Emma - Hello Poetry

Emma Jan 23

My beloved,

you who stand beside me in the quiet hours of my despair,

do you not see the burden I carry?

It is not of the body, for the body endures;

it is of the soul,

woven with threads of fear and longing.

You speak to me with the voice of the wind,

soft yet unyielding,

and your words rise like a tide
against the cliffs of my sorrow.

In your calm, I find a mirror to my tempest,

and in your silence, the wisdom I have long sought.

These battles we fight are not waged with swords,

nor are they seen by the eyes of men.

They are the wars of the spirit,

where darkness wrestles with light,

and the heart is both the battlefield and the victor.

Do not pity my scars,

for they are the sigils of my becoming.

Do not fear my tears,

for they water the garden of my resilience.

The future stretches before us like an endless sky,

painted with the colors of our dreams and fears.

And though I have spoken of death,

it is life that calls me forward,

its voice a whisper, a song, a command.

Together we walk, you and I,

not toward an ending,

but toward a beginning of an unknown future.

For him, I cannot even begin to show you or express my appreciation for your patience and love even though I'm so damaged ❣️

Emma Jan 23

Portrait of a ghost

I found a photo today—
its edges frayed,
its silence speaking louder than memory.
The ghost of her,
born of pain but draped in a soft, unknowing light.
How could she not see?
The naïve tilt of her mouth,
the unarmored gaze of someone
who believed in futures made of love.

I would step into that stillness if I could,
shake her shoulders,
tell her to run before the lies
knotted themselves around her ribs,
before his dagger—
not sharp, but slow,
pierced the center of her trust.

I would tell her to proclaim love
where it mattered,
to her daughter watching silently,
to the family she left in the shadows
for a man who swallowed the light.
Every day, her daughter saw it—
the slow dying,
a death stretched across years,
not swift but unrelenting,
like a clock with no hands to stop it.

Run, I’d say,
before the hollow gestures,
before the waiting
for a love that never belonged to you.
See through him,
his promises fragile as dried leaves,
his truths curving away like smoke.

But now I hold the photo,
and she is already gone,
a ghost I can only argue with
in the quiet of my mind,
a ghost who will never hear me.

2am can't sleep again looking back at photo memories and wondering at how stupid I was...

Emma Jan 22

he loves me (he loves me not)

he loves me only as a sister—
frail petals fall, their whispers
fractured, bending beneath
the weight of a maybe, a
no.

he loves me (only as a friend)
the echo shifts, a restless
shadow, lingering in the hollow
of what could never bloom.

he loves me (but)—
attraction's embers fade,
a pale ghost of something
once alive, now gray; he
loves (me) not enough
to stay.

he loves me (yet cannot
see) beneath the mirror's skin,
the ugliness I carry,
the cracks I cradle within.

he loves me (only a memory),
childhood’s games replay
in sepia tones,
their laughter a distant
ache in the marrow of my bones.

he loves me (how I bow
to his words)—sharp shards
of blame and fire, I
surrender, a captive
to his bruising choir.

he loves me (he loves me not)
the daisy wilts in silent
confession,
a question unraveling
into dust.

Emma Jan 22

The Fragile Rebellion

Watercolours smear across the sky,
Dreams painted in fleeting strokes,
Set alight by the smallest hope,
A spark carried in tiny hands.

Prayers whispered into the wind,
Words too soft, yet insistent,
Chasing after fugitive moments,
Seeking solace in the unknown.

The world presses, sharp and relentless,
Leaving scabs where innocence once lived.
But even in pain, the child persists,
Each wound a quiet rebellion.

We hold on, hearts stained with wonder,
Refusing to let the colours fade,
Resisting the weight of what we lose,
Forever painting light into the dark.

Emma Jan 22

The Lamb, the Wolves, and the Believer

Beneath the moon's cold gaze,
the lamb stands still,
her hair woven with wildflowers,
their fragile stems clinging to her skin,
a quiet declaration of survival.

The wolves circle in shadows,
their breath thick with knowing,
not hunger,
but the weight of her story,
the rebellion beneath her silence.

It began with his hands,
the boy who touched her scars
as if naming them holy.
Her body, aching,
spoke in confessions only his fingertips could read,
a language of wounds and wars.

The wolves see everything—
how she unravels in his presence,
how her lies are shards of truth,
jagged, trembling,
strung between her ribs.

Insects hum in rhythm with her undoing,
blades cutting where words could not.
First his. Then hers.
And afterward, his hands again,
searching for something unbroken
amid the ruins.

Dust settles on crushed wildflowers,
petals buried beneath the weight of their becoming.
Faith and doubt collide in glances,
unspoken, untethered.

Still, she remains.
The lamb, no longer an offering,
but a testament.
The wolves bite into her defiance,
but she does not fall.
She waits, silent,
for the boy who believed,
to see her,
sacred.