.
No one to come and save me.
No screams came from my mouth.
My voice was gone.
All the playing had come to an end.
No more make-believe, no more barbies.
No more pirates.
Civility and anxiety were all that hugged me.
No one else offered comfort or safety.
So I clung to them with all my strength.
The fields behind that house
Grew tall with wheat and weeds.
They soon became home,
Where I could run to to be alone.
I saved myself.
I hit my peak.
The light shines
And I don’t know why
It’s been a miserable night
Yet here I am
Wandering into your arms again
Because for as much insecurity as I have
You seem to want to be here
You seem to want to hang near
You seem to never have any fear
I don’t get you, but I do
Because I know me
The imposter syndrome speaks
But I make a breakthrough
Because for as much insecurity as I have
You feel right
You feel real
You watch me as I heal
Never going in for the unnecessary kill
As I pick myself up
The light shines
And now I know why
Yeah, It’s been a miserable night
But here I am
Standing one in one
With you again
The wake of my words no longer concerns me,
Nor do the ones who have it out for me.
I once bobbed along in docility,
Stifling my anger with fear of the gallows.
Now my rage seethes relentlessly.
It was in my meekness that they found power.
But if for my madness,
I’m not ashamed,
What do they have to hold over me?
Away and away,
For so long they brushed me.
I was crumbs in the corner
But the rats just ignored me.
Day after day,
The dust pile grew bigger,
And as it collected
I found new vigor.
When it seemed the calm,
For long enough had remained,
The wind started blowing,
And I cast away my tame.
As they looked up
To see the storm that was brewing,
I leapt from my corner
And let loose my ruin.
All at once,
The desert that sat quietly
Rose up and filled their lungs.
When the sand takes flight
And blocks out the light,
There is nowhere for bandits to hide.
Their day at the beach
May have been sweet,
But when they leave
They are destined to carry me.
I fill every nook and cranny,
Every crevice that they’ve yet to find.
They’ll be haunted by grains of my sea shore,
And taunted ‘til the sun won’t rise.