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Dec 8 · 70
Seeing the Truth
Emma Dec 8
There was a time I carried hurt
like a second skin—
every crack and scar a story I told myself,
a story I swore was true.

I cradled that pain like a child,
fed it, sang to it, let it grow inside me,
until its roots tangled with my ribs,
its leaves whispered in my lungs.
It became so familiar,
I forgot what it was like
to breathe without its weight.

But healing is a quiet rebellion.
It does not storm in;
it tiptoes like a sunrise,
peeling back the dark
layer by tender layer.

One day, I stopped asking why
and started asking how.
How do I unspool this thread of hurt?
How do I make space for the truth?
Not the truth I told myself to survive,
but the truth that sets me free.

It turns out, healing isn't forgetting.
It isn’t pressing rewind
or pretending the hurt was never there.
It’s holding it up to the light,
examining every jagged edge,
and saying, “I see you. But you don’t own me.”

I am learning that letting go
isn’t a loss; it’s a choice.
To let the past rest
without dragging it behind me.
To forgive—not for them, but for me.
To unclench my fists and find my palms
open, ready to hold joy again.

And now, as I walk forward,
I am lighter,
like a bird that has finally noticed
the sky has always been there,
waiting,
ready to carry me home.
Dec 8 · 146
For my Daughter
Emma Dec 8
I would give the winter's breath,
the shiver of frost on every pane,
to hold the weight of your laughter again,
to braid your name into the soft dusk.

I would give the moon,
its chalky whispers in the dark,
to hear your voice once more—
a ribbon of light cutting through my grief.

Oh, I would give my hands,
these tired, trembling hands,
if they could reach through the thin veil of silence,
if they could cradle your cheek,
brush your hair like I used to,
sing you to sleep again.

I would give the stars,
their distant promises, their cold fire,
just to say what I should have said every day:
I love you.
I miss you.
You were my sun, my endless summer.

But the world takes what it will,
and leaves only echoes.
So I sit here in the ruins of myself,
writing your name on the wind,
letting my love rise like smoke,
like a prayer you might still hear.

What I would give,
my darling,
is everything—
for just one more moment,
one more chance
to tell you
you were always enough.
Unfortunately we are not on talking terms anymore, she turned out to be a narcissist like her father.
Dec 8 · 449
Haiku 8/12/24
Emma Dec 8
Sharp winter branches,
blue-black bruises pierce the lake,
stillness cuts the air.
Winter walk.
Emma Dec 7
The footsteps fall — then fade away —
As silence holds — the breath at bay —
Two hands — in quiet longing — meet,
A tremble — soft — and hearts entreat.

A fever burns — and must be still,
The world outside — they wish to **** —
The rain — it whispers — soft refrain,
Of stories lost — of fear and pain.

The elders' words — like serpents' hiss,
A promise sweet — a bitter kiss —
"Trust me, dear one — for I will save,
Your love — your life — from cruelest grave."

She calms the storm within her mind,
With *****'s balm — a solace blind —
His face is strange — his heart a lie —
But still — she dreams — where no one dies.

The flowers twine — within her hair,
She plays with children unaware —
Of all the rules — the bitter game,
Where whispers wear a nameless shame.

The demons smile — they will not harm,
They cleanse with beads — with prayer's calm charm —
"Forget your name, and curse the night,
The dawn will lift you into light."

But Death — a shadow — cold and near,
Sweeps in — and leaves no room for fear —
The dust — the warmth — no more to chase,
A fleeting dream — an empty place.
Dec 7 · 83
Quiet Wars
Emma Dec 7
It is in the smudge of mascara,
the red lip bleeding into the cracks
of a bitten mouth.
A quiet rebellion lives there.

Middle fingers do not shout;
they whisper—
a language only the tired
and the brave understand.

Running is not escape,
but a declaration.
A line of white powder,
a streak of neon—
these are maps
to the edge of something
sharp enough to cut.

They told us
fairy tales are for children.
But we grew up and learned
that happy marriages
are the most dangerous lies.

We sit behind screens,
armed with fake smiles,
perfect angles,
warriors of a war we don’t
believe in anymore.

The raves are loud,
but it’s the silence
of disappointment,
of insecure mornings,
of mirrors we cannot meet,
that tells the truth.

This is the war.
This is the smudge,
the smear,
the running.
And still,
we rise from the wreckage
like sparks in the dark,
too tired to shout,
too alive to stop.
Dec 7 · 192
Haiku 7/12/24
Emma Dec 7
Life in plastic folds,
Dreams wrapped tight in fleeting hope,
Trash cradles the soul.
Living out of garbage bags episode in life.
Dec 7 · 97
The Weight
Emma Dec 7
The gun between us breathes,
a cold, metallic beast,
its weight heavy as grief,
a stranger we invited to dinner.
Your hand in mine—soft skin,
worn thin by apologies
neither of us has learned to believe.

Dusk seeps through the windows,
its light a bruise on the walls.
Shadows creep across your face,
your mouth opens—
a spilling, a flood of truths
that clatter like empty brass shells
on the wooden floor between us.

The gun hums its silence,
its voice louder than ours.
My fingers twitch but hold,
a grasp, a bond, a tether
to your trembling pulse.
Each confession lands—
a ricochet of blame,
love turned sharp-edged and unkind.

Outside, the world tilts,
a sky swollen with clouds
ready to burst. Inside,
the air thickens with secrets,
your eyes locked on mine,
begging for a forgiveness
that feels like treason.

The weight between us—
not just steel but history,
each wound, each lie,
each time we chose silence
over the truth that now bleeds
from our mouths,
red as dusk,
as irrevocable as the night
falling around us.
Dec 6 · 74
Senyru 6/12/24
Emma Dec 6
Crashing waves roar loud,
white foam, rabid dogs' fierce growl—
shoreline bites the sky.
Dec 6 · 113
Small Gestures
Emma Dec 6
He stirs the dawn with the hum of the kettle,
Steam rising like ghostly whispers,
A quiet ritual of devotion—
The spoon clinks, the cup warms my hands,
His unspoken vows brewed dark and sweet.

Fingers weave through the chaos of my fevered hair,
A tenderness that binds more than braids,
Each twist a thread of solace,
A promise wound tightly,
As if to tether me to something steady.

His jacket, draped over my shivering bones,
Hangs heavy with his scent, his warmth,
A shield against the indifferent wind.
He never asks if I need it—
He simply knows.

Safety is not the fortress but the watchman,
The way his shadow falls across my fears,
How he sees what I cannot say
And says nothing,
Only lingers long enough to make the dark retreat.

These are the quiet revolutions of love,
Not grand, not loud,
But steady as the tide,
Small acts that hold me upright,
That stitch me whole.
Dec 6 · 202
Chains of Letting Go
Emma Dec 6
Heart cast to the wind,
Yet your name haunts every breath,
Freedom's hollow curse.
Dec 6 · 82
The Words We Carry
Emma Dec 6
I didn’t mean to let them go—
those words, quick and sharp
as shattered glass. They fell
between us, brittle echoes
splitting the air. I heard them
before they landed,
felt their weight twist my tongue,
knew they’d cut through
what we hadn’t yet finished weaving.

And still, you stood.
Not a wall, but a tree
rooted in wind.
Your breath was slow, deliberate,
a tide that didn’t rise
to meet the storm of me.
Your eyes held me—
not as something to punish
or praise,
but as something still learning
to soften.

Behind you,
your daughter sat silent,
her small frame
pressed into the edges of a room
too big for her understanding.
Not mine, but yours—
her love carried in the tilt of her gaze,
her trust braided into
the rhythm of your voice.
She doesn’t yet know
that words can be knives,
can bloom into scars
years later,
but she knows the way
your hands move—
slow, careful,
as if nothing in this world
is worth breaking.

I watch her watching you,
her young face
a map of wonder and inheritance.
And I wonder if she’ll see
how your quiet
isn’t silence,
but a language of its own—
the kind that teaches without telling,
the kind that steadies
without asking for praise.

Even now,
when I am the storm
tearing through our stillness,
you meet me
not with fire, not with force,
but with the weightlessness of water.
You press truth
into the hollow of my palms,
into the chaos of my mind:

We are not the words
we wish we could unsay.
We are not the wounds
we carry like heirlooms.
We are the spaces between the noise,
the quiet that stays
after the breaking.

I don’t know how to thank you—
not for your strength,
but for your refusal
to make it into armor.
For the way you hold love steady,
a flame too patient to flicker,
even when the wind rises.
Wasn't sure whether to share this one, but I need to let it go. Sometimes you have to set things straight if not instantly perhaps immediately after. Just to clarify I did sort things out and it his daughter that said the words not me, but I thought he should know. And yes, I did defend him.
Emma Dec 6
a flicker a spark (the night is)
only a little ache of waiting

rolled tight as a whisper this
cigarette (breathless
paper prayer for) nothing

the flame doesn’t soothe
but it dances,
doesn't it? doesn’t it?

ash falls into
the quiet
I try to call sleep (a lover
who never answers, a lie
I am too awake to stop believing)

another spark
the night twists longer (a thread unspooling)
& my mind unravels (a mad clock
that forgets how to stop ticking)

and this manic silence,
this endless
yes,
no.
yes,
no.

until the stars mock me
& I burn away
waiting for sleep or
the courage to stop pretending
I’m not the flame.
Emma Dec 6
Empty plates stacked high,
Lonely hearts in wrappings torn,
Love fades with the waste.
Emma Dec 5
things break—
(always)—the weight of
air bends glass
the soft touch of
a hand can ruin
the threadbare lace of time.

see:
the bridge collapses
not from thunder but from
a whispered wave;
& leaves
never fall without breaking
into rain.

even stars crackle—
embers of light split
across the Architect's canvas,
threadbare constellations
that no longer
hold.

but perhaps
(it is written
in the marrow of creation)
that breaking
is not ruin
but a turning:

this shatter is the song
of a world remade,
of a sky that bleeds
its gold into
the earth.

(even the great
Architect, it seems,
lets things fall)
so that
we may learn
to build.
Everything breaks.
Dec 5 · 103
Underwater Dance
Emma Dec 5
The body learns to lie before the mouth does.
She moves like seaweed caught in a current,
the siren song of her hips pulling others closer—
a collision, a shatter.
Hormones bloom like coral,
bright and false,
a reef of dopamine
where nothing survives for long.

Reality is a cruel lover;
its hands too heavy,
its voice too loud.
She asks herself,
do you still wait for love?
do you still have patience for the breaking?

When she confronts him,
his grin splits his face like a wound,
a predator's smile,
the sound of firecrackers between them,
smoke where the truth should be.
He speaks of a *******,
of giving his power away,
of someone else making his choices.
She cannot decide if this is freedom
or just another kind of cage.

She remembers herself,
the way tequila burned her throat,
the way she burned brighter,
a girl in red,
posed naked under the gaze of men
who painted her as both light and shadow.
She trusted their hands before they betrayed her.
Before she turned cold.
Before she fell silent.
Before she hid her fire.

Now, she is the ocean’s daughter,
sinking deeper,
listening to the song of water
as it whispers secrets only the drowned can hear.
She wonders:
Do the waves ever grow tired of crashing?
Does the salt remember being a tear?

She lets herself drift,
thinking maybe, just maybe,
the pressure of the deep
is a softer weight
than the heaviness of love.
In too much pain to sleep, so I write I've written too much this morning... When I really need to sleep.
Emma Dec 5
Fingers trace her face,
water whispers soft goodbyes,
grief flows like the stream.
Dec 5 · 994
Haiku 5/12/24
Emma Dec 5
Silent ruins stand,
Ghosts of a lost world whisper,
Dust cloaks barren dreams.
Dec 5 · 89
Give Me Shelter
Emma Dec 5
The walls breathe in static—
a hum, a crackle, a whisper of wires
pulling tight around my throat.
Every sound a gunshot.
Every shadow a knife.
The milk spills,
a galaxy spreading across the floor,
an apocalypse in white.

Outside, the neon world churns,
spitting teeth, shrapnel dreams.
Everything slick, wet, sharp.
The streets groan,
their intestines spilling out
in the form of cracked asphalt and broken glass.
I can’t leave;
I won’t.

Inside, the air thickens,
a syrup of dread.
Home is a box,
four corners dripping in soft rot.
I sleep under the table
because the bed is too open,
the ceiling too close.

An old television flickers in the corner—
faces in grayscale,
lips moving with no sound.
I try to pull their words apart,
but they squirm like worms.

Every second fractures,
splitting into shards.
Each shard digs in deep—
a hiccup, a phone ringing,
a window slammed shut
by the hands of ghosts.

I try to glue myself together
with the thought of silence.
But silence is a gun too,
a loaded chamber waiting to click.

The wolves circle out there—
dressed as mailmen, as friends,
as my own reflection.
I clutch the blanket,
a shroud, a shield,
a joke.

Safe.
Safe?
Safety is a story they sell in pills,
in pamphlets, in soft voices
that drip honey and venom.
But the wolves are here.
The wolves are me.
The wolves are you.
Not well to leave the house today so I'm staying under cover. Home is safe, almost.
Dec 4 · 79
The Mistake of Him
Emma Dec 4
Mascara smeared,
a black flag raised in surrender,
bare feet pressing into Earth—
pregnant weight pulls her down,
and the doors—
they don’t swing,
don’t creak,
just stay shut like the mouths of saints.

She was supposed to be invisible,
but the mirror laughed,
its reflection catching the outline of her face,
the philosophy of being—
full of answers no one asks for,
full of consequence.

She saw them—
red-handed in their stolen kiss,
the air thick with the scent of betrayal,
a forbidden sacrament.
She wept,
not for the kiss,
not for the woman,
but for the rip,
the spill of her life
on a floor too clean
to keep her.

He stumbles in guilt,
tripping over mistakes like loose wires.
His hands full of her tears,
his mouth heavy with excuses—
a cheater,
a coward,
a man drowning in his own reflection.

And she,
pregnant with something heavier than grief,
lets the Earth hold her steady,
lets the mascara stain her cheeks
like war paint,
lets the world fold itself around her silence—
because the doors might not open,
but her hands,
her feet,
her eyes—
they will.
Remembering him.
Dec 4 · 95
askew
Emma Dec 4
the day slants
(hiding)
in corners & cubicles
where fluorescent
lights flicker tired sighs

phone calls hum like
half-hearted symphonies
to no one at all
(seemingly important
but aren't they always)

I am
askew in this
tight world of
team players—
their laughter
like sharp edges
I cannot fit

so I fold myself
into the nothingness
of avoided meetings,
responsibilities,
& awkward silence

let me be
a paperweight
holding down
the fleeting chaos
of existence,

askew but steadfast,
tilted but still.
Trying to get away from taking part in a team building exercise.
Dec 4 · 77
The Wound of Shadows
Emma Dec 4
What happened to you?—the Question hangs—
A specter on the Air—
There’s Something—gnawing at the Bones—
And Madness stirs in There—

A Sin—a Stain upon the Flesh—
No Cleansing can Repeal—
The Laughter of a Distant Hell—
Resounds—a Brazen Peal—

He struck—Repeatedly—a Thorn—
Against a Petaled Grace—
And claimed—the Fracture of her Soul—
Was not—a Man’s Disgrace—

"I feel—quite Fine"—the Monster said—
Before the Hunger came—
And ripped away—the Veil of God—
To stoke—an Ancient Flame—

She fled—a Wolf without her Cloak—
To Secrets—of the Trees—
While Echoes of his Jagged Cry—
Rose on the Timid Breeze—

No Answers—Waited on the Hill—
No Truth beneath the Stone—
But Evidence—of what Was Done—
Is Etched—in Flesh and Bone.
This is all I got today.
Emma Dec 4
three days running
(body’s unraveling
the threads of itself
loose stitches yawning wide—)
but my mind
(my manic, my impossible mind)
spins
and spins
and
spins

the ceiling
a vast white ocean
of thoughts unswallowed
while gravity forgets me,
floating on this frantic tide of
(silence?) no,
the hum of all the hours
I should have slept.

oh how cruelly awake,
how absurdly alive,
to feel this lightbulb brain
(scorched, buzzing)
while my knees buckle under the weight
of their own existence.

there will be collapse.
(there will always be collapse.)
but for now,
this manic orchestra
plays on,
its violins tuned to the scream
of a body desperate for dark,
its brass blaring a melody
only the sleepless can hear.
I need to sleep.
Dec 3 · 142
(a mAniC whiRL)
Emma Dec 3
oh!   the world
spins faster than my feet can
(touch) it! oh!
laugh—   the absurdity of
smiles (brighter) than the
sun! bursting
out of me   (don’t) STOP!

oh?   but there it is—
a (shadow) tailing light
a hint
of falling/failing/flailing
(down), down,
beneath this
paper-thin joy.

oh!   to be
this alive—
a helium balloon against
a pinprick of the inevitable.
but! (until) I
break,
let me
spin, spin!
the world cannot
catch me.
Today's mood- elation but I know what's coming.
Emma Dec 3
this morning spilled itself
like a cup of not-enough-coffee—
the sun (crooked in the sky's pocket)
forgot to smile.

& i,
with a mouthful of tomorrow's words,
stepped into the street where
wind whispered secrets i didn't want to hear—
a fist of weather broke my face
(it wasn’t personal, it never is).

the hours marched on with
their boot-polished precision:
giving (taking)
giving (taking)
more of me than I
remembered I had to lose.

sacrifice wore its familiar coat—
buttons missing but
it fit me perfectly,
still.

all i could think of
(when the weight of now
shoved me into myself)
was the quilted quiet
of staying home:
walls tender as eyelids,
ceilings dreaming their own sky.

but this world
asks more than
any single answer—
even the moon is required to rise
when it would rather sleep.

so i go on,
dragging behind me a day
i didn’t want to carry,
wishing it would unfold
like a paper crane
&
fly away.
Wishing the day would end before it even begins.
Emma Dec 2
Through shards of glass—distorted clear—
The breath of hope alights,
A fleeting second—woven near,
Then swept in endless flight.

The wing of Remorse, black and wide,
Soars grave—yet softly falls,
While stillness sings where beggars bide,
Their truth in whispered calls.

A fragile bird—its trembling wing—
Descends on open palm,
And in its light—a sacred thing—
The universe is calm.

I weep, and diamonds touch the soil
Of budding hands below,
Their petals rise as mine recoil—
In steady, fading flow.

Dawn casts its gold—a quiet flame—
Upon a barren lane,
Where every branch, by birth reclaimed,
Shudders with joy, not pain.

Oh, breathe! Into the desert womb,
Where life is yet to stir;
Where time is blood—a crimson bloom—
The cosmos’ whisperer.

The lips part faint—the mist exhaled,
Through forests memory-bound,
As scars arise—like ghosts unveiled,
Their echoes all around.

The wolves approach, their foaming jaws—
A temple left to fear,
Where shadows roam and light withdraws,
To eclipse the mind’s veneer.

But truth lies not in mirrored eyes—
Nor past, nor future’s haze;
It lives in fragments, unadvised,
Beyond the jealous gaze.

We float, we fall—we rise, we cease,
And yet, within this span,
The realness of this moment’s peace
Holds all that ever can.
Found this piece 12 years old.
Emma Dec 2
the world (a razor) hums with
laughter not mine—
crooked smiles cutting corners
of too-loud air (a trembling thing)

hands betray me (marionette strings)
dangling in this cracked parade
where faces blur into shadows
all teeth and no eyes—

and I (a statue) stuck to the cement
of this fear-wracked moment
watch with doe-eyes (wide and glass)
every step (a thunderclap)
a storm pounding the small sky within

sky breaks
and falls like shards,
my breath a shattered hymn
(please no) — tomorrow, I’ll stay
tucked in the soft (silent) cocoon of here.

no steps. no looks. no cruel
laughter to chase me into
the screaming world—

home, the only place
where walls hold me steady,
their silence a shield,
a quiet so deep
it forgets the world.
Dec 1 · 119
Pearl in the Shadows
Emma Dec 1
The bark and branches rise, trembling, from the ancient ground, their yearning fingers stretching to the bruised heavens, blotting out the weary sun. Beneath their shadow, hope folds into itself like a wounded bird. She lies awake, an open wound on the earth, listening to the harsh caw of birds that circle like the minutes of a clock unwinding.

Time, that reckless dancer, pirouettes endlessly. A needle pierces her fragile vein, delivering the brown flood of escape. Her heart races, wild as a streetlight flickering before the abyss claims her. She teeters on the edge, cradled in the brittle arms of a tomorrow that does not come. He is there, her architect of ruin, climbing his fragile pedestal, his power sharp and cruel as glass. She drowns, not in love but in his violence, his lies weaving a cocoon of despair around her.

Memories shimmer, reflections of a girl she once was. A child, laughing in sunlight, her hair a river of gold. They cry out to her, those ghosts of innocence, shaking her awake in the labyrinth of his cruelty. Can you hear me? they scream, their voices slicing through the haze. But he, the tyrant of her heart, paints her as a madwoman. He slashes through the canvas of their shared life, each photograph a crime, each moment erased.

The butchers block gleams, her swan neck poised, but still she endures. Her breath, a whispered defiance, rises like dawn over the wreckage of her days. And somewhere within her, a flicker of hope remains—a pearl in the mud, untarnished by his darkness.

She will smile again. Her life, though battered, is a treasure. And the branches will part, the sky will clear, and her song will rise, soft and unbroken, to the stars.
Dec 1 · 237
Haiku 01/12/24
Emma Dec 1
1
He treats me frugally,
Stones weigh heavy in my dress—
Silent pockets sigh.

#2
Weight of pebbles rests,
Tongue holds silence, heavy truth,
View blooms slow but sure.

#3
Earth’s weight embraces,
Final breath yields to stillness,
Roots weave my return.
Studying the concept of weight in a relationship.
Emma Dec 1
He speaks in a tongue of bullets,
each syllable a wound,
each pause the weight of mourning.
I try to answer with flowers,
petals soft as whispers,
but my adjectives scatter,
like frightened birds
against the howl of his war-torn winds.

Winter comes,
its gray breath thick with frost.
Promises shatter underfoot,
crunching like brittle leaves.
I hold onto hope—
a child clutching a kite
in a storm,
the string slipping but never severed.

He is a soldier of certainty,
his love rationed like bread
in a famine of trust.
Even in suffering, he builds walls,
his hands steady,
his heart a fortress of precise control.
I batter myself against his gates,
******-knuckled with devotion,
as if my persistence
could melt the iron.

What is the word for a love
that exists in fragments?
A fossil of a future
we were never meant to share?
I name it exile.
I name it prayer.
And I name it the ghost
of a white whale,
forever hunted,
forever out of reach.
Sometimes he is closed off even though I know he loves me, hardened by the past maybe.
Dec 1 · 324
Sunday Love
Emma Dec 1
In quiet hours, Sundays unfold,
Lying in bed, our stories retold.
Side by side, hands softly entwined,
Whispers of moments, tenderly aligned.
Simple love, a treasure, gentle and bold.
Nov 30 · 533
Fading Welcome
Emma Nov 30
Time eats its decay,
Bouquet of flowers wilts slow,
Welcome fades away.
Nov 30 · 110
The Circus of Lost Souls
Emma Nov 30
Upon the forest's edge, where wildflowers die,
A circus stirs, where children’s whispers wail.
Their laughter, haunting, mingles with the sky,
A tender madness veiled in sorrow's tale.

Through grieving's grace, she stumbled to his hand,
A savior's touch igniting rebel flame.
In fleeting moments, love defied command,
Rebirth arose, unchained from sorrow's claim.

Yet sleepwalking, her steps betrayed her soul,
Through dewdrop fields her haunted spirit roamed.
A thought mistaken bore a heavy toll,
Uncut her hair, forgiveness yet unhomed.

In sorrow’s bloom, her heart began to mend,
Awaiting grace where loss and love transcend.
Nov 30 · 209
Haiku 30/11/24
Emma Nov 30
River streams whisper,
Unconscious dreams cascading,
Infertile, fall fades.
Emma Nov 29
during my cigarette break
i met a perfect stranger
(his hands smelled of bleach,
mine manicured and adorned)
he a cleaner
i a teacher's assistant

we spilled words like loose coins,
quickly, easily
about pasts
that refused to stay buried.
how mental illness
gnawed quietly at the edges
of our days,
how Christmas was
a fistful of broken promises,
how parents became
ghosts of voices
we no longer called.

we confessed
to the solitude of crying
when the walls were thick enough
to keep secrets,
and i saw in his eyes
something frighteningly familiar—
the weight
of almost,
of never quite enough.

him a cleaner,
i a teacher's assistant,
yet between us,
no distance,
only the soft unraveling of
what it means to be human.

I shook his hand
with utmost respect,
the kind reserved for warriors
who fight wars no one sees,
and I asked for his name—
(it hung in the air
like a fragile bird).

he told me softly,
as if ashamed of his own syllables,
as if names could erase
the years of invisible labor
or the silent rooms
he scrubbed clean of other people’s messes.

and in that moment,
he was no stranger,
no cleaner, no shadow—
just a man
whose story brushed against mine,
soft as shared breath,
sharp as shared pain.

when I walked away,
the smoke of my cigarette
curled into his absence,
and I wondered
how many lives
we pass without touching,
how many names
we never think to ask.
Emma Nov 29
tomorrow blooms like a
quiet miracle (its petals
of maybe and soon) as we,
with hearts half-heavy,
step into the aching sunlight
of our own becoming.

who knew responsibility
would taste like bittersweet rain
and feel like stitching stars
into a patchwork sky?

(oh the ordinary
sacrifices:
the last bite shared,
the held tongue,
the midnight hour spent
learning the language of each
other’s silences)

we are
the growing things,
the root-bound wanderers,
hands ***** with the soil
of problem-solving—
we take what is broken,
and (together)
make it whole.

love is the quiet glue,
the hum of bees,
the secret rhythm
that bends us forward
into the soft arms
of the future.

and though the weight of the world
may sometimes press like a
question (too big
for one alone),

we,
with courage stitched in seams,
find answers
in the small
and shared.
So tired today, this is all I got about maturity and growing up.
Nov 28 · 106
The Wonderers Lament
Emma Nov 28
The wanderer walks, a restless breeze,
Through promises, through broken seas—
Crimson rain, it softly falls,
A girl transformed by midnight's calls.

The apocalypse, a nearing tune,
Chaos blooms beneath the moon.
Kneeling low, on trembling ground,
The secrets burst without a sound.

Raven hair, with thorns adorned,
Amber eyes by demons mourned.
They broke us down, they built a spire,
A city wrought from heart's desire.

We fled to woods, to wolves and scars,
To twinkle lights in mason jars.
On berry beds, we whispered prayers,
For oceans vast and circling snares.

The circle breaks; the past unfolds,
Her face a mask of ageless molds.
Porcelain breath, a sigh of smoke,
Memories echo, unprovoked.

Confined, we dream of open skies,
But silence calls for sacrifice.
The night, it begs, it softly pleads,
For healing born of choices' seeds.
I found this today it was written 7 years ago hehe I think I was braver and a little less battered.
Nov 28 · 64
Haiku 28/11/24
Emma Nov 28
Flapping hands, loud moans,
Echoed phrases, tantrum storms,
Three months—burnout grows.
Not the easiest of jobs, I work with different disabilities in children often ASD and this year I already feel burnt out.
Nov 28 · 59
Fragile Empire
Emma Nov 28
the printer crashed
to the floor (a gasp of silence
shattering)
cat skittered
across the linoleum, early
hours bruised with moonlight's pallor;

coffee table turned (a revolution
unfolding) mugs and glasses
spilling their tired guts—
ashes, cigarette butts,
dead insects embalmed in dust.

and he (oh, the weight of he)
shouted—
not like him, not like the calm
fortress of patience
he fashions himself.

but the cat,
that anarchist
of whisker and claw,
defied his law and order,
mocked his trembling
manhood (a fragile empire
in the flick of a tail).

and so (with fire in his veins)
he decrees—obedience.
the cat must bend,
a creature
of chaos pressed into the mold
of his control.

but oh,
this linoleum,
this midnight rebellion—
it is not so easily erased.
This incident happened this morning no more cats for me 😔. This particular cat is at loggerheads with my partner both hard headed creatures.
Nov 28 · 158
Recovery Days
Emma Nov 28
Pills rattle on cue,
Cats purr in soft solace true.
Sofa hugs my frame,
Netflix whispers, sleep reclaims—
Healing slow, the hours accrue.
Yesterday I stayed home was too sick and in pain to move. Today I'm only going to help my friends, I desperately need to rest.
Nov 27 · 84
Our Lady of Sorrows
Emma Nov 27
Seven daggers pierce the heart where sorrow weeps,
A crown of anguish set in sacred woe.
Each wound a tale of love the soul still keeps,
Each tear a river where her children go.

They killed you, Mother, yet they bow and pray,
Barefoot, on knees, their whispers fill the air.
For gifts, for glory, cures to light their way,
For sacred hope that blooms beneath despair.

No lies she speaks, her promises are true,
Her veiled eyes see the depths of our regret.
You’ll die as well—this life is but a hue
Of fleeting light; she’ll guide where fears are met.

Adore her name, though grief her visage bears,
For love eternal sanctifies her tears.
Nov 27 · 276
Haiku 27/11/24
Emma Nov 27
Barefoot children sleep,
Forest bloom hide's dark desire~
Noose of **** and tears.
Emma Nov 27
drifting (torrential) dreams—
loose as vagabonds,
their gentle hum (suspicions of
burning bridges),
the pinhole of today
collapses (like breath through
a cracked window).

(government listens
to birds
kiss
satellites goodnight;
their frequency is
a whalesong—
a wind heard
only in the hollow
of you/me/us).

we (trust) like branches
struggling
toward a reflection of
not-quite-sky.

make it (code) names transcendence.
make it seconds (resonating)—
a journey (intimate,
an interrogation) of
(expectations to
accept) the sound
we sing together.
Nov 27 · 53
The Cure is a Curse
Emma Nov 27
Illness blooms like nightshade,
its roots deep in my imagination.
I map his crevices—
each scar, each shadow a continent—
and commit them to memory.
Creation demands sacrifice,
they said,
so I buried my soul in the garden,
fingers carving half-moons
into the skin of my palm.

Chemical courage
slipped into my veins,
a cocktail of desires and leaps of faith.
Adaptation meant suicidal thoughts—
not fought, but tamed,
like wild animals pacing
the edges of my brain.

The candles melted,
grieving their own light,
smiles curling away
from the heat of mourning.
Each dawn, a quiet betrayal:
submission instead of rebellion.

I want the rush of blood again,
the roar of adrenaline
speaking in colors only I understand,
a language universal in its madness.
But now, there is only silence.
Black coffee, white memories—
a **** of the past,
stripped bare of its poetry.
Nov 26 · 74
Prose 26/11/24
Emma Nov 26
The room was dim, lit only by the haze of a street lamp filtering through half-drawn blinds, scattering lines like prison bars across the detritus of her life: unopened bills, cracked coffee mugs, and the perfumed ghosts of a dozen wilting roses collapsing under their own beauty. Knife to her neck—the thought slithered through her mind, unbidden, unformed, like smoke escaping a fire too distant to see. She pressed her fingers to her temple, hoping to divine meaning from the chaos of the moment, but the jigsaw of letters refused assembly, scattered as though by some cosmic gust.

Words were a storm. They rained in torrents, fragmented and incomprehensible, soaking her thoughts with omens she had no strength to interpret. The post-it notes—cheerful yellows and pinks—spoke a language of lies, each one slapped haphazardly to the walls, the fridge, the bathroom mirror: “You’re stronger than this,” “One day at a time,” “Smile, because it happened.” Their saccharine optimism grated against the grinding in her chest, the truth she could not ignore: she was falling, spinning into the gravity of some unseen event she could not stop, only anticipate.

Across town—or maybe just across the hall—he poured amber whiskey into a chipped glass, his movements sluggish, like a marionette whose strings had frayed. The top-shelf bottle mocked him; it wasn’t his whiskey, it wasn’t his glass, and yet here he was, owning it all with the hollow gravitas of a man who sold everything, including himself. The liquid swirled, catching the dim light like a memory trying to surface, but it went nowhere, dissolved into the haze of his thoughts.

The voices came next. They always did. They whispered in tones too low for words but loud enough to unsettle, to make him wonder whether the sound was inside or outside his skull. They took aim, their intent barbed and deliberate, yet the execution was silence—a silence that curled down his spine, as intimate as a lover’s breath but as cold as the shiver it left behind.

She saw it coming—whatever it was. She always did. The omen hung in the air between them, a phantom that moved between their lives, threading their disjointed existences together like a careless seamstress stitching a wound. And still, the knife stayed at her neck, its edge a promise, a prophecy, waiting for the final rose to collapse under its own weight.
Nov 26 · 63
Melancholy Tides
Emma Nov 26
Confession unfolds,
Wild child sheds lost innocence,
Time locks guilt away.

Jealous seas whisper,
Filthy mouth hides love’s regret,
Calmness fades to gray.

Pills drift through the waves,
Melancholy grips the heart—
Hope sinks with the tide.
Nov 25 · 188
The Feast
Emma Nov 25
“It’s all your fault,” her mother spat,
the words curling like smoke
burning holes through the film
as the reel of her life sputtered,
frames melting, memories blistered.

“Are you ashamed?” she asked him once,
but the answer was a rooftop of ravens,
black and fat with fury,
their wings heavy with arguments
that scattered like dandelion seeds
on a storm-bitten wind.

He adored her—or so she thought—
until his chats told otherwise.
Still, he guarded her like stained glass,
jealous of each gaze that lingered,
each stranger who feasted
on her church-window eyes,
shards of color sharp enough to cut.

Her mother’s lies
coiled in her throat,
a banquet of bitterness
she could never swallow.
She needed a scapegoat,
an alibi for the twin
flickering inside her:
one a saint of silken dreams,
the other a sinner
digging graves for every tomorrow.

Why is it never enough?
Not the apology, not the tears,
not the hollow space where love
once curled its soft animal body.

She punches the mirror,
and it blossoms like her pain—
a thousand fractured faces staring back,
none of them hers.
Her reflection weeps
as she stands alone,
the only guest
at a feast of glass.
Nov 25 · 93
Porcelain Nights
Emma Nov 25
sometimes,
I think,
that maybe,
perhaps,
I should be wrapped in bubble wrap,
a makeshift armor
for the jagged world.

because I am fragile—
like aged porcelain dolls,
cracked eyes
tainted lips,
staring blankly at truths
they'll never tell.

we sat in circles,
confessing sins
or inventing them,
clinging to the lie of purpose.
she breathed in the dust,
the light of the cheap bulb,
while the burning liquor
erased us,
dare by dare.

alive until morning—
skin against skin,
clothes torn away,
as if the nakedness
could make us real.

but there was no beauty,
just the sound of breaths,
and the pooling remains
of something
we once thought...but no longer
was love.
Nov 25 · 77
Whispers of Life
Emma Nov 25
Little child wanders,
wild forest whispers through the air,
Grandma stirs her ***.

Wrinkles tell her tale,
sentimental tears falling,
lonely nights persist.

Pregnant skies grow ripe,
radiant but angry clouds,
fist of thunder strikes.
Nov 24 · 151
Current Relationship
Emma Nov 24
she
smokes a joint
after *** (the
music fading like
clouds)
he says
he loves her even when
she's wrong
(his voice a
soft thread of
certainty)

he would
defend her
(unlike
those others)
against the fire of
her parents'
words
and with her could
debate
the stars,
the sky,
the silent spin
of worlds
unseen

he keeps her
like a queen (but
only because they
build
their kingdom together,
brick by
brick
in the quiet
hours)

their late-night
conversations
map the
unspoken terrain
of what love means
when the clock
whispers secrets

she waits
(always,
always) for him—
stitching
fragments of his
family into something
whole
like she pieces
herself together,
tender hands
wrapping around
his sharp edges

she speaks
to the wolf in him
that rises
with the lunar pull of
his control,
her words
the tether,
the calm,
the stilling wind.
Emma Nov 24
Wildflowers grasped in their hands,
Eyes expectant, waiting still—
Resplendent, she, in pearls and lace,
Crystals veiling iron will.

Upon a stallion, proud she gazed,
The cliffs below—waves, hungry, wild—
A dreamer young, her heart betrayed,
By guilt unpardoned, yet beguiled.

To marry love, the soul must pay,
An execution—hope undone.
Laudanum soothes the troubled night,
But daylight sees what grief has spun.

Rumors drift like soft exhale,
Tinkling laughter—shadows hide.
A sparrow leapt from trembling hands,
Defiant, boundless, unallied.

Death does not part, though life divides—
Choices, wounds that dare reveal.
Do we hurt to feel what’s real,
Or punish what we cannot heal?

Her fingers danced on shadowed skin,
Curtains swayed in darkness shared.
Together sought, together lost,
Unpredictable, love dared.

It is of no consequence, they said,
A black sheep wanders where none see.
Yet whispers linger, soft as waves—
A love alive, though never free.
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