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 Aug 2013 Emma Jane
phantasmal
your eyes are
fathomless chasms
and i find myself falling
once in a while
the way alice tumbled
down the rabbit hole

you are a
paradoxical metaphor
representing every bright spectrum
of my gray-tinted universe

i count shooting stars
and dandelions
sometimes i even think
i see your smile in the
constellations

are you the wisps of clouds
on a particularly rainy day?
drifing with no direction
i often reach out to you
though i never seem to grasp you

perhaps to me
it's as if you are
everywhere
but i can't seem to find you
anywhere

- - -
Thinking of you
Is reminiscent of
A rusting silver blade
Digging it’s tip
In the core of my soul

And that one ******* song
we sang to each other
plays it’s sweet melody
constantly
in the back of my thoughts
an endless loop

I told you once
I feel all your pain
and each little sting
of the tack on your wrist
sends a shiver
up my worn spine

I wish you had listened.
tw self harm

I wrote this on a bad night
 Jul 2013 Emma Jane
em
When your cigarette doesn't ash and the cherry keeps on burning, and the way the smoke looks when it's lost it's way in the air,
and how people inhale the fumes like oxygen even though they know it's killing them.

The look of tears flowing from your eyes that match the red ribbons flowing out of your wrist,
and the look of healed scars,
and how behind each one there's a story that might never be told.

Empty people sourrounded by empty ***** bottles, and the way the alcohol burns their throats,
but they keep on drinking it anyways.

The dead looks in people's eye when they're advoiding something they don't want to talk about, and the way screams feels when they crawl up your neck.

The way the moon hides behind the clouds because it too cries sometimes and wants to be alone.
Old photographs that show your process of losing your inncocence,and your process of slowly dying.
The sharp keys on the piano and how the piercing noise hurts your ears and rings in the air.
The feeling of letting go.
Old heartbreaking love letters.
The calls for help no one really hears.
The feeling of kisses when they really don't mean anything other than you're lonely.
The clock that makes every sinking second sitting in the hospital room feel like decades.

The way I can find beauty in everything around me, but I can't seem to find an ounce of beauty in myself.
There’s this secret desperation
hidden in the crevice of my soul
for you to be here
with me
a comfort to keep
in the denim of my pocket

and when I come home weary
from that loud
obnoxious party
I want your embrace
the slow rising and falling
of your chest to hold me
your scent
to linger on my little black dress
your hands to rub
in small measured circles
the ***** of my worn down feet

and when it pours
the downpour thrashing
against the glass of my window
I want your presence
beside me in the antique chair
the silence
broken only by the turning
pages of our favourite books
and stolen glances
over steaming cups of tea

and when I’m crying
looking into
the dusty mirror
and wondering why
I was born with such features
picking at the flaws
I want your consoling voice
telling me I am ok
the way I am
your steady arm
helping me to my feet
and your soft fingers
brushing away the salty water
stinging at my lids

But for today I am alone
and my feet are worn
and your tea is left
to cool
and my tears
abide to flow
but my pocket remains
filled with secret thoughts
a vision of you
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