ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)
Bio
~ American feminist living in Sweden ~ SHE/Her
Admin. Vocal Social Society
Find me: @andreapolla63.bsky.social
Achievements (1)
Stories (199)
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The Dragon Beside Me
Draped in blanched weathered skin, she stands beside me still, the fury of her wrath when coming to my defence was like no sandstorm, no wildfire, no unanointed castration one could foresee; all because of me. Her small frame was a disguise for fools, her wingspan, pulsing with old blood swooped down and tore out the heartless ignorance of fools who dared to brand me different, odd, peculiar...all the words that dig into one's spirit, teasing, daunting, bare. My mother, my dragon, who defied all notions propelled by the green eyed monsters that tried to steal who I was, who I would be, who I am now, spared nothing for herself; her blaze was entwined with mine. Blanketed by her privileges, I passed through walls, cemented rules unbeknownst to me; I was hers despite my brown, curious eyes, my lack of tough skin, I hung onto what she bled. She could be like the cool breeze that quells the night after a scorching summer's day just as easy as she could slap her spiked tail and frighten anyone who dared to try and break my dreams. Time passes, I am no longer under her pale, veiled skin. I stand alone, my scars permanent on my earth toned face. I am not safe all the time and I know it. Yet she fought for me to fly. Despite the stares and repeated rejection I feel invincible, well, most of the time. I can not see her, no one can when I am crossing the divided bridge, making my way home, always hoping for no trouble. I don't know if I should feel this way, yet sometimes I wish her white skinned cape never was hidden for it has left me in a world where no one can ever know the dragon that stood beside me, who rescued me more than once. My wings do not dare to disrupt or make controversy. I want to soar; to not carry the heaviness of this life on my back. Yet, I am understanding, in both an angry and consenting place within me, that I must strive to not only live, but to love on this worn down mountain, to not whisper but learn to roar. I lift my wings and seek the rainbow where I am free. Free to be all the colours that make me, ME. Drench me in violet, sultry bruising blues, flaunt me, drink me, spill me like red wine, let me break through the cape where I was shadowed, parting with wings which sheltered me. I want to fly on my own, her love is mine to feel. Solo I swirl back to a place where I am at her breast, her thunderous heart against my cheek, we clung to symbiotic sighs, never did it cross my mind that one day she'd be on her eternal voyage while my knees shook, my own thoughts burst forward, my being would feel as ripped flesh when parted by sudden falls onto unseen glass carefully laid out, in my own path. Never did I consider I would dance alone, sing again, make it through the day, the night, the week, the next month, the anymore of ever without her. Standing on the edge of my new frontier I grieve in choked up swallows, my throat is tight, and I almost retreat. I remember her bending down with her assuring gaze, I perch, I take a deep breath and plunge into my own being; I have never been so proud, so hopeful and alone. She would say higher, higher, higher! I will be alright, I think. Mother? Watch this! I do a back bend, I hang upside down from high beams like a hungry little bat. Go baby. I am always here, I promise I will always see you. I'm living, I'm doing it! The smell of her encapsulates me and the audience applauds. She was beside me all along.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Not Stupid
I ain't, ya'll. That's what you think. Ain't is somethin' we create? ME is underneath a heavy cover, a sweet retreat from your discomfort. Naw, ya'll are always down, seein' me with your jaded brow; where do I belong in your white ass dreams, layin' low, to be unseen? Ever stray to wonder why a black kid feels a little shy? I shine, I shine; OH, how Momma sees me shine. I sit waitin' for the bus, after seein' my therapist; cops are called 'cause I am readin' 'bout the struggle and am grieving. I am BLACK, I am BROWN, I am whatever ya'll puttin' down. I am GAY, I am kind, you won't see ME with your dull eyes. I'd give up if it weren't for hope; Momma's love is my antidote; SHE don't give up on me, even if society....don't let me SHINE, SHINE, SHINE.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Loving Hands
each crease, line, place, time, furrowed bits of a well worn kind, deep within memories cast, shadows fading ever fast, soft, safe in mother's hand, crossing to another's land, washing, raw, red, and chafed, all to keep another's space; bleeding, giving all you could, kneading life, for another's good; recipes bled between worn threads, all to keep the family fed, living on rations, ne'er to resign to the place your momma left behind, brushing hair, steaming dresses, all the while, braiding tresses, always ready, to use those hands to keep things steady, when they ached no one knew, you gave it all as your family grew, tender times, stitched within your heart of gold was strength that shined, you were so bold, you kept on going while other's wept, then one last time with your kitchen swept, your hands reached out and took in mine, dearest Grandma, my Valentine.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Stained
What the hell happened to you, faithful, floundering boy? You took every woman you could seize as an admission to your own court of indecency. Why? How? You took me to your mother, you said I was yours, you took me to your father, you said I was yours... was yours until I saw you. You took my special place, you discarded all of me; I prevailed. Your eyes were always positioned, ready for your next prey; I was keen and could smell your carrion well before its take. What happened to you good Catholic boy, why did you long for drunken nights with cloudless aims? How did you think life would be when I walked away, albeit unwillingly? You seek the reassurance that you have meaning in another's arms, yet failed to know the seed you sowed, still you have never grown? I heard you were alone, by the city docks, looking back to the sunset where once we swam as one. Please, find the message of a sailor's dream, pick up the bottle I have dreamed. An ancient scroll I present; your child is broken, your brother dead; and I was once your love. The world you shared was in greed; barren you live with all we heed. Sorrow beckons us all to mourn, yet old lover you were never born. Take and taking more and more, the bottle to baste your heart to mourn. You stole my trust, my belief in good, you gave me nothing, nothing, nothing hood. I am old, I should be better, but what you did scarred me forever. I want to face you and say you were wrong, yet my being now is much too strong. I do not wish you to perish or rot; I am in heaven and you are not.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Lovely. Top Story - February 2024.
Held. I wiped tears from your eyes; we played your favourite song sung by Etta James. "At Last", your frail frame unfolded into my strong heart beat, not missing a step we made it almost to the end, before collapsing. Anguish pushed through a slight glimmer in your grey eyes, once again fever swept over you; I wiped your brow with a cool cloth, then like white chocolate in the afternoon sun, you melted away. Our love was a last dance, a promenade of bashful memories, tender as the fledgling free from it's warmth, flightless, featherless, starving, then fed. I longed for one dance more, yet time stole us in a heated breath; at last, you will be, forever lovely.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Well Said
One in two, seen, unseen; begotten holes, hearts rendering. Love, doubt, past memories. Failed words, broken communication, healing me, you healing wounds open ever, never, shall we, look again. Backwards, forward, present, Now. Listening, forgiving, mother's vowing, praying yet empty now resurrecting fertile bows.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Wanting in Winter
Only once did it take to lock my heart forever to yours; our passion abandoned due to a cause neither of us wanted to fight. Blinded by bullets, blizzards, time ticked on. Trails of you leaving were quickly blown away into snowdrifts, my dreams, my starving desire. That kiss was not to be our last; I will never stop believing you will wander home before the hearth grows empty, enter my bed with your inner battle won. In sleep I see your eyes ice blue, your lashes heavy, pelleted by the storm within; I am inside you and see that each footstep you take is cautious, though your toes are black, your face raw from the brutal winds, each print brings you closer to me. I am your guiding light, your angel whipping sunlight toward you, claiming you to this cracking heart. When I wake, brittle, hungry, tasting you still, I wrap all I can find to warm me and make one last fire. I search for sustenance, anything to keep me steadfast, ready to see you stumbling through the opening of the forest, in whatever pieces you are in, I will heal you, over and over again. I find the vodka you left for your return. I hesitate to open it as it could further your journey. I am ravenous and lie down by the fire, falling back into my polar dreams where our hearts are pressed together pumping life into each other. Your chest is bare, my love.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Waiting for Me
I knew you before I knew myself; your smiles, laughter and eyes that sparkled, almond brown, back at me when I dared to look into any mirror, anywhere. You were blooming, not with sustenance nor with proper acknowledgement, you burrowed deeper, hidden behind my skateboard, my cigarettes, my unwanted peach fuzz. I resented you for being me; for stealing my place, my ease, my friendships. I despised you for pushing me forward, tossing me to the wolves, the haters, never caring to hold me tight. No one wants to be me, the unwanted babe, the banished boy in cohorts with a pushy budding young woman. I avoided you, I tried to smother you over and over for what, WHAT?; in this world what could you give me but rejection, hate and fear. I am like driftwood, washed up onto the rocky beach, stepped over, casted back to sea only to wash up again unwanted. I lost my father because of you, he unwanted me. You just had to take over my life, make my every moment hell. I sit in the shower broken; my body does not reflect you. My heart longs for love yet who will love this pain, this budding flame of dreams? I don't want me; how can anyone else? I have played and paid and now, with stacked dishes in my sink, dirty clothes on my floor, a room with a bed unmade I sit and I wonder why the hell I was born to be me in this creepy, stupid world. I am sensitive, smart and funny but that will never be enough. I am a weirdo to white guys with mohawks and big, black boots. Stomp, stomp, THUD! Will I one day be under their feet? Kicked, beaten to a bloody heap of white bones just like theirs? Will I relive my rejection from my father over and over and over or will there be a miracle? I lay low. Why the hell would I flaunt my femininity to appease those in charge at the clinic to recreate me? I am Frankenstein, an embarrassment to those whom I loved. My hair is falling out, I cry when I shave every morning. The one thing, the one person rather, I have is my mom. Somehow, for some I just don't know reason she keeps believing in me; she loves me and shows up. I have deceived her so many times, broken her heart and frightened her yet she continues to want me. I am never sure about anyone else. Never sure, never. I don't go outside unless I have no choice. The bus scares me; will my she in me be seen? She is stronger and emerging faster than my confidence. I keep my head down, stare at my phone in my oversized hoody hoping to just get to where I am supposed to be. When I get to where I am going I am still awkward and keep quiet. They see a brown boy, a lost case in a system of losers. At least that's what I think. Can I trust them to help me when I am amber in a porcelin boutique? Never know, never know. Mom texts me too much 'cause she worries. I guess she should be concerned; nothing seems to flow easily in my world, my burnt out boy, my screaming girl; my GOD, I am my twin. My eyelashes are long, my eyes are always wanting to cry, but I don't do so anymore, well, not that much. What does it do other than make my mom sad? Does anyone NOT see me as a freak of nature? I mean, other than mom? I don't understand why I should be PROUD when the whole damn world is grateful they don't have a kid like me. I get hugs from my mom, nice words from my doctor, sweet messages from far away aunt. I honestly do not know how long I can hold on to me. Alone. Me, myself and us. Transgender is not something I would have chosen. Why would anyone want to put a fucking sign on their door that said, "beat me"? That's where I am now. At the door. My life is wrapped up and placed in the bottom drawer of my dresser; there is no happiness, just lonesome, unwanted thoughts. My heart beats so loudly when I lay still; my she is free when we turn off the lights, look up at the stars and safely under the blankets look at texts from mom saying stuff like, " goodnight sweetie", "How are you?", " I miss you". When she says that I am her daughter, I shine, just a bit before my light goes out again.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Families
Sad Songs. Content Warning.
I knew who Roberta Flack was at a very early age; God knows I heard every song she sang. I love her still, yet undoubtedly she reminds me of him. Daddy sat with his record player on the floor, his legs crossed in what some called, "Indian style" which by the way is not correct to say now. I don't know any other word to describe it though. He would smoke Marlboros, drink cheap beer or dark wine and cry. Daddy cried a lot. I did not know why way back then. As a broken woman now, well, I guess he had good reason. Nothing soothes the soul more than music. We remember who we are, where we were, why we smiled, all because of music. Late at night I miss him despite his need to keep moving, not only place to place but woman to woman. I was his only until I wasn't. My Momma loved him even when he was cheating, threatened with statutory rape by an underage girl's parents and that left us broke, Momma scarred and lost in his wake. Momma took up more than one job and he didn't help us one bit. He told everybody he did help us though. He was always so charming, as smooth as chenille, and oh so handsome just like a movie star. His lies were so believable it made anyone who contradicted him look bad, let's just say, he had a hold on people; good people who believed in him sometimes questioned other good people who were also up against a wall with their truths, their own 'believe it or not stories', that were entwined with his lies. There were so many others than me with their own broken up dreams, their need to feel safe, to be heard. I was part of his tribe until I began to remember and as always girls like me are just considered delusional. I have half sisters and brothers, too. None of them really want to know my story 'cause it messes up theirs. I remember his fourth wife coming to live with us. She did not want a daughter older than she, I mean who would? She believed in him after I had given up a million times and damn, she was cold. It was clear there would be no place for me in my nostalgic, narcissistic, father's life once she set foot in the door. Where should I be, where should I go? She not only wanted me out from my father's home, but just gone, like in disappear. It was a slow burning fire and I was not about to see my, at that time, only baby sister be distanced from me. Suddenly, at least to me, this wife became the accessible one, the reliable one, the Alpha. Losing my baby sister's faith in me when I had taken care of her alone, when he was drunk and falling all over the place felt like a wasp sting in the heart, hell, a whole hive of wasps stinging me to near death. To watch him manipulate and groom this new woman younger than myself was, and still is, an unnerving experience. I know deep down my sister loves me, yet she became the good one and nobody saw the good in me anymore. So, back to my father's love of a good time I remember us flying down the highway in a convertible and blue grass music was blasting; I hated the wind so I was scrunched down into the backseat floorboard. He had a girlfriend I liked a lot who had a dachshund named Lucy. Anyway, in that little space between two leather bucket seats I saw my daddy's hand slip over to his girlfriend's legs, then he moved it up to the top of her pants and wedged it down the front. What the heck was he doing? He then started talking about cotton, rubbing her and saying how he missed her little cotton. I was frozen. It did not come to my mind until I was a young teen; after babysitting somebody from church's kids the father drove me home. He smelled like booze and at a side road he slowed the car down, he put his nasty hand on my thigh and leaned in to kiss me. I knew right then to push him away as no way he was going to try to touch my cotton. He said something about he had the wrong impression. I was fourteen, what impression did I give him? When I got home and went inside, just like always I said nothing. The wife of this man would call and ask me to babysit and I'd say no and Momma didn't understand; I was so afraid to tell her. What is wrong with me? I ask myself this a whole lot lately. My little me pushes through and wants grown up me to deal with my creepy past; I wish my memories could be stolen. I'd do anything to sleep through the night and not remember no more.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Families
Somehow, Someday. Content Warning.
Outside is black, Daddy's not here. Outside is a sweet magnolia smelling place, Daddy's not here. Outside stars burst, fall, disappear, just like Daddy. I wait. I know, even if alone on the mattress on the floor he will be back; when the pink preludes the autumn sun's rising, Daddy will be here. I don't move; I don't sleep; I don't know how to call Mamma. Just when the orange, pink and yellow mix into hues I vow to paint someday Daddy comes in and falls onto the mattress. He said- "hey little Bird". I smell something stinky, his hair is thinning and it's longer on one side than the other. It's a red brown and I wipe it away from his sunken, deep sleep eyes. I look at him, his belly rises in it's nakedness and falls; he is covered in reddish hair on his stomach and chest. I see his pants on the floor and sneak over to check the pockets; I found about three dollars and some change and put them in my suitcase which was packed for my trip back to Mamma before he ever came home. I take some pencils from the table, I smell his cologne by the old porcelain sink and I even put a dash behind my ears. He is snoring and red-faced. I can't see a clock anywhere and I begin to worry; how will I know when to get on that airplane back to Mamma? I quietly open the door from the third floor apartment and sneak downstairs to the big door that opens to the autumn skies. I see nothing but white frost on the big leaves, a squirrel or two scampering busily and look for anybody that can get me home. Sitting, cold and hungry, a woman comes out of the apartment house to warm her car. She is a teacher and must start out early. She asks me what in the world I am doing sitting outside without a coat; " where is your daddy?" she pushes on. I said something like somehow he fell asleep and I think today I am supposed to go home to my Mamma. The woman has a scowl and ushers me inside. She takes me into her apartment and gives me a big glass of orange juice; she said she'd be right back. A fat black cat jumped up on the table and purred around me; the colours of morning made a dizzying dance upon her kitchen's stucco wall. I felt okay, not like a cry-baby, but not like a "fix it alright" kinda girl either. Then the door opened and there was Daddy with my suitcase with the teacher woman pushing him in toward me. His hair that I'd fixed had covered half of his face and he had tears in his small, blue eyes. He said he loved me and the teacher was helping me get to my plane on time, he cried a lot and held me too tight. I left him there, short three dollars and some change, a couple of pencils for me to cherish hidden in my bag and said nothing. I fled, I flew, yet I would return. For no matter how much his drunken, lousy time with me was, it was all mine, at least for awhile. When I got back to Mamma I would never talk 'cause I guess something was wrong with me. I just said everything was fine. I guessed, somehow, someday truth would prevail. I never doubted that one day my Daddy would remember and say, "I'm sorry Little Bird." I truly believed with all my heart he would come to me and beg me to forgive him. Why do you think that is? I knew what goodness was; I was good. He wasn't doing good things so he had to know it was his obligation to give me some peace, right? Naw. He went on and kept finding more kids, more families, holding onto our pinkie swear, our father-daughter bond that could not be broken. He used me, to lie, to cheat, to steal, to be nothing more than his soldier. I saw those skies turning dark, deep blue, grey and black; I knew it was gonna be hard times coming for him, not once, not twice, not even three times, just more and more dark, with nobody to hear me. I would learn that my truth would not matter to him, or to any, but I would know the smell of his cologne behind my ears, the rise and fall of his chest when he came back as the sun rose, the sadness of his failure to give me, his beloved daughter all that I deserved. I don't know why anything matters, goodness, truth and love are always so contrite. I lay far away from the memories of youth, of Daddy's promises and forgotten love; I do feel the edge, the blisters from his sickness, yet, in an addictive way, I crave his praise. Somehow, someday, truth prevails. Or does it?
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Families
Two Parakeets on a Wire
So, I says to the ole lady who's hell bent on calling me Stella her favourite few words, "Jimmay, gemme anotha beea", she laughs, he gets her the beea from the fridge and one for himself, too. They were watching other people talking which apparrotly amuses them just as much as I have and start gettin' kinda silly, you know in the way humans do when they have nothin' to do but drink beea and munch on chips. Out of nowhere while I am dozin' on this kid swing they had in my prison cell, Jimmay gets up and stumbles by and says, right at me mind ya', "Hey little Stella, I bet you want out of there; have you ever used those pretty wings?" He unlatched the opening where they stick there fat hands to give me the same crap of tropical bird blend every morning and then he tries to touch me; I felt so helpless, kinda violated if ya' know what I mean. So, he ruffled my feathers a bit and he backed off sayin' "didn't mean to scare ya' little Stella" and he plops down next to my ole lady and starts watching people talk again. At first I hesitated and just pushed the little door open a bit with my beak; I perched up on the edge neither in or technically out of the joint. I see that the window is clearly open and decided, it's now or never. I flew the coop, never looked back and wound up at a park full of little people shouting and sitting on the same kind of swing I had, but bigger of course. The sky starts to get dark and part of me thought I should get back to my ole lady and Jimmay, you know, kinda spooky like the Stockholm syndrome. I mean, they fed me and thought I was cute and all. Then, I overheard some fowl feathered tree mates laughing about me. I didn't understand them at first with their pigeon like accents but I did make out that they said I was a male named Stella and it was hilarious to them that I didn't even know what I was. They went on to say that if I survive the night I'd best wind up in a zoo with "his kind". Geez, I was terrified. A zoo? I didn't have a clue what they meant and thought it best to leave the tree then, before it was too late. I flew straight back to Jimmay and the ole lady's apartment but the window was closed. I sat all night on the ledge and said, "Jimmay, gemme anotha beea" over and over but noone came. I was mortified. I could see through the glass my tropical seed blend, my full water bowl, my little swing and started to bawl my eyes out. That's right when you flew by. What are the chances of somebirdy lookin' like me in this town? I followed you, discreetly at first so as not to spook ya' and well, I just wanna say thanks for sharing with me the survival skills you've mastered. Here we are, eh? A paratweets sharing fruit in a junkyard, haha. - STELLA! - "Now that was loud!" - Could you shut your trap for once? - "Sorry master, I was taught that talking was a real treat". - We are tropical birds in a dump on Long Island, that's it, that's what we are. We ain't show birds no more, we're homeless, and my name is Mister, not master. It's short for Mister Avery Johnson. Got it? - For once Stella was quiet, his head drooped to the side sadly. Making humans laugh was how he'd spent the last three years and here he was with his mirror image staring at him with grumpy eyes. His last words to Mister Avery Johnson, or anyone for that matter were, "I promise not to say another peep".
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
