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Sep 2018 · 2.5k
Growing up
Emilija Sep 2018
It’s difficult to comprehend that
this is the same skin that, a few years ago
frolicked around in bars, carelessly giving out kisses.

No fear.

Every scar carries more
my flesh, less young explains
the former stupidity I carried

Accompanied by confidence.

I was but a child, lost in the woods
unaware what dangerous animals lurk.

Even then, surprised by my own’s existence
Me still being here and
continuously breathing.

I was brave, but not brave enough.

The quick breaths during the
first attack.
I did not know they hit like a hammer, I
a hot blade

They were hardening fear.
Enormous, monstrous fear.

I was powerful and strong, every year
my height lowering, so that my
once clear voice turns into a

An exhalation, kept alive by the ones
close enough to put their ear next to my
tickling lips.

What anger I contain.
How mutely I express it.

It was once powerful.
Erupted from my chest like
living fire,
burning the monsters far, far away from me.

Now it barely sparks when I’m reminded of
the long gone evil men
Mean, mean men who did mean things.

It’s not that I wasn’t fashioned to arrive at this point.

I was.

But the feet pressing onto my clay body did not help.

Now I’m dried and crooked.
My voice quiet, body

As I exhale smoke once more, I get inside
embrace my love and think:  

"**** it."
Emilija Aug 2018
I own a good chin to lift
a look that threatens from a distance.
The shield I never thought I’d get in the mail is here,
name written on it and everything.

So I walk out, shield up,
and yet
I shiver if I only get a hint of

A scent,
reminding me of someone
who ****** me with no permission.

Sometimes, I forget the amount of my anger
But, if it bares meaning,
I understand it.
Not only mine, the anger of many women, who

woke up in someone’s bed, and
left there smelling of a body
they didn’t choose to smell of.

Don’t tell me I should’ve said “No.”
Because sometimes the mouth doesn’t listen to the body,
body doesn’t listen to the brain,
the brain is not aware that

six years later you’ll be sobbing with the realization that
you’re afraid of the man you trust most of all

because he produces testosterone.

Six years ago, it happened too fast.
I didn’t say  “No.”
He didn’t give me time to do it.

As I was leaving, eyes clenched to my feet
I let him kiss me and say:

“I hope you don’t regret this night.”

That’s what makes me the angriest.
Well, this is pretty personal, as you can see.
Aug 2018 · 1.3k
Emilija Aug 2018
Sometimes I think I’m good with words

Sometimes I firmly believe that everything I’ve ever
has been so meaningless that it causes someone pain

All my life I’ve been afraid that I’d caused more hurt than
Just to find the same people I had blind faith in
Have been using my body and mind for their selfish goals

I was a good marionette
My body is a good body, endures good pain
it remained dull, insensitive despite everything.

As a result of everything.

Looking at all my past poems, blindly in love,
A dog of my masters,
who taught me how best to take care of them,  

I believe I had more potential than Cinderella,
I wish I hadn’t been at that bar, alone
I wish daddy could love,
I wish I hadn’t been attracted to heavy, lead words
launched towards my fragile ego.

I wish I could go back and **** that one year old girl.
I wish, when I was in first grade, and they called me
“Bald” for the first time, that
I had worn my scars with pride.

“Scars are signs of warriors” I said with arrogance
Whilst I pulled my bangs forwards,
So that despite my words, nobody would know.

“Scars are signs of warriors”, I say,
and maybe it’s  just comfort, or perhaps,

I look for reasons to believe I’ll bear through this.
Feb 2015 · 251
Any time now...
Emilija Feb 2015
My words are repeating themselves, I'm forgetting how to write
Like I've closed my mouth for too long, only opening to receive
I swallow insults from the front and back
Worst *** in the world.

I grasp the pipe in the bus, as if
I'll sink to the floor and towards people's ***** hands
Who watch me inside their heads as I'm blowing them
Even when I'm wearing my modest clothes.

These days a pretty girl is not won by honesty
everybody's understood that the words they're looking for have to be intriguing  
or hit a certain spot.
"You have sad eyes"
Yes. You're not the one who noticed it.

I was the one who followed their deprivation of joy
replacing what I once had with something I have
And will have more.
A shell, clotting blood forcing itself in the veins.

Realizing that every vulnerability means abuse
Also understanding that it is my nature.
Every mask is obvious, I'll end um like my mother.  
I am the one who has noticed.

I'm going back to where I've been
I know the smell, the feeling
like an old lover it greets me and knows how to touch
freezes the blood, puts me in the corner
And yet

I often enjoy it.
Mar 2014 · 331
A shame
Emilija Mar 2014
I feel like it's over with this guy.

I'd love for me to be surprised that it isn't but I have
that feeling
I didn't even love him, I didn't know him so well

It's not a pain of loosing someone,
its just that...
“it's a shame” moment

It's a shame that it didn't lead to anywhere, with him,
and this other guy,
and this other guy.

It's a shame I don't know them so well and they don't know me
That they didn't have my scent at some point,
they didn't wear it on them like a mark,

It's a shame they barely scratched the surface of who I am
and I of who they are

It's a dull, miniature pain of meaningless kisses,
a hint of joy and sadness
thrown around with no purpose
leaving a small lesson behind.

Years from now, he’ll be a number
It’s just a shame.
Emilija Mar 2014
I still don't see
the point
of the daily foulness
maybe it gauges inside me
deeper and deeper
so I can afterwards fill it
with wonders
each time making a larger hole
and each time finding ways
for me to fill it

Love can do that sometimes
slowly changing.
what once was happiness
soon becomes sand
weighting on your chest
more and more
until you can't breathe
until you don't want to

some loves can make you
not want to love again .

But it's not important.
No matter how fragile I am and if
my drowning kills me
I will rise again
Here I am , I am standing
and again I reach
for someone's sleeve of a jacket
again, willingly
with a rapid pounding of my heart

Mar 2013 · 513
Emilija Mar 2013
I have diverged so far
To call myself “she”
If I go further more
I will not call myself
At all.

The god of dreams has taken me
Long ago
I knew it when I drank him
I feel him in my throat and stomach
In my blood, under my skin.

Dreamer in life
Have you forgotten your mind in some of the corners
of your dream?
Dreamer in life
When exactly did you lose the smell of where you live?
Dreamer in life
Some look and yearn for your wake look.

But reality is grey mortar and cigarette butts
Every sin a misconception, every love, dust
You wake up each day with seated lethargy, willing to stop
And where will this all lead if you do not…

It’s easier to go insane then to remain conscious
The diluted air covers me and I know it to be easy
To float away from the dark and ***** soil where all chains
are known
and kiss my forehead.

I diverged sufficiently
Already I call myself “she”
A bit further and
I will not call myself.
Feb 2013 · 1.0k
The Umbilical Cord
Emilija Feb 2013
At times it happens that I sleep for days
wherever I am
in an absolute, uninterrupted dream.
Almost no one notices, I myself
Don’t notice it half of the time

At times like that, I’d sit with you
With a quiet blue feeling
I’d be morose or joyful
I’d breathe you
And be afraid when there is a reason to be.

I would tremble with my new found arrhythmia,
Faint over devils,
Over beautiful lads with sunny eyes
Because my body follows my mind
And my mind is patching together a long time now
For new attacks,
From past attacks.

And it can’t seem to gather more than a cord
A ******* cord, umbilical
From when I was born
Stored in a drawer in the bedroom
Which formerly had paint brushes but
Lately, after my mother makes more mosaics
Than paintings
There is only years’ worth of junk

The other day, I opened it,
And found the cord
In excellent condition
I considered selling it on an auction
so I have more money for a dress
But realized that people don’t normally care for
excellently kept umbilical cords.

Then I decided that I’d tie it around my head
Like a turban
I figured it would bring me back the connection
It would erase my independence
In the past twenty years
That it would make me less alone
in myself.

But what it did was:
It wrapped tighter around my ears
Forcing me to hear my cry
Right after I got out of there
Right after I’d taken my breath

And believe me,
I haven’t cried like that since.
Feb 2013 · 319
Emilija Feb 2013
I do not want to know how to do It
I do not want to talk about how It is not done properly
I want to pull it out of my chest
I want to float a few meters away from my body while I'm doing it
I want It to not be framed by lies, rules and restrictions
I want It to be my child, to be free and pure
Unlike me,
unlike  us,
unlike you.
I want It to be the most wonderfull thing that someone has seen / heard / touched
I want It to know how to talk to cats and dogs and I want it
to have a name we can not pronounce.

— The End —