Hey, I'm Emmy. I'm a poet. I've been lost and found and sent here and there, and
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I've seen more than I should and lost more than I know. Take a look around.
I wish someone knew that this broken heart
Can’t go on any longer.
I just want someone
That I can talk to about anything
Someone who can’t stand being away
But would rather gaze from a distance
To let me shine.
Someone who puts care into every fucking
touch he gives me because he wants
to mean something.
Really I just want someone.
Because I’m tired of looking desperate
I’m tired of being sad
And I’m tired of hurting people.
Will someone ever find me beautiful?
Will he actually mean it this time,
Instead of hoping flattery would lift my shirt?
Will I ever truly be loved?
It’s like looking through a glass door.
You are on one side
On the other is your family, your friends,
and everything wonderful and beautiful
that you love in life.
But all you can ever do is touch the glass
You can look at it, and see it all happening in front of you,
but there will always be something keeping you from it all.
You hold your hand against the glass.
You so desperately want to touch the other side.
To know happiness.
But you can never break the glass.
You’re trapped but you have to watch
it all happen in front of you
and live with the fact that you can’t ever
touch the other side.
I wish you hadn’t broken my hand and my heart all in one go.
For at least if I couldn’t comfort you,
I would have held your hand.
It’s going to come to a point where you just give up.
And this is how it happens.
He was the Mr. Darcy to my Lizzie Bennett.
He was the smell before the rain, the blood in my veins.
But soon enough, I was forced to understand
the depth of the word,
So I drowned myself out with the alcohol in the cabinet,
no one would ever know that’s where the headaches come from.
At first, they told me that I need to keep my head up,
"It’ll be okay!"
After a trip to the hospital, I think they finally got it.
"There may be stars in the sky,
wind in the air,
and sun in the clouds,
but without you, we do not want them!”
But then I simply stopped telling everyone
I don’t think it’d make a difference if I did.
So I began to immerse myself in dreams to escape
I dream of the day when cigarettes give you oxygen,
and 7 years from now,
because one day in Biology we learned that
"All the cells in your body are replaced over every 7 years!"
So I wondered what my life would feel like
With a body that he’s never touched.
Could I be a child again then?
But eventually, waiting became too much.
I got tired of waiting for my childhood to come back,
like a love letter regretfully sent in the mail.
Because neither were ever coming back to me.
I hope this time I’ll forget you.
That was the year you saved the queen
Broke her heart,
And ruined her soul.
Well I can tell you this,
I know what my hands look like.
There’s a scar on my right hand
From that girl that came from the Sunshine State.
And there’s a scar on my left hand
From the time I fell off a scooter
And on to the street on your birthday.
I can tell you what my feet look like
I have a dancer’s toes, that never see the stage,
And my big toe on my left foot,
Is slightly crooked from the morning I broke it,
Running up the stairs.
I can tell you what my arms look like.
There’s 17 visible scars near the crook of my left arm,
From years of self torture.
And a birth mark on my right arm,
Barely visible, but I know it’s there.
I can tell you what my legs look like.
Both knees have bruises and scars,
From arthritis, accidents, and being shoved on the ground.
And some new scars on my thigh.
(More than I care to count)
Created from secrecy, lies, and fake smiles, all from yours truly.
I can tell you what my stomach looks like.
It’s big, and there’s stretch marks,
All around, from too many pieces
of my mum’s chocolate cake.
And a couple of scratches.
I’d tell you the cat made them.
I don’t have a cat.
I can tell you what my breasts look like.
I hated looking at them until I let him.
They’re nearly perfect,
Boys look at them a lot at school.
And I don’t think you could see it,
But I still know every place he touched,
And god I wished they were never touched,
by your viscous lips.
But I can’t tell you what my eyes look like.
I can’t tell you the shape of my lips.
Or the way my hair falls around my face.
I can’t tell you my face is beautiful.
But I’m sure as hell
I’ll get me a real pair of lungs,
and maybe then I’ll learn to love.