Hey, I'm Emily. I'm a poet. I've been lost and found and sent here and there, and
I've seen more than I should and lost more than I know. Take a look around.
Ask and email are at the bottom of the page.
Writing goodbye letters,
Is like being a china doll
Walking across the precipice.
Soon I shall smash.
And all that will be left
Is the pieces
That will never fit together again.
The best way to break another human being,
Is to simply take everything they love from them.
I hate that you can’t see what’s right in front of you.
Open up your heart,
Close your eyes,
And let me love you.
They say kissing someone who smokes
Is like making out with an ashtray
But to me it tastes like coffee
And yes, I take it bitter with no remorse
I’m sorry I tore out the good lip ring
I never wanted to lose you to the stars,
But you go where you’re told
And I can only dream of freedom.
So thank you for the stories
My skin will never forget you.
I pray you can learn to forget the nicotine
Little frazzled. But excited for the weekend, a couple of my friends are getting married.
It’s raining and there’s a bit of thunder
But I can’t stop thinking about how the moon
Will never get to see this,
And neither will you.
But the water will flow over the grave where we buried you last February
And wash the dust away
From months of neglect.
I’m sorry I never visit you anymore.
But my head is pounding
And I don’t eat much these days.
I’ve just been yearning to get out the door
But the sun doesn’t kiss my skin like it used to,
And no, neither will you.
But calls don’t make up for friends I never see,
The paper I’ve been folding doesn’t bring joy to me,
And frankly I’m straining to breathe
Until the day I get out of here
Because I’m sick of pills and withdrawal,
Side effects without side causes,
Apologies from mouths that did not bring this upon me.
I’m sick of tears that should not have shed
Kind of like my last days with you.
That’s the problem.
I’m sick and this is only making me sicker,
And the rain isn’t helping anymore.
I haven’t touched rain since the day
I wore the flower print dress
And someone new told me it was pretty,
Even though I wasn’t wearing it for him,
I was wearing it for you.
My dreams constitute of ideas that became impossible
That one dreadful day I went to the library in the flower print dress
And woke up a week later with tubes pushing life
Through my paper pale skin.
You used to have skin like that.
Every blue vein pulsing with synthetic material
And they know it is not made of me.
But I am made of my sickness
And the sickness is made of me,
So maybe I’ll be joining you soon.
We can join the moon,
Maybe she’ll show us something better than
Rain and a little bit of thunder.
Eh, not really.