"While at the beach you decide to write a message in a bottle. What would it say? Who would you like to find it?"

My feet pushed into the soft yet rough sand, I held the thick parchment and heavy pen in one hand and the bottle in my other, the glass shining slightly as the sun began to set. I sat down, waves crashing on the shore one after the other. The note was already written, all except for the ending. I was never good at goodbyes. I read over my message to someone I would never meet, maybe to no one at all. But I wrote every single thing in my life that I wish I had said. Perhaps a stray mermaid would find it and deliver it to Poseidon himself and he would give me a thousand second chances in a thousand different scenarios where I don't deserve it. Maybe I should have personally told each person these things, but perhaps they had lost their meaning through Time that only the Ocean itself could swallow the weight they bore. "I love you's" and "I miss you's" that I was too scared to utter in the night, only to be stuffed in a bottle never to be heard or seen again. I held the smooth pen in my hand as a rather large wave hit the sand. I began to write my goodbye, my farewell to my should-have-done's and should-have-said's.

"I am sorry that I let my own fears become more important, you are worth so much more."

I rolled up the parchment and put it in the bottle, corking it before hurtling it far into the ocean, the sun combusting into hues of orange on the horizon in front of me.

The saddest thing about
This sadness
Is that you have taken
Everything
From me.
I can't even write
A single good poem
Anymore.
The one thing I thought
I could do
The one thing I thought
I was good at
The one thing I thought
Would always be there...
But I guess I thought
The same thing about you
And I guess I made
The same mistakes I've
Always
Made
Waiting
             Wishing
                           Wondering if you
Would come back
To me.
If you would feel
The same fiery passion in your heart
That burns in mine.
So I guess I'll just sit here
And write bad poetry
And that's all we ever were
Just bad poetry that I tried
Too hard to interpret as good

it’s not just in the dark
walking home alone at night
it’s not just in the crowded spaces
strangers brushing against each other
it’s in our very own homes
engrained in our culture
it’s in our schools and our churches
spaces designed for safety
a twisted reality
like cigarette smoke it hovers above our conversations
our education
our institutions
everyone’s choking on it but no one speaks of it

woman,
screaming silently

do you know the bodies left in the wake of our politicians?
our teachers?
our CEOs?
everything interpreted as a yes except the word yes

when they’re at the podium,

are you listening?
in between their words
do you hear the ones they silenced?

we don’t care about glass ceilings
we’ve shattered them a hundred times
and will a hundred times more-
we want glass houses
because only we know what happens
behind closed doors

Heavenly silk flows through my fingers,
slowly slowly I feel it come and go.
The soft whispers of the oak trees,
they entangle up in my hair and low.
The creek bubbles and the winds blow,
I feel it all, I feel it all.

The earth shifts between my waiting toes,
pulling me down and pushing me ahead.
The sharp green blades touch my running feet,
cutting and kissing all the wounds I've bled.
The dirt and grass on which I tread,
I feel it all, I feel it all.

Oceans and seas invite me inside,
I'm immersed in a whole new universe.
Crystals aged by pressure, time, and cruel pain,
I cut my fingers on their jewel curse.
I search his eyes as they search worse,
I feel it all, I feel it all.

Thunder rolls and lightning ignites me,
I stand fearless in a world void of sun.
Toxic rain burns my skin and chills my bones,
Still, sky and earth battle the other one,
He's the sky that shows tears to none,
except me.
I feel it all, I feel it all.

Except me, no one sees the scorched forests,
beautiful trees and mountains burned inside of him.
Except me, no one sees the scarred stripped land,
the remains of priceless land inside of him.
Except me, no one feels it all.
No one feels his pain and his sadness,
no one feels his joy and his love.
Except me,
I feel it all, I feel it all.

e.g. rowe

it’s not just in the dark
walking home alone at night
it’s not just in the crowded spaces
strangers brushing against each other
it’s in our very own homes
engrained in our culture
it’s in our schools and our churches
spaces designed for safety
a twisted reality
like cigarette smoke it hovers above our conversations
our education
our institutions
everyone’s choking on it but no one speaks of it

woman,
screaming silently

do you know the bodies left in the wake of our politicians?
our teachers?
our CEOs?
everything interpreted as a yes except the word yes

when they’re at the podium,
the board,
the altar,
the office,

are you listening?
in between their words
do you hear the ones they silenced?

we don’t care about glass ceilings
we’ve shattered them a hundred times
and will a hundred times more-
we want glass houses
because only we know what happens
behind closed doors

i wish for you a life.
what kind of life
is up to you
i hope you know
you will never
escape me
you will hear my cries
in hers
you will feel my presence
like a cold winter chill
you will feel my pain
100 times deeper than i felt it.
in your carelessness
you killed a girl.

thank you.

from her ashes comes
a Phoenix
the ghost girl will
forever haunt you

but be not mistaken-
you bear no burden
on these wings

soaring freely

i forgive you.
not for your peace,
but for my own.

in the morning the sun’s rays will touch me apprehensively
(fragile)
i carry my broken body to the mirror
it holds my reflection like a ****** weapon (dangerous)
like poison i behold all of my flaws
i start with my face
turning from every angle
too round, too uneven
i move down to my torso
my face twists, repulsed
not flat
my legs too long, too wide
every part of me too much
or not enough

try again
close your eyes
breathe

i start with my face
freckles from warm summer days
lips that speak words of love
eyes bright like the sun

my torso like the furnace of my body
the deepest laughs come from here
over home cooked meals with family and friends

my legs hold me fast
my legs move me forward
my legs push me higher

the mirror can be a war zone
but it can also be an altar
if you just let it be

it’s on days like this
heat rising off the asphalt
I pick up a couple of chocolates from the gas station
I’m reminded of hot June afternoons
in my grandads yard
how much sweeter chocolate tasted
melted on my small fingers,
I am reminded of my grandads weathered hands
Plucking blueberries, gently he placed them in my palms
In his backyard he told me about the birds that sang above us
the busy ants I cried about for biting my bare feet in the dirt
His stormy eyes held stories about far away places, five cent bottles of coke, Georgia sunsets,
it’s on days like today I remember how he held my hand in his and showed me the crops
Said that we ought to thank God for the rain
And at the dinner table I can still hear his prayer
wanting to be everything he was
And as the years went on
even when the hands he placed blueberries in outgrew his own
even when his tired body couldn’t sow any more crops
melted chocolate around my mouth
sweet summer days in my grandaddy’s yard

"While at the beach you decide to write a message in a bottle. What would it say? Who would you like to find it?"

My feet pushed into the soft yet rough sand, I held the thick parchment and heavy pen in one hand and the bottle in my other, the glass shining slightly as the sun began to set. I sat down, waves crashing on the shore one after the other. The note was already written, all except for the ending. I was never good at goodbyes. I read over my message to someone I would never meet, maybe to no one at all. But I wrote every single thing in my life that I wish I had said. Perhaps a stray mermaid would find it and deliver it to Poseidon himself and he would give me a thousand second chances in a thousand different scenarios where I don't deserve it. Maybe I should have personally told each person these things, but perhaps they had lost their meaning through Time that only the Ocean itself could swallow the weight they bore. "I love you's" and "I miss you's" that I was too scared to utter in the night, only to be stuffed in a bottle never to be heard or seen again. I held the smooth pen in my hand as a rather large wave hit the sand. I began to write my goodbye, my farewell to my should-have-done's and should-have-said's.

"I am sorry that I let my own fears become more important, you are worth so much more."

I rolled up the parchment and put it in the bottle, corking it before hurtling it far into the ocean, the sun combusting into hues of orange on the horizon in front of me.

Spring

We walked in your garden,
you were my hero.
You showed me the
green, blooming, thriving plants.
The sun was shining
behind the clouds, and
everything was good.

Summer

You sat in your chair
and watched me from a
distance.
I played in the yard
and wondered why
you stayed there,
with a sad smile
on your face.
Grey clouds were rolling
in on the horizon.
Everything was okay.

Fall

It's true what they say,
Ignorance is bliss.
My father rubbed his head,
I think I saw a tear, but
told myself I didn't.
I played outside,
orange, brown, yellow leaves,
falling,
          falling,
                     please don't fall...
But you did,
and I tried to ignore it.
Everything was breaking.

Winter

Christmas is joy,
but how can I be
happy, when you were
struggling with each
breath your body
clung onto.
Snow was lightly falling,
but my heart was stuck
in an ice storm.
This was no gift,
it was a nightmare.
Everything was...

Everything just wasn't.

Spring

Your garden is dying.
It can't go on without you.
But one tulip stands firmly,
in the wind and rain.
It stands among the death,
like the memory you've left
on each of our hearts.
I will walk through gardens more,
I will play outside and you,
you will watch me from the Sky...
From a distance,
but everything will be good again.
Love cannot be bound,
no matter how far away
it seems to be.

In terminal D of the JFK airport
a bird—
trapped in the hostel of the metal birds,
a prisoner of its man-made rival
it screams
it screams
it screams
no one listens
who would help a bird in an airport?
humans come and go
some walking some running
into the metal birds they go
but the bird—
the bird is helpless
for as loud as it screams
it falls onto deaf ears
it falls onto ears that say
what a pretty song that bird sings

Stop trying to scrub the memories off of your heart. You'll only tear bits and pieces off of yourself and regardless still feel a raw and dull pain in your chest.

Stop crying every night into your pillow and sobbing for him to come back to you. You could bottle up your tears into mason jars and set them on your shelves only to watch the dust of a thousand lies and broken promises settle onto them. He will never come back to dry your tears so stop sobbing hoping it will bring him back.

He left. And he's not coming back.
So what are you left with?

You are left with yourself and you have to be okay with this. You have to run your fingers over your stretch marks and say, "I love these so much." You have to look at yourself in the mirror and smile.

You have to open up your window at night and see that even though he left, the stars are still hanging from the sky and even he couldn't tear them out from the fabric of the night.

You have to realize that he is only a boy with a young heart.

You have to understand that your value is measured by your laughter and your faith and your tenacity, and the way you pour sugar into your tea and the way your hair lies on your face when you wake up late on a Saturday morning and the way street lights produce shadows on your face, and the way your laughter cuts through a room. Your value is worth so much more than he could have ever deserved and cannot deteriorate because of someone's decision to leave you because they could not even fathom your worth.

You have to feel pain a thousand times before you can feel a love so deep that it strikes every chord on your heartstrings, so that you fall to your knees in relief and cry with joy because finally you hear music when someone touches your heart and not the harsh sound of glass shattering into a million pieces.

words crash on the floor
shattered glass around your feet
when did it ever get this bad?

the broken glass embedded in your lips
****** words broken words
when did it get so painful to speak?

the words you left in the air
they were too heavy for the spirits to hold
the angels undercover looked away

the words you left at my door
they were too hollow for my soul to keep
the Earth weeps below them

and don’t you know by now?
don’t you know that the words you leave
can never be taken back?

you can try to piece them back together
you will cut your hands
you will scream at the Sky

the words you leave
are greater than the love you bring

and you look at me and i look at you
and the glass separating us cracks

oh, the bad luck of a broken mirror

so im laying in bed, right?
and it’s like 7 am and
i had totally told myself i was going for a run
i instead laid in bed, until exactly 9:27 am,
giving me 33 minutes to be
out of my dorm and on my way to class.
for nearly two and a half hours
a large blue beast named Depression
sat on my chest,
and smiled a big sharp grin.
he lit his cigarette and said
“It’s all pointless, you know,”
he took a long drag
and blew the smoke on my face.
Anxiety is dancing around the room
laughing maniacally
her hands shaking as she reorganizes
the same shelf for the seventh time.
he shares his cigarette with her
and I think they’re the ugliest couple i’ve ever seen.
he readjusts on my chest,
and starts to list the things that i need to do but can’t.
Anxiety starts listing the things that could go wrong today
and tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day—

when I get back from class
Anxiety will jump me
her long nails digging into my arms
the overwhelming feeling of death
surging through my veins
i struggle to breathe
i struggle to lower my heart rate--

there is a toxic relationship
living inside of my brain.
and i am so tired of being a third wheel.

e.g. rowe

PSA: the following message is the point of view of a fictional character, and in no way represents the current beliefs, views, events, mental or physical health of EMILY ROWE. her inspiration is drawn from her life and the world around her, and her writing is art, just like any other form of self expression. EMILY ROWE is a writer, and would really appreciate it if you would sit back and let the art speak to you and make you feel something. thank you.

i wake in the morning
with the taste of my own blood in my mouth
i try to remember the dreams from last night,
hair falls around my face
the sun scatters across my room
the light tries not to touch me,
the mirror grimaces
holding my reflection like a ****** weapon,
thin red lines
wrap around my waist
from the demon that chased me
under the moon's domain,
the Past is my lover
his hands around my mine
but his grip around my mind,
these are the days
that don't really feel like days at all,
these are the days that slip through my fingers.
my therapist told me to look in the mirror
and tell myself it will be a good day
and it will be so,
but the mirror hides its face from me
afraid to reveal to me what i cannot see,
or what i choose not to see.
rewind the VHS tapes
let's sit around the tv
and let the static fill our ears
and drain out the noise of our hearts.
let's unravel the thread of our souls,
watch them mingle on the bedroom floor.
we'll be screamed at to be less,
be less,
be more,
you're too much,
you're not enough...

I AM MY OWN BEING
TOO MUCH FOR THE MIRROR
NOT ENOUGH FOR THE PAST
TOO MUCH FOR MY PEERS
NOT ENOUGH FOR THOSE ABOVE ME
TOO MUCH FOR HIM
NOT ENOUGH FOR HER

in a generation of instant gratification
they do not have the patience
to watch me grow
in a generation born by the Internet
they do not see deeper
than the surface of what i put on their screens

one day they will see
what has been here inside me
since the day i first picked up a pencil.

let's sit around the tv
let's wait for the tapes to rewind
let's watch our lives unfold

"***** out that candle, it's too bright," he snaps, staring out the window like there's something lurking in the dark, waiting for the two of you. You lean over and blow out the tiny fire, the blaze disappearing almost instantly, nothing left but lingering smoke, rising higher until it fades into the air.

The hot wax drips down the side of the candle slowly. He stands at the window with his hands in his pockets and you sit on the couch with your legs folded. Clocks tick and you hear the air turn on. You feel the urge to touch the clocks face and push its hands back forcibly.

He finally turns around and stares at you, his eyes flashing in the dim room.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" He asks, exasperated of the unspoken words that weighed so heavily on the silent air.

You watch the drops of wax slightly quicken down the side of the candle. "I can keep burning this candle but the wax is still there."

"Yeah, so?" How typical of him, you think you should stop trying to touch his heart with metaphors but it's the only language you've ever known.

"I keep trying to burn away everything that happened when you were gone," you say with exhaustion as a thousand memories play in your head, "But they never really go away. Every time I set all of the memories on fire all I end up doing is burning my hands on lies and sorry excuses and broken promises, I just scorch my head and hot wax drips on my heart."

He stares at the dead candle. Maybe there's shame written across his face, maybe it's annoyance, nothing can be sure in the shadows.

"I can try and burn them away all I want, but they'll just turn to liquid wax and harden all over again." You say as the wax droplets begin to solidify on the candle.

"Then burn something else, that's a nasty smelling candle anyways." He smirks, always trying to lighten the mood.

You raise an eyebrow.

"Look, you can either spend all of your time burning these memories and reliving them, or maybe you could set yourself on fire for something new. You never know," he says, picking up the lighter and lighting the candle again, "maybe you'll find something so special that burning for it is worth all of the bad candles."

He tried his best to speak your language, it may not have been the best metaphor but his attempts were to be admired.

"What are you burning for?"

The candle flickers slightly and you think that maybe you're going to stop burning candles at 1 am when every bad memory comes into your room to haunt you.

Maybe you can be your own candle instead of living off of the yellow light of broken memories, they never really helped you see.

Candles burn and wax melts but nothing is as enduring as the human heart.

when i got my first period,
i was thrilled.
marked with the crimson stroke of womanhood,
i was no longer a little girl.
i was no longer too young
to be a part of the whispered gossip filled conversations
of the women in my family.
my sister and i could share boxes of pads and tampons,
bottles of advil and naproxen.
i was no longer too young to go bra shopping,
too young to understand.
i could read Teen Vogue and relate to every word,
i was a woman.

no one told me that it was now okay.
it was now okay for men to comment
on my new chest.
it was now okay for boys to yell their
tube sock dreams of my wider hips.
no longer protected by the shield of childhood,
it was now okay.

while i experienced many new things
after that first visit from Aunt Flow,
i also began to feel things i had not felt before.
an unexplained, unwarranted hatred of
the body i lived in,
my burden of anxiety heightened
with raging hormones in my blood,
mood swings worsening the monster
living under my brain named depression.
red spots on my face that boys liked to make fun of
as if their faces were not acne warzones themselves.
another growth spurt, as if i was not already towering
above the other girls in my class.

“don’t let anyone see your pad when you go to the bathroom to change,”
my friend whispered to me at school,
“it’s inappropriate.”
“don’t say period in front of boys,
it’s gross.”
“don’t talk about puberty,
boys think it’s unattractive.”

suddenly i realized that my body
was not for myself
and it was my responsibility
to act like I didn’t feel like there were
earthquakes in my ******.
it was my responsibility to hide my new body,
because my education was not as important
as the pervy boys in my math class.
it was my responsibility to not bleed through
my new jeans,
and miss class because i’m crying in the
bathroom as i call my mother to bring me
a change of clothes.

because being a woman is unattractive,
but when she’s half naked on the cover of ******* we like it.
because spreading your legs open for a ******
is gross,
but when a man is in between them it’s hot.
because a woman’s body was never for women,
unless it’s ****** and crampy,
then we don’t want to hear about it.

i am here to say that Womanhood is for women.
i am here to say that young girls should take pride
in their new bodies.
your body is yours and no one else’s
and you should never feel ashamed of it.
you should never feel shame
when the crimson wave comes.