Chipped nails and ripped tights,
she is delicate and mysterious and beautiful,
but still so dead inside.

My emotions are blank.
I hear my mother and father laughing and talking.
My sister joins in the conversation, soon she starts to laugh and talk.
My brother is asleep.
I walk downstairs, get a cup of coffee, respond to the everyday questions "how'd you sleep?" my response "fine."
"What'd you dream about?" My response "nothing." Their response "oh so you were very tired" my thought response "silence."
I stare aimlessly at the cup across from me.
Thinking about every thing and nothing at the same time.
I soon realize my cup is empty.
Breakfast is ready and no one has talked to me yet again.
I hear "emma" I think it's my brain saying that.
"Emma" I realize it isn't, it's my father.
"I need your help" my response "oh okay."
Once I'm done helping I realize I'm only ever called upon if someone needs my help.
When is it my turn?
Can anyone help me?

There are bruises on the insides of my thighs from your hip bones
and bruises on my lips from your teeth.
There is a bruise on my chin from bumping heads while we slept
and a bruise on my heart from the words that fell out of your mouth.

These bruises are reminders
That *** is clumsy
Kissing is sometimes better when you're smiling
Sleeping together is messy and beautiful
And words leave marks that will never fade.

Bruises in a positive light; what a concept.

it's because i love you, you idiot.
that's why.
that's the reason for the lingering hugs,
for the long gazes,
for the secret smiles.
that's the reason why my camera roll is filled of pictures of you and none of me.
why, when we went to that art museum i ******* you about what I thought of those stupid paintings because they meant nothing to me and i couldn't even look at them when the most beautiful piece of artwork was standing right next to me:
You.
that was why i wouldn't let you see the photos i took that day because my lens never did find Van Gogh but instead found you.
but no matter how much i secretly write to you it will never be the same for you.
i bet your camera roll is filled of Picasso and Claude Monet and Édouard Manet because to you, they were the only artwork in the room.
they were what you stared agape at, head tilted, disbelief in your eyes,
when for me,
that was You.


― j.r.

I want to be a poet.
To have words
so forthcoming
so forlorn
so foreign
that they strike
your ears perked
and echo
beyond
the white noise
that surrounds us

I want to pour mountains
in to your eyes
so tamed
but so enticing,
and always just a little
bit beyond your reach.

I want to be a generator
and fill you up
when i see your eyes
being to fall below
your depression.

I want to brush my fingers across
the bits of skin
that stick out
and make you squirm
but cause you to smile like
when you see the sun
for the first time
after a rain storm.

I want to be the wind that
runs across your collar
causing you to turn
closer to me.
I want to collect your warmth
in a jar
and carry it in my knapsack
so when I need
a totem
to get me through the day
I can open up
a little bit of you.

I want to capture
that glimmer in your eye
that tells me I am worth
so much more than I imagine.
I want to paint you onto
every blank canvas
though no rendition I
could every re-create
would have not even
half of the life
I found in your heart.
But i could try.

I want to be your first drink of water
After being in the heat.
trickle down your throat
like the tickle of a feather
leaving you wanting more
and yet fulfilled at the same time.
I want to be the glove that
fits around your hand
so that I could hold you
all day long
and hold your
heat inside your palm.

I want to be the cloud
that catches your attention
Finding shapes in me
connecting the lines I
have lost along the way.
I want to be the snowflake
that sits on your eyelashes
as they bat up and down
fluttering the kisses
of a butterfly to every
passerby.

i want to be an island
in the middle of your sea.
isolated but not alone
because I am surrounded by you.
I want to be the wave that breaks
upon your *******,
playful banter
between the ocean and the sand
swirling in all directions
together we twist in the tide.

I want to be something to you
other than just another girl
that caught your eye
that night.
I want to matter
instead of just
be matter.

I want to be a song
That you can never stop singing
because even though you've
heard me one too many times
You are still so caught.

But now I am
the yellow light that turned red
right as you approached the intersection.
We were not made to go
in the same direction.

I want to be yours.

But everyone knows the problem
with star-crossed lovers
is that
they only cross once

right?

one screams into
the void
yet all one
can hear in
return are
the screams
of others

others
who make up
the world
others
who fulfill
the fullness of
reality

their screams
are so pungent
and loud
For their screams
are of great  
persuasion

this is a
persuasion
fuelled  by
pressure

a common  
pressure
asserted
by the  
screams
the screams
of others

but one asks
what is this  
pressure

please listen  
to my words

ones life
is a dictated
sequence

a pattern
of sorts

a pattern  
pre-determined
by the
screams
the screams  
of others

who scream  
and scream

who tell you
what to want
what to do
what to love
what to believe

somewhere
deep in the  
void one must
search for  
the sound
the sound  
of  
one’s self