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Emma Jul 2
When did this phrase go from being

A profession of devotion and affection

To naming the curse that binds my soul?
Emma Jun 5
Thoughs whirl.
They writhe and rest,
float and sink,
shout and whisper,
coalesce
and
dissolve.

The constant and deafening cacophony of thought,
deep and wide and long,
stretches to the horizon and beyond,
Seemingly endless.

I shudder at the thought of thought sometimes,
memories meeting ideas,
but I'm deafened by the constant white noise
of its gently frothing waves.

It's beyond me, as they should be.

This ocean is serene
and the parts indiscernible from the whole.
I can sit at the shore safely if I dont wade in.
I may simply view
whatever might float to the surface.

They lap at the edges of my consciousness,
Tingle against the anterior of my skull,
But,
Thankfully,
Remain incomprehensible in their awful entirety.

It is only when my ocean
of memories and ideas organize that I need be afraid,
for I can comprehend a patern.

It is only when the gentle lapping becomes a treacherous bombora,
crashing against white cliffs,
That I am struck with their crippling ripples of anxiety,
because I begin to understand their enormity.

When
thoughts
writhe,
float,
shout
and coalesce,
They slam into me,
Eroding my delicate posture.

I am
unzipped,
unbuttoned,
unlaced,
in ribbons strewn across the bed.

I become undone,
at my own mercy.

Another one makes it's way yo the surface.
Perhaps this will be a calming memory?
No,
it's my own
               grasping
                          hand.

I grab my ankles as I flee
the oncoming tide,
and drag myself into the depths.

I sink,
clutching myself,
struggling
to escape myself.

I can feel myself begin to weaken and descend,
my cries muffled and my flesh diffusing in my own malefactory clutches as I gnaw at my spine visciously.

I pity me as I mercilessly tear into myself at my own digression.
Battering myself into submission
and eating away at my delicate chassis;

I leave a pitiful puddle to sink into my sheets.
Yes I do mean digression, not discretion.
Emma Jun 5
Every time I open my eyes

You break my trust

Again.

I have a hard enough time

Convincing myself

It's worth getting up in the morning

Without your quiet betrayals.

Even when you are good

I can never know.

I'm so overwhelmed with anxiety

And you've taken advantage of me

So many times

It doesn't make a difference.

I find myself wondering

If I will ever trust you again.

But I know

Of course I will.

I always do.

That doesn't mean I should.
.
.
.
Did you betray me this morning?

The answer at this point is

You may as well have

And you will

Every morning

Hereafter.
Emma May 2
Laying in bed, staring at the ceiling,
Memories coalesce and slip away.
A rhythm forms,
A beat,
By which ideas organize themselves.
Circituous in nature,
Thoughts orbit in the mind,
Circling tighter and tighter,
Constricting,
Until,
Emma Apr 22
This violent duality
Is physically docile
Yet
There is blood
On the screen
On the sheets
Obscuring vision

Who
Did this?

You're drenched in crimson
It drips
In sickly strands
From the tips
Of guilty fingers

You plead innocence
And choke on it

Cornered
Seeking the path of least resistance
An admission is made
And
Brackish streams
Adjure forgiveness

Cornered
Seeking the path of least resistance
An exception is made
And
These hands
Are red too
Emma Apr 22
Burning pillows
Stifling sheets
Imprisoned here
I lie
Mind percolating
Past events
Shame and doubt
Bubble
To the surface
Shifting and turning
But there are
No sheep
To count
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