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Dec 2017 · 263
Emily Budrow Dec 2017
If you look closely you can see all the love pouring out of my chest. Like sand falling through the space in an hourglass; the space between "time to fix this" and "the moment you walked out." You're one of those people I probably should hold resentment against but also never really will. You're the voice on the radio game show saying "better luck next time" but not really meaning it. You're the type of person who is always changing their phone number, never in one place for too long, never in contact with one person for too many days at a time.
That sinking feeling again.
The one you feel when your Friday night is cut short but you're on your 4th shot with nowhere else to go. The guy saying "party's over, time to go home." Loving you was stumbling back to the car, drunk and without a hand to hold. Loving you was drunk driving during the first snowfall of the season. Loving you was priceless and dangerous and I swear the next time I hear love knocking I'll shut the blinds and lock the door. My heart breaks too many times in a day and I've had my fair share of sweet nothings. It wasn't anything more than a three year quest that we barely survived.
Oct 2017 · 352
Emily Budrow Oct 2017

The diaper rash
Scratching the eczema until it bled
Ruby Red Sea trickling from my nostrils
Mom and I on a mission for the bottom of the stairs
Baby's first autographed cast!
Upside down on the couch,


Awareness of death
Love letter with a thirst for embarrassment
Ruby Red Sea trickling from my forearm,
My thighs
Playing ***** in the park; wanting to forfeit
Makeshift waterslide,


First attempt to meet God
Throwing beer cans at cars from the hilltop
Lucy, Mary, and Molly
Discovering self confidence
First love,
Six losses
What does it take to be a friend?

Young Adult

The difference between effort and ability
Self acceptance
Getting familiar with 4am
Summertime snow
Money hungry,
No, starving
Emily Budrow Sep 2017
When I say don't call me again, it means call. When I say don't call me again, it means my head hurts from staring for so long at my phone waiting for it to ring. That my back pocket has the vibrations memorized so well that my heart keeps making me believe it's ringing. When my friend feels in competition with an iPhone I have to reassure her that I'm not ignoring her on purpose, it's just that your voice gives me oxygen and your laughter gives me the motivation to breathe. And I know leaving your location on for me to obsessively check was no accident, you just wanted me to know you got home safe. You just wanted to say "hey, I'm alive,  and I'm so sorry for what happened an hour ago, but I'm alive." Because you don't know that when I say don't call me again, it really means that even though you're not really sorry, I forgive you. And even though you left, your side of the bed is open for you in case you turned the car around. And even though we're both angry, I'd kiss your forehead, like if when I do you will remember the first night you told me I was special. The night you told me that nothing about the way we breathe with each other is casual. And even though you're going to sleep a state away, I know I'd be able to feel your heartbeat through the phone line. As if distance ever stood a chance. So when I say don't call me again, it means a lot of things. It means I'm angry and I'm hurt but I want to see if I'm your sun. I want to see if your world wouldn't be as warm without my smile. I want to see if I'm your cherry on top, if I'm the sugar in your tea, your cigarette break after a long work day, the bonus in your paycheck. I wanted to see if I was worth wasting gas for, the minutes on your clock for, if I was worth the stubbed toes. And yeah, I know, why stub your toes when you could just wear socks and sneakers but let me tell you if you asked me for water I'd bring you the whole **** sea. So when I say don't call me again, what it really means is I hope you answer when it rings.
May 2017 · 384
Hello Hamburg
Emily Budrow May 2017
I came to terms with my loneliness yesterday while filling out an application when question #7 asked me to describe myself.
I was reminded of my worth when I was told "just a person trying to make do was not a long enough response.
Not long enough -
Not long -
Not enough.
I reread my rejection a few more times, wondering what more I could add without lying.
Ever since you went overseas I've been trying to pick back up the parts of myself you left behind out of anything I can find.
So far I have  not found any self worth in the bottom of the bottle.
I threw out your chapstick I found in my center console and ripped up the photo I had of your tucked under my insurance card.
If I crash the car tonight at least I wont have the option of looking at your photo as the last face I see.
Bring me home a souvenir from all the countries you've smiled in and a jar filled with the sound of your laughter.
Ill put it under my pillow.
If I keep the lid open maybe Ill finally sleep through the night.
If it belonged to me, I'd still give you the world.
Apr 2017 · 1.3k
If You Don't Love Me
Emily Budrow Apr 2017
If you don't love me explain why your heart beats the same rhythm of my favorite song

If you don't love me explain why it takes so much of your effort to ***** the door hinges of your heart back on when I come around

If you don't love me explain the heat of your gaze I feel on me every time I look away

If you don't love me explain my phone lighting up in the middle of the night to inform me that you're six shots deep in your own regret

If you don't love me explain the raindrops dripping from your eyes when you speak about missing me and the ocean forming in my palms

If you don't love me explain the emptiness I know you feel inside when you see me smile and know it's not of your doing.
Jan 2017 · 371
Subject: Scars
Emily Budrow Jan 2017
If there is nothing to write about I'll write about the scars across your face.
The way someone wrapped you like a birthday present and tied the ribbon so tight it left creases.
I'll wonder about the look on her face when she opened you up on her special day and decided you were not the gift she wanted.
The brass knuckle bruises that decided they wanted to stay forever under your eye, poisoning your reflexes whenever someone touched you there.
The washing machine and the corner table too.
The way she left you,
Or didn't.
If there is nothing to talk about I'll talk about the snow covered Subaru
The stigma of doughnuts- and the coffee much too hot.
I'll learn the patterns of your hands, the way they move when the windows let off steam, and the pace the wheel turns.
Nothing about the way we breathe is casual.
Jan 2017 · 285
I Wonder About You
Emily Budrow Jan 2017
"Why don't you call?"
The only thing I fear is the dial tone of rejection so I never pick up the phone
And fifty feet below the Benjamin franklin bridge when the rocks give way and I survive
I know I must matter to somebody I just wish wanted it to be you
Jan 2017 · 294
I Wonder About It
Emily Budrow Jan 2017
Suddenly everyone's telling me "drive safe" in place of "goodbye"
I wonder why all of these people are suddenly concerned
I want to know how they all think they know me
Why my deathbed is easy to picture for them
Since you left I've discovered that all men who seem to think they like me are only in it selfishly
Just another man looking for more than I have to give
I think I should be sorry but I'm not
Emily Budrow Oct 2016
I am a newspaper someone accidentally spilled their morning coffee on.
I am the empty beer can you found on the trail in the woods.
I am the brightest stars that die at the end of each night.
I am the drunken sob story from the uninvited girl in the bathroom.
I am the face you see in your dreams that you don't think you recognize.
I am the keys you accidentally locked in your car.
I am leather car seats on a 100 degree afternoon.
I am the overgrown pit stop on the side of a highway with a luxurious view.
Except you parked the car but never got out.
You just sat and cried.
Emily Budrow Aug 2016
I never imagined we'd spill the same cup but the floor feels a lot stickier than when I last walked here.
Your eyes are daggers that slice the tension in the air like a coffee cake.
I struggle to mold the events back into place in my mind and out of my mouth.
No more maybe so's.
No more wondering if part of you died inside too, or if that deceiving smile means more than what meets the eye.
I know you're the devil but you smell like the Lord.
And when you cry I feel defeated.
Once again.
The corkscrew tunnel my mouth creates as I try to find the words I rehearsed into the mirror every day before today.
I can remember clearly the indent of your veins through your skin and the car crash force you used to keep me in place.
Saying sorry is the same as saying you regret it and neither one will take away the weight my bones feel.
One time you asked me where I'd go if I could fly anywhere in the world.
The stars do not reach a place far enough away from this mess you've created.
This inescapable void is one of many you planted in the garden of of my memory.
The thought of your lips makes me nauseous.
And no, I don't hate you, I just can't look at you without seeing the joker card no one plays with.
Your eyes are the color ink used to write the letter F across my graded test.
Telling you how I feel for the first time in four years doesn't make the pain go away,
I'll still wait by my door for your car to pull away before leaving my house,
It doesn't make me comfortable feeling your arms grasped tight around me during a hug,
It just makes it a little easier to choke out a "hello" when I happen to run into you.
And I know,
I know I am not the only one.
Emily Budrow Apr 2016
this one girl I used to be friends with, she was so beautiful and never ever did she see it in herself. I used to look at her though, and I used to wish I looked just like her or had a personality as kind and sweet and determined as her. I used to want to be as free of a soul as her and sometimes, even as guarded. It made me sad a lot of the time because she was so depressed and mysterious to me; her life kinda ****** back when I had first met her. I remember we dropped acid together twice and I told her that if ever there was someone I didn’t want to lose, it was her. And then the following year we had a fall out and we don’t talk anymore. I guess people change and that should be okay but sometimes I still wonder about her and what she is doing now and how she spends her friday nights.

then there was this other friend, who I may have even considered myself closer with but in a different way. We used to sneak out of my house during sleepovers when we were younger and sit on the curb and share a cigarette. we’d talk about all the people we miss and how afraid we were of the future. I always felt like I hardly knew her even though she shared most of herself with me. the first time I saw her cry was terrifying to me, but I didn’t tell her that. I remember how pretty I thought she was. physically though. and physically alone. She had a lot birthmarks that made her intriguing and skinny legs with pretty knees. however, she was mean and usually very bitter. one time she told me “I hate people until they give me a reason to like them” and hearing that disappointed me. I tried the most to be her friend again after she walked away but it was no use.

another friend I had I was friends with since I was six. I knew her from pre school and we were inseparable. I could write paragraphs and paragraphs about how amazing that girl is. I could do the same about how bad I felt for her. she was a friend who I never thought I would lose and I remember we had the type of friendship where our parents used to sign us up to do the same sports (horseback riding, gymnastics). after we stopped being friends I heard she fell off the deep end and was doing a lot of drugs. I got back in touch with her recently however she never seemed interested in hanging out and some of my texts went unanswered so I gave up. when I think about her, I still see my 12 year old self, playing mermaids in her pool as if time had stood still. if any of the people I’m writing about read this post, I hope it’s her most of all. miss you.
i’m not sure if this sounds strange or not but a lot of the time I think about some of the old friends I used to have. like the people I became very close with and used to spend every day with and that type of “partner in crime” friendship. I just think of all the ways they are so beautiful and amazing and how much I truly love them as a person. I guess maybe the falling out was for one reason or another and maybe it was because of an argument or just because but that doesn’t mean they don’t still hold a high place in my heart.
Jan 2016 · 437
Bon Voyage
Emily Budrow Jan 2016
You told me once that just because someone chooses to walk out of your life does not mean it doesn’t hurt them too. I have been holding hands with what used to be, wondering if this hurts you too. I always thought the distance you were creating between us was just your personality, or one of my many character flaws. Lately it feels like I have been trying to ***** in a light bulb but no matter how hard I try, the light won’t turn on. I have been hoping it was possible to “outgrow” my mother’s overly-emotional genes however whenever someone tells me to “take care” I want to fall into their lap and cry. People keep leaving and I’m starting to realize no one fits me quite right. Everyone seems to laugh before the punchline; exit before the applause. I don’t speak French but I’ve always thought “bon voyage” meant you’ll come back soon. Or maybe that’s just what I hoped it meant. It’s so hard for me to deal with disappearing faces. Maybe that’s why I always start conversations with “when I’m gone…”. The only way I feel comfortable talking about myself is in the past tense because I know that’s all I am to most people. I know that’s all I’ll become to the remaining few. So the next person ready to say “bon voyage,” I won’t have it. Instead, I’ll tell them “have a nice journey,” because I’m grown enough now to realize no one ever returns to a sinking ship.
For an old friend. I am confused as well as heartbroken. But, regardless, have a nice journey.
Emily Budrow Oct 2015
When I think of healing, I think of the pain that comes with ripping a band aid off a scab.
The anticipation running through your body as you shut your eyes too hard and feel the blood in your eyelids swim rapidly down to the wound.
Healing, in a lighter sense, only occurs after an injury.
The dead flowers under the snow we thought nothing of as we dragged our sleds behind us through the winter evening.
They had three months to perfect their beauty.
They will go through the same healing process every spring.
I often think of myself as a flower under an untouched bed of snow.
A child, dragging his sled, nostalgic for the icy breeze slamming his face as he faces the bottom of the hill, steps on me.
He thinks nothing of it.
Possibly the dandelion we ignore among the rest as we dance with our lover through summer fields feel similar.
Ignorant because we as people don't assume the dandelion can feel like a wallflower.
Someone else will come along and pick the dandelion, and put him down.
And the healing process will begin again.
It may be the newspaper that someone spilled their morning coffee on or the hole in the wall after an angry drunken fight.
Don't worry.
The paper will meet the recycling bin and perhaps the new family who moved in will repair the wall.
The healing process doesn't end.
There is always beauty that comes from pain.
Aug 2015 · 1.4k
Thoughts After A Breakup
Emily Budrow Aug 2015
August 5, 2015
How long do I have to look at the sky before I see a shooting star? Do you know I would wish for you to come home.

August 6, 2015
Today it rained in my living room; the couches are soaked. Maybe the rain cloud is just following me around. I didn't want to stay in my room anymore, a place you once laid your head.

August 7, 2015
I've made myself a promise: not to call until I have written at least three poems worthy enough to be heard by you.

August 8, 2015
If I master the art of cooking french toast would you come back over and sleep until breakfast?

August 9, 2015
The box sitting across the room from me that I have packed all of your things in nicely laughs at me whenever I look at it.

August 10, 2015
I read your horoscope to see how you're doing.

August 11, 2015
It's 2 AM and poetry dances through my pen. Every line has something to do with your nose.

August 12, 2015
When will I be able to start writing about your chapped lips and tender kisses again? When can I make up short songs and sing them softly into your ear as you laugh. When can I write about something other than my heart deflating a little more every time I think of you kissing my knuckles.

August 13, 2015
When people ask me about you, my tongue forgets how to say your name.

August 14, 2015
Today is the day I would have wished us a happy twenty month anniversary. I would have told you "sorry," even if none of this ever happened.

August 15, 2015
I've been sleeping on the floor at the foot of my mom's bed. I still hear echoes of our laughter in my room and I hate to feel alone enough to think of when we were happy.
As always, with love.
Emily Budrow Aug 2015
I am so sad, and so lost. And nobody cares.
I have friends who manipulate my situation and try every single way to convince me to believe what they think is right.
I have a guilty conscience and a thirst for consistency in something- anything.
I am a newspaper that someone accidentally spilled their morning coffee on.
I am the overgrown pit stop on the side of a highway with a luxurious view.
Except you parked the car but never got out.
You just cried.
I am sorry for this mess I have created
Aug 2015 · 444
Come Home
Emily Budrow Aug 2015
Today it rained in my living room.
The couches are soaked.
Maybe the rain cloud is just following me around.
I didn't want to stay in my room anymore,
A place you had once laid your head.
Jun 2015 · 568
Emily Budrow Jun 2015
Last night the thought of you dripped down through the cracks of my brain as I blew out my candle of consciousness.

Like drinking water when your thirsty, like rain after a drought: the memory of you as I slid into dreamland was quenching.

This time the vision of your hand gently sliding across my hip in a gentle yet calming manner made its way to the core of my brain.

Like fire to dynamite, my mind exploded.

Fireworks went off in the parts of me where silver wear normally shatters.

You're the phosphene in my head,
You're the stars that don't leave when I stop looking at them.

I woke up in a sleepy daze searching for you on your side of the bed but was distraught when I realized your pillow hasn't any creases.
For Anthony
Emily Budrow Jun 2015
Tell me I look beautiful,
But I'd look better if the tears that ran down my cheeks ended up dripping into a river somewhere.
If they disguised themselves as part of nature,
if my sadness became invisible,
It wouldn't make you sad, too.
And all I want is to make you happy.

Every time I read the bible I feel the angels spitting on me from above.
Reassure me that that's just how you know my mind works-
That I have a funny way of looking at things and it's not always positive.
That sometimes,
When I'm alone with you,
Those tears don't fall into rivers but instead stain your t-shirt.
Remind me that you never know why and it's too much of a hassle to ask.

You wish I could be happy although I just don't like to read my poetry aloud!
Why don't I like to read my poetry aloud?
"It's amazing!
You just have to put more emphasis on the stanzas where you talk about

There are things I haven't said in fear of what those words might feel like to say them out loud.
But you already know I rehearse my sentences repeatedly in my head until the words taste raw and become meaningless by the time I'm ready to finally speak.

Why don't I speak!"

Don't I know how rude it is to not say hello to the crossing guard?
But it's alright.
You tell me you *forgive me.

Isn't it ironic that the air conditioner only works when I'm driving,
Not when we sit in silence,
Sweating over the tension.
Wondering what words are going to come next and which one of us are going to speak them.
And it only starts to rain when you try to leave.

You tell me it's okay that I don't like thunderstorms but please, tell you again why?

Tell you again, when's my birthday?
Tell you again, is that what we were supposed to do tonight?
Tell you again, please, because you forgot time and time again.

But I know you have a delicate mind,
A fragile heart,
And I know there's a beast that lives behind those glimmering brown eyes.

I'd love to be the one to tame it.

This is not a love poem.
And I'm not the one.
Am I?
are "bumpy roads" permanent?
Jun 2015 · 518
Emily Budrow Jun 2015
the sun swallows me whole
i dance around inside her mouth
i realize her rays only shine upon you
everywhere else is cloudy
May 2015 · 582
Untitled - II
Emily Budrow May 2015
I find myself forgetting who I used to be
The darkness that once consumed me vanished
Like a burnt out candle
And I don't know if this flame will ever reignite
But the smoke still lingers here
It seeps into the walls, into my bedsheets
The memories don't give me headaches anymore
Nor does smoke burn my throat or pollute my lungs
And I'm trying not to let the consequences of my previous mistakes anchor me down any longer
It's hard to write poems that don't make people want to cry
Because for the last five years that's all I've done,
Is cry
And dread the following day that has yet to arrive
As if I know how I'll be feeling when I'm 54, 65, 80
As if I know what beautiful days the future holds
As if I know the glorious moments that await me
I don't
Because life is a ticking time bomb without a visible countdown
How could I be so vain as to determine how long this sadness will last?
How could I play God?
I won't
May 2015 · 1.7k
If I'm Being Truthful
Emily Budrow May 2015
You are a full moon rising.

You are a bitter cold winter morning where I have to crawl out of bed, sleepy-eyed and still in a daze, to scrape the ice off my windshield in a hurry,
My pajama pants, wet at the bottoms from the snow,that now cling to my ankles, begging me to love them.

You are the question "why?" asked over and over again on repeat until the bathwater flooding my ears drowns you out.
If you tried so hard to leave this world,
Why'd you want so badly to stay with me?

When did it start to become all about you?
Because pretending to love you out of fear was like being forced to sit and repaint a table when I had already sat and watched the paint dry.

You never could repeat back to me my favorite color until I turned it in the face.
You said I never looked good in green.

And you never understood the weight words could hold until I told you not to call again.
And you must have realized then because it's been a year and I haven't heard from you.

If I'm being truthful,
Loving you was being seven years old and coming home after a long vacation to find out your goldfish had died.
It was missing your bus and having to walk ten blocks home in the pouring rain.
Being yours was when I realized who I was and realizing that wasn't who you wanted me to be.
And most importantly, it was realizing  that I was not yours after all.
                                                 I was mine.

You are a full moon rising,
But I don't howl at you anymore.
May 2015 · 3.4k
Old Shoes
Emily Budrow May 2015
today when i woke up i was frightened.
i tried to walk straight even though i felt hollow inside.
and although he wasn't here, he was still on my mind in the strangest of ways.

i thought of him and how he likes to buy things.
sometimes, and for a reason i'm still unsure of,
i mind what he buys.
say, for example, if it's for me i mind.
if it's for himself, i do not.

i thought of his old shoes and how he has yet to part with them.
i wonder why he buys things he doesn't necessarily need but only wants and refuses to buy things he does needs but doesn't want.
i wonder if people looking at his old shoes could make the same observation.
i thought for a moment but decided it didn't matter,
he loves his old shoes.

sometimes i think of "us" and how he looks at me as though i'm something really nice.
i think,
i am old shoes, too.
i know he doesn't need me but maybe it is enough for him that he wants me.
if he neglects the things he needs and only goes after the things that he wants then maybe i'm not so bad after all.
perhaps i, too, am i pair of old shoes.
perhaps it will also be hard for him to part with me.

i wonder if others could also make this observation.
August 31, 2014

I wrote this after sitting outside on one of the last days of Summer. I remember watching him skate in his torn up pair of Vans. I laughed at his continuous attempts at landing a trick before questioning him on his shoes. He simply said "they're comfortable, I don't want to get another pair because they just won't fit the same."
I hoped he thought the same about me.
Emily Budrow May 2015
It's not fair.

It's not fair that you can take advantage of my vulnerability for so long and expect to fix it all with an "I'm sorry."
As if "sorry" was the immediate cure for all mistakes mankind has ever made.

It's not fair that you get to move on with your life while I sit here wallowing in my sadness for two more years.
You expect me to be "friends" as if friendship could silently erase all of the touching, sweating, and tears you so long ago put me through.

It's not fair that you use the excuse "I was *****" to make up for the anger I now express; for the memories you've left me with of those nights still reside in the darkest parts of my brain.

It's not fair that I get to watch you feel up your new girlfriend in her car parked in front of my house. Because a new girlfriend and two lost virginities is the best way to get over a potential "friend."
Because you've made it clear that's all we ever were.

It't not fair that you ask me to delete the messages we exchanged discussing our past so she doesn't ever find out that you fell in love with a sad girl once.
Sadness is wrong but **** is wrong too, but not for us because we were just "friends."

It's not fair that you're in bed sleeping soundly while I sit here,
pulling smoke from a cigarette that burns the back of my throat, praying to a god I don't believe in,
trying to rid my mind of the one person who swore he wouldn't leave.
My one "friend" who never truly existed to anyone except myself.

I hope one day you can see, too, that this "friendship" was never truly there.
I wrote this over a year ago and I don't have these feelings anymore but sometimes when I see you, I remember
May 2015 · 371
Emily Budrow May 2015
I am fragile,
Yet I have known a sturdy heart.
And because I've had to carefully piece my heart back together in order to love you,
I know I am mendable.
At first, I was near positive I had only magnified your love for me because of my insecurities
But now I am everything except apprehensive.
My love feeds on your love
And that is how I know it exists.
This is how I know love exists:
Because one dark sky,
3,000 stars,
88 magnificent constellations,
and an extremely uncomfortable park bench told me so.
That night I walked barefoot through the tall grass until the feel of your warm breath on my neck lifted my heart so high I swore I might never find the ground.
And since that night,
I still never have.
For Anthony
June 28, 2014
Emily Budrow May 2015
Sometimes I still think of you
Sometimes, but not frequent enough for me to recall the way you used to look at me
Which should be, but isn't important
But now you're scattered in my 2 AM thoughts because the memory of you is a lit flame and my mind is saturated in gasoline
I recall the way you used to look at me.
Like I was the moon,
your moon.
You would notice all the imperfections of the splintered moon and still try to convince it it was a sight for sore eyes.
I still remember that late winter night we lay together on your rooftop and looked at the sky.
You told me you thought the sight of the infinite universe was simply breathtaking.
I'll never forget that.
Then you told me ever so calmly that you hated the darkness.
I'll never forget that either.
Now I'm wondering: how could you have loved me if you can't stand darkness?
I am no different.
I was your moon who lived in a dark sky,
I was your light when the world around you turned black,
But thinking back now,
I also, like the moon, was useless to you among the sun.
Maybe I was your darkness, maybe I still am.
I knew I left you for a good reason
July 9, 2014
Emily Budrow May 2015
my heart beats louder than a lambeg drum
when i'm in your embrace,
or maybe i can just hear your name
with every beat of the cane.
i used to think it was but a coincidence
that the sun only shone above your house.
yet jesus had a star that only shone for him
and attracted only the ones who were meant to be there.
i was meant to be here, with you.
the sun only shines for you
because you are flammable.
and flammable things are attracted to gasoline.
i am gasoline.
i am poisonous to those who i'm not compatible with.
but you,
we can light the world with just one kiss.
you're such a headstrong,
desirable creature;
the second coming of christ in a suit and tie.
you cause a fire in my heart
with just a touch of your lips.
and the drumming of my heart beats on.
For Anthony
May 16, 2015

Prom was fun but I think I most enjoyed falling asleep in your arms afterwards to the smell of hairspray and with makeup still caked on my face.
Emily Budrow May 2015
Gold is pretty much nothing next to you.

You're those precious flower seeds that have just been sprinkled in the wrong place.

Even when age consumes my bones and time creases your face I'll still love you.

You're such a lovely existence.

You paint such beautiful pictures on the walls of my head.

I absolutely adore you're way of thinking.

I tend to study and appreciate every little feature of yours.

I try my hardest to make you see that living isn't so bad.

Just knowing how much you've been through and your will to keep me alive is really remarkable.

I'm gonna love you until my lungs collapse.
May 2015 · 664
Fire Can Burn Blue
Emily Budrow May 2015
For you,
I would tie rocks to my ankles.

For you,
And without hesitation,
I would plunge into the Atlantic Ocean.

You've been alone for so long
I'd off myself to make things fair.

For you,
And only you,
I'd auction you off to a museum because I promised myself I wouldn't be selfish with you.

For you,
The lit flames burn blue.

For you,
And because you're the only thing keeping me alive,
The oxygen you fill my lungs with also turns my heart blue.

For you,
I keep a jar of butterflies inside my closet.
They'll survive forever as will our love.

For you,
I'd finally attend Sunday mass just to preach of the way your hands feel when they're grasping mine.
A real sacrament.

For you,
People will begin choosing intimacy over prayer.

See, you make people rethink their choices.
You're the reason behind my never ending pulse.
It's because of you that the fire in my heart burns blue.
For Anthony
June 21, 2014

Your mom inspired this poem.
She came up with the title before I had even written it.
Emily Budrow May 2015
If I could, I would rip every last piece of you out of my memory.
You're the reason she smiles,
You're the reason I rarely do.

Nail my hands to a cross and pierce my side with one good reason why I should ever speak to you again.

I washed my hands in forever,
You kissed me with poison on your tongue.

I was always good to you.

I hope your girlfriend breaks you down until you finally feel bad for someone besides yourself.

You only loved it because you knew you had power.

I was afraid to say no.

The only part of my body you deserved was my fist.

You cannot use your sadness as an excuse to touch me, kiss me, and undress me. Go find a doctor, a therapist, your parents.

It's been three years and you still haunt my dreams.
You still crawl through my rib cage,
You still make me sick.

You left tapeworms where my heart should be.

None of this matters anymore.
July 11, 2014
Emily Budrow May 2015
Everyone always wants a reason for everything:
Why we feel the things we do,
why the humiliating emotion, love, sets fire in our hearts at the strangest of times,
how to tell if a potential lover desires you in the same way you long for their hand in yours.

But I was never one with reasons to give.

Because how can I put into words my desperate attempt at preventing you from noticing my sweaty palms as I nonchalantly tried wiping them on the couch cushion.
Because if you did end up grabbing my hand I wouldn't want the sweat from my palms disturbing you even the slightest bit.

And how can I describe the way my thoughts buzzed like an angry bee inside my head. I was sure you could hear her throwing herself against the walls of my brain, trying to break in open for the desperate plea "kiss me, please!" to finally slip out.
As the bee grew louder my body remained a garden statue.

The truth is, I could never even begin to explain to anyone the pace my leg was shaking at. Because twenty miles per hour just doesn't seem unrealistic to me.
And staring wordlessly at your mouth at your mouth, desperately trying to give you the hint, well, the descriptive words for that just aren't in my vocabulary.

I'm afraid no one will ever know about how many times in a minute I wet my lips that day.
Or about how I watched your mouth move in the most calming way possible
and thought about how some people have dry lips with the skin all torn up and peeled,
but you never truly know that until you've touched them with your own,
Or how badly I wanted to find out about yours, because I knew even if your lips needed repairing I'd still want to kiss them just as bad-

Over and over and over and over and over again.

Unfortunately, even after watching you talk for almost five minutes straight, I couldn't repeat a word you said back to you even if you wanted me to.

What I can tell you is this:
The silence between us seconds before you spoke my now favorite words was a decade long,
and the eye contact we made as you asked to kiss me felt like someone had just set my hair on fire
because I swear my face had never been redder.

However, there are a thousand questions I would love to give reasons for,
but you'll never know most of the answers
Because instead of pausing to capture the moment with a camera or a pen and paper I simply leaned forward and met you half way.</p>

And let me tell you,
your lips were not torn up and peeled.
For Anthony
April 17, 2014

Even after 17 months together,
your lips still taste brand new to me every time I touch them with mine.
May 2015 · 584
Loving You Is Beautiful
Emily Budrow May 2015
I never liked writing about beautiful things like the way your voice echoes in my ears when you come over in the morning to wake me with soft kisses. Or how we used to hold hands at 3 AM trudging blindly through December's icy breeze and how worth it the bitter cold wind was just to spend some time alone with you. Or how in the spring time, when the ice and sleet melted away exhaustingly into the ground, flowers would sprout up following your every step. They, too, knew your beauty. You're a 'worth it' type of person.
You see, I never liked writing about beautiful things because I never really knew how. My mind was a grave someone dug up and pushed me in and I could never find  way to climb out. I would sit there, my body cold and full of rage and I would stain the walls with dark words. Destruction was the only form of creation I knew until your singsong voice lifted my heart so high I was dancing on the clouds.
You see, I never liked writing about beautiful things but you have features that every artist looks for in a muse. Your voice sounds like my favorite poem and if our love was a treadmill and the only way to keep it alive was to run, I'd never stop, even when my legs become heavy and shaky.
I never liked writing about beautiful things but I know how you whisper 'I love you' in a sleep daze and I adore your mouth when you lean to kiss me in a sleepy daze. You are beautiful when you are innocent. You are the only beautiful thing I've ever written about. And I will not be afraid of you or your scars as I know you don't fear mine. I will write a dictionary of all the words I've ever thought to describe you. I will write a novel about the scar under your eye. I will write poem after poem telling you, telling the world, that you are beautiful and I am not afraid to write beautiful words anymore. I will make sure to hold you on your bad days, my arms will bandage. I will take every photo you dislike of yourself and tape them to my mirror to show you I think you're incredible. I will brush every fallen eyelash off your cheek, wipe your mouth when it's ***** with crumbs, assume the role of caretaker when you're sick. I will do beautiful things for you because I can.
I will love you like I was never broken.
For Anthony
May 2015 · 556
My Little Arizona Dreamer
Emily Budrow May 2015
My little Arizona dreamer,
You're the thinker for the world.
Your magnificent light draws me nearer to you.
But your arms push me far.

My little brown eyed bug,
Every element breathes in you.
How lucky I am to know that.
You crawl through the grass with ease, examining everything around you.

My little runaway,
Your problems are merely an illusion.
Your heart is bigger than you think it appears.
I know it most of all.

My little glimmering beauty,
I can only hope I can one day be big enough to be the holder of your thoughts: the listener.
You, my dear, are above all else.
To me.

My little praying mantis,
Someday you'll take note of your rarity. You're so calm, appearing everywhere without invitation.
My heart, my mind, my dreams.
But when you appear, I stop to watch you.
Every time.

How selfish am I to call you mine?
For Anthony
May 2015 · 933
Self Examination
Emily Budrow May 2015
I was born January 30th, which might explain my stares that are as cold as a winter night. People assume that since I am five foot eight, I should be intimidating although I'm the furthest from it.
You see, I have this vice where I chew off my fingernails when I get nervous. I suppose it's because I've somehow convinced myself that if my fingernails become minimized, my anxiety would too.
I know it sounds absurd but I enjoy laughing really hard at poorly composed jokes for absolutely no good reason. And, although I don't allow myself to cry as often as I should, it reminds me that I've still got fixing to do.
My mind works like a treadmill. Things are always coming back to bite me no matter how far I run.
I'm still running.
I'm still learning how to whisper.
You see, when it comes to talking about myself, I shout! I'll talk to anyone who will listen. However, even though I seem to open up easily, I have a fear of people getting close enough to hear my heartbeat.
I have this odd fascination with nature. I assume it's because no matter how persistent I am, the trees never argue back. I don't like being alone but when it's just me around the flowers blooming, the wind blowing, and the bees buzzing, I can feel my heart growing fonder.
I've never liked the idea of the military but I have this purple heart. I got it from beating myself up over things I have no control over.
Hi, my name is Emily and I'm still trying to figure myself out.
My hobbies include over-thinking until I give myself a migraine, blurting out my life story, and trying to convince my mind that my heart is worth listening to.
Inspired by Rudy Francisco's "My Honest Poem"
June 7, 2014
May 2015 · 404
My Robin
Emily Budrow May 2015
You advised me to never grow old but what happens when my bones already ache like I'm 90?
You told me to treat my family with well and to love all as I aspire to be loved but what do I do when my hands can't do anything except break hearts and shatter minds?
You told me that God resides not only in the sky above us, but in our hearts, within us. But the bible says he's there only if you let him in and he's been knocking but I've lost the key.
Your morals may not fit me,
Your memories may not all be shared with me,
Your mind may not always think highly of me,
But I know your love is with me always as mine is with you.
If there is a gracious God I know he will make you queen in a palace of peace and forgiveness,
Things you've always given me.
For my grandmother
{May 31, 1931 - February 9, 2015}
April 10, 2014
May 2015 · 410
Emily Budrow May 2015
Drowning in a sea of despair,
I'm trying to keep my head above the water but it's no use.
Every word being spoken around me inflames my temper,
I am a lost cause.
Soon, I will abandon this roller coaster of emotions.
I will fade into a deep sleep,
I will pray to never awaken.
As I sleep, the stench of failure floods my bedroom, repelling everyone who tries to enter.
I am a lost cause.
Time is a thief who shakes me awake with black and blue hands.
As I struggle to regain consciousness, a decade has past.
Sadness is a captive animal and I,
I am a lost cause.
May 8, 2014
May 2015 · 406
Love Ties
Emily Budrow May 2015
I know some things are better left unsaid but I'm having a difficult time cutting the transparent rope that tied my heart to yours.
I keep thinking: Should I call? Should I write? If I show up at your doorstep with a handful of feelings would it somehow make you want me again? I never knew that a heartbreak was something you could physically feel. I find myself curled up in bed with both hands over my heart as if I'd been shot. Because I know the arguments felt we were digging broken glass out of our palm lines but I've never known a pain  like this. A pain so surreal I can feel it everywhere; it stings my heart, it sends throbs throughout my entire body, it pains my mind.
I dream of you every night. In my head we're dancing through open fields full of sunflowers. The sun reflecting our smiles, so bright and miraculous. That's how I know, deep in my core that I was happy with you. I've never known a love so magnificent it lights up a room full of nameless people. I've never loved a man so fully, to where every inch of my body screams his name.
Our hearts are connected in the most beautiful way: an invisible string. It can wrap around trees, buildings, and stretch across oceans and that string can never be broken or severed. Because the love two soul mates have is endless. They remain connected no matter the circumstances and their love lingers on
For Anthony
May 2015 · 1.4k
The Speeds Love Can Travel
Emily Budrow May 2015
Ten miles per hour, with smiles smeared onto our sweaty faces, we drive in silence, thinking.


Speeding through a yellow light, at twenty miles per hour, you turn the music up loud and glance at me. Wind whipping through the cars windows, tossing my hair every which way. Nothing else exists, just you and I in this timeless moment.

Thirty miles per hour. Screams of laughter and song lyrics spew out of the windows and into the night. Our singing voices bellowing through the warm Spring air. This very moment, I love you platonically. My heart bleeds emotion for you alone, I grip the steering wheel, and you grab my face and pull me in for a kiss.

At forty miles per hour,
we are in love.
For Anthony
May 2015 · 1.2k
Coffee Eyes
Emily Budrow May 2015
Hazelnut eyes,
Your smile is my morning coffee.
One shot of espresso, one kiss is all I need.
And I could go for hours upon hours talking about the way the thought of you holding my twists and turns inside my brain.
The soft sound of your lips curling into a smile across your mouth, barely audible, plays on a loop as I sip
My coffee, sweet as could be!
Your sleepy morning yawns are my sugar,
Your giggles, my milk.
Your delicious voice, carefully, speaking slowly
'I love you'
You say, and I know now why
I abandoned

— The End —