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Emma Mariano Nov 2017
What you’re telling yourself
Is not true.
Don’t feed the spider.
Yes, I know, you harmed yourself.
That doesn’t mean you might as well
Go farther.
Yes, I know, you ruined yourself.
That doesn’t mean you’re not worth
Anything, anymore, anyone.
Yes, I know, you lost yourself.
That doesn’t mean you have to lose
Everyone and everything else.
Yes, I know, you’re all by yourself.
That doesn’t mean you’re unloved.
Emma Mariano Nov 2017
There are scars.
There are paths on my skin
That my tears follow, widening gaps,
Both corroding and smoothing.

There are moments when I want
To extinguish my flame for just
Five minutes, or ten.
And just exist without existing,
Without the trouble of being corporeal
Being real without having to be real.

Because I think crying is a crime.
I think my being is a *****.
I think life is sometimes a lie.
And that we’re all two dimensional,
Living what we think are full lives.

This is the question
I long to and am afraid to ask:
How does one carry on? And then
Carry on carrying on?

How do I forget the sting of salt
Sticking to the underside of eyelids
And the feeling of weakness after
The breakdown?

I can’t leave, and I’m terrified of
Going on. But there’s no way
Not to make a decision. Not deciding
Means going on in the meantime’s mean time.
Emma Mariano May 2017
You have become
So much more to me
Than just your shell.
Although it is a wonderful shell,
That no one could deny is
Alluring from every angle,
I am more inclined to love
The soul that it contains.
Emma Mariano Apr 2017
Have you ever fought sleep
As if it were your enemy?
Have you ever clung to dreams
Because reality was hard to see?
Just a bit of nonsense.
Emma Mariano Apr 2017
When the light scatters
  in the grass
As the landscape blurs
    through the glass.
Every bump in the road lets our knees touch
                                                                ­            fast
And I’m      just so afraid     that this moment
                                                                ­               can’t last.

Don’t want to forget all the things
     we schemed
Of hugs and of hands raised
       in comradery.
As I’m sat here alone I know that it’s
                                                                ­     ending,
And I’m      just so afraid           that my heart
                                                                ­                    will quit mending.


The last time I felt your hand            
on mine
We were united by threads I thought                        
   (were a sign)
Of some future we’d have if they’d                            
                                                          (final­ly untie).
And I’m         just so afraid         that we’ve said
                                                            ­                      (our goodbyes).
Experimenting with Cummings' style of spacing. This poem is based on coming to terms with my friends graduating and our lives going in different directions post-high school.
  Apr 2017 Emma Mariano
Shelby Bernet
All I'm doing is chasing it,
Love is irresistible,
All I want is,
To be part of your symphony,
You're beautiful master piece,
Part of what you're creating,
My edges are rough too,
Let's be damaged together,
Walking hand in hand,
Through the road of glass,
That society calls life,
No it won't be an easy walk,
But if my feet are going to get hurt,
Bleeding from the pain,
There's no one else,
I'd bleed with too.
Emma Mariano Apr 2017
The cold is razor sharp, but my knife cuts deeper still.
As sinews rip apart, my future bends anew.

They may call it crime, but who are they to judge?
It’s a fight to stay alive, and it’s worth a sacrifice.

As every light goes out, I whistle my way home
My spirit is resolved. This tragedy none will solve.

The next day in my flat, as I count my newfound wealth,
I laugh at all the prats dressed head to toe in black.

It fills my heart with glee when a summons finds my door
The court must find guilt of one oddly resembling me.

Those fools with the wigs run their mouths for days and nights,
Presenting “facts” and defendant's “rights” while common sense they lack.

For quite some time I sit content while no one dares suspect.
But mad disease starts to infect when I see how that poor man still pleads...

As trials drone on for weeks lacking release,
I feel myself slip into something like grief-

I’m weak at the seams whenever I sleep,
the ghosts of my victims haunt every dream.

When judgment is cast, I don’t make a sound,
all is rustling of paper and staring at ground.

“Confess,” breathes a demon, my soul harrows in fear.
But frozen I’m found
As the gavel
Comes
Down.
Inspired by *Crime and Punishment* by Fyodor Dostoevsky.
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