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I am skilled in the art of the bitter self-slur.
Coward, selfish, ugly, weak,
For now, these are my truths.
I blend them, drink them in,
They make me thin.
I am myself. These are my choices,
I direct rage inwards, flee non-sanctuary,
Take refuge in the trees, and there, a black-eyed dog
bares his teeth and threatens, but I let him,
I pet him. His tongue is rough, and grazes me,
I laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
When did
your love for me
become a
*disappearing act?
 Aug 2014 Emily Watkins
Devon
She
 Aug 2014 Emily Watkins
Devon
She
The long quiet slumber
shatters
with the heat
he summons so easily

My master fire starter.

Building me up
and setting ablaze
She
that has waited long,
           so long
to burst forth -

now,
now,
now,

I Wake.
 Mar 2013 Emily Watkins
Wolfey
Your brownish-green eyes are my favorite.
They hold me in a trance,
make my heart flutter.
I want to hate you ..
Your browinsh-green eyes are ones that players behold.
I hate that whenever I'm in a crowd,
your always the one I first look for.
Whenever your next to me,
I have to fight myself to not take a glance.
I hate the way you cause me so much agony and pain yet,
you always occupy my mind.
When I try to date someone else,
they remind me of you.
But now I remember.
You never cared.
I was only a game.
And sadly,
you won.
I'm dying slowly,
using my energy to keep you near.
You hurt be dearly darling.
Your the reason for my tears.
The reason for the scars on my body.
It pains me to even look into your brownish-green eyes.
Because I know that if I do,
I will fall once again...
All the great lyricists of the world
will always regard love as a rose;
beautiful and elegant,
its sweet aroma as dizzying as its
deep sultry red,
its petals as succinct and complex as
the layered patterns of admiration.

But when do they remember to mention
that to hold a rose close enough to
take in its delicate scent or profound beauty
one must hold it by the stem,
and if one squeezes, even just the smallest bit too tight,
the thorns smartly come into the skin,
and make the holder bleed their true self
onto the garden grass?
I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.
 Feb 2013 Emily Watkins
Chuck
The weather changes
More than a woman changes
Her beautiful mind.
 Feb 2013 Emily Watkins
Ugo
Funny how we woke up in the morning
and pretended that tomorrow never happened—
strutted naked in mirrors celebrating our youth,
laughing, knowing suns and moons couldn’t do the same.

We borrowed our arms from the fridge
and peddled bicycles with bad breath—
trading war stories ‘cause we knew
if we came back alive
life would still be the death of us.

— The End —