#emilytyler
It was my cousin's wedding reception,
And I wore some creamy lacey dress
That had to be approved of by my mother
Before I shoved it in a bulging duffel bag to endure the
Six hours of Dunkin Donuts bathroom stops
And that weird stop-and-go traffic that makes me
Feel like the color green.
As I stood at the brim of the dance floor,
Trying to ignore the half-drunk staggering relatives of mine,
I thought about whether it's
Polite to pry your eight inch
Torture-o-thon heels
From your swollen toes
Before anyone else bothers.
There was a boy on the other end of the disco lights,
A silhouette that I knew to be slightly more muscular than the last time I'd seen it.
Just about my age, or maybe eight months older if you had to ask him,
Which I had about thirteen years earlier
With some sand in the crotch of
My Gymboree bathing suit.
I tried my best not to look over.
The lights mostly blinded me,
But I still wished to glance at him to see how straight his teeth were and how his acne had cleared up
Because of
Neutrogena SkinID Plus
Or something.
I could tell that he was looking at me,
At the too short lacey dress
And my straight teeth
And my peachy skin
And I wanted so badly to peek over.
I wanted him to ask me to dance,
Please oh God ask me to dance.
(Of course he didn't.)
He was a shy kid, even at seventeen.
He didn't say a word to me all night,
Even though we'd gone to the beach together
Since I was in Huggies.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
That I'm cute
Beautiful
Pretty
And I tell them that
It's okay that I'm not
Because I know I'm not
But I don't like being lied to
I know I'm not
Because I can't let tears
Drip down my cheeks
As they shimmer in the dim light
Of the movie credits
I sob until
My face is red and damp and puffy
And I'm clinging to your sleeve
And just crying so uncontrollably
That people sitting next to us
In the dark theater
Might glimpse over to see if maybe
I have a reason to cry so hard.
Does shehave cancer?
Is she missing a leg?
Did her crack-addict mother die when she was an infant?
Why is this bratty straight white blonde girl crying while watching Selma/Dallas Buyer's Club/The Help?
I have to brush my hair
Instantly
When I get out of the pool
In the summer
(Hopping from foot to foot of course
Because the sun has baked the concrete)
Because if I don't
It becomes a half-curly knotted mess.
And if I don't braid it directly after that
Then it dries
In resemblance to a Yield Sign
In a somewhat triangular form
And I'm chubby.
Not fat. It would be better if I were fat.
If I were fat then things would be
Proportionalish
But instead I'm just
A 5'2 and 3/4" girl
With DDs that no one wants
Because ***** don't count when you're chubby"
And baby fat that lounges on my stomach
No matter how many kilometers I row.
My fingers are too small for my hands.
My glasses make my eyes look huge.
My lips are forever chapped.
My cheeks are overly red.
My eyes are too dark to be pretty
And I know it.
I know all of it.
I've lived in my body for longer than you have.
So don't lie to me.
Don't tell me that I'm cute
Beautiful
Or god forbid pretty
Because I really
Really
Hate being lied to.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
It made me
Sick.
The kind of sick
That books describe
As green,
Ghostly skinned
With red rust noses.
Sick to my stomach
Like when you wake up
At 2:00 AM
And realize that
Something
Is
Not
Right
Before you sprint
Down the hall
To the bathroom
And ***** pizza bagels into the
Pristine marble sink.
It made me sick like
When it gets so bad that
Blowing your nose hurts
Because the extra soft Kleenex
Have scratched your skin raw
Over
And
Over
Again.
It made me sick
When I realized
That it wasn't you that I loved
But the feeling of being loved.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
Find an outlet.
It should be
Behind a
Desk
Or
A
Bookcase.
I need
Warmth
I need
Energy
I need
Life
Plug me into the
Wall.
Charge me.
Let me sit there
Long after
My eyes glow
Full
And
Powerful
Let me
Sit there
When I
Might
Explode.
Plug me into
The
Wall
Save me
I don't want to die.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
Don't be
A mole.
I hate moles.
They burrow
And
Scavenge
And
Live in the
Dark.
Thats just
What you did
To my heart.
You burrowed
Deep,
Down to the center.
You set up camp.
And I didn't know
You were a mole.
I thought maybe you were
A
Straw,
To ****
Bad things
Out.
So I kept you warm
And waited calmly for the
Bad stuff to
Dissapear.
But I realized
That
You were a
Magnifying glass,
To emphasise
My flaws
And you were
A
Seam-ripper
To
Pull the patches
From where
I had already healed,
To make the scabs
Bleed
Again.
And I thought you were
A
Jigsaw
And you were broken
So I could fix you
And put you
Together.
Like a
Vase,
Easily
B
r
o
k
e
n.
And
Then
You left me.
Like a
Tooth
Full of
Cav it ies.
That
Space
Next
To
My heart
No longer full.
And you
Didn't depend on me,
No longer a tapeworm.
I miss you.
Like
You
Were
Mine.
But you were
Never
Mine.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 9:06 PM UTC
I thought you liked me
As a friend
And nothing more
Which killed me.
But I liked you
As so much more.
As more than a friend.
As that guy
Who would tie my shoes
And open my doors
And kiss my forehead.
As that guy who
Texts first in the morning
And last at night.
I loved you.
And now I know,
You will open my doors
And tie my shoes
And kiss my forehead.
And text me all day,
Not just in the morning
Or night.
Because you don't like me as a friend.
You like me as so much more.
And that gives me life.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 6:33 PM UTC
I think
I'm finally
In a place
Where being so sore
That walking up
A flight of
Thirteen stairs
Makes my legs burn
Feels good to me.
They say I'm getting stronger.
I think they're right.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
When we were little
They used to call them
Spotted
Orange
Lizards.
I think they were trying not to scare us with
The words
Standards
Of
Learning.
Standardized testing.
Those things that you need Number Two pencils for.
Those things that they prepare you for
Every year
For months.
Those things that if a cell phone goes off
The entire class comes back
During the summer
And retakes it.
Those things that they give you hours and hours
To take,
Out of our normal schedule,
Even though they only take
Forty-five minutes
Those things that don't even count
Towards our grades
Because
"They're really assessing the teachers--
But it's important to do your best."
SOLs.
Those things that people stress over.
Even though your answers
Are only
Tiny gray dots
On a
Scantron sheet.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
I sent it
At three AM
On one of those nights
Where silence gets violent
And I'm alone in my head.
I told you about the
Tiny pink pills
And how
If I took eight
I would sleep forever.
I gushed that
They were hidden
Under the toothpaste slathered
Countertop
In my bathroom.
I told you I loved you
But that
You weren't enough to stop me anymore.
I did actually consider it.
It was one of those nights.
But at some point,
As I laid on top of my comforter
And shivered under the fan,
I realized that
You weren't going to wake up
And convince me out of it.
I also thought
About how my mom was
A light sleeper.
How the floorboards would sound like
Orchestras
And the cabinet
Would be the symbals
To her.
I fell asleep
Numb,
But naturally numb,
And woke up wondering
What you would say.
You didn't say anything.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
He touches
My hair
All the time,
Plays with the
Edges and
Fragments,
And sometimes reminds me that
"I can braid,
You know."
Sometimes he does.
Sometimes he mimics me
In History class
From across the room,
And he laughs at all my jokes,
Even when they aren't funny,
Just
Stupid.
And occasionally,
When I'm sitting in my little niche
Between his desk
And Ellie's,
Right on the cold tile,
He'll attach his forehead to mine
And just look at me.
Sometimes he'll whisper,
"Nose,"
And point to it,
And I just giggle
And break the stare.
I don't even think he feels it,
The wishing to always be near him,
To have his fingers in my hair
All the time,
And for his laugh to be
My soundtrack.
I don't think
That when he stares into my eyes
He wants to kiss me
As bad
As I want
To kiss
Him.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:11 PM UTC
That instinct
You have
When you're this depressed
And
Every time
You're in the
Stainless Steel kitchen
And your mom
Is stirring soup at the stove,
And a dribble of
Tomato basil
Slobbers down the side
Of the black pan.
And there's still
A knife out
From when
Tomato intestines
Sprawled across a cutting board,
Which is now in the
Soap-water sink.
You feel it,
In that second.
Instinct.
Need, really.
To take it
And slice open your wrists,
Or maybe just one,
If you're having a good day.
You seriously consider it.
It isn't just a thought.
It can
Scare you, really.
You want-
And one day, might need-
To pick up that knife
And do bad things.
Things that good girls
Wouldn't dream of.
But you don't do it,
And you won't do it,
Because your mom is right there
Stirring soup
And ignoring tomato drool.
And it's such short notice,
You haven't written your note yet.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
He got expelled this time.
He wasn't sent to
In-school suspension
Or lunch detention
Or the counselor's office.
He was expelled from
Fairfax County Public Schools.
And his friends all freaked.
They sat outside the school
Every morning
And wouldn't go in
To protest.
They signed a petition
That called him a
"Well rounded student"
And
"Well loved by the student body."
I didn't love Brian.
I hated Brian.
Brian was the kid
Who always
Made the class
Stay late.
He was the kid who
Went through the halls
Grabbing peoples butts.
He was the kid that
All the guys wanted to be
And all the girls wanted to have.
And instead of sending him off
To West Point
Where he would have to
Shave his Bieber hair and
Follow the rules for once,
The county revoked the expulsion.
And to me
It seems like
A celebrity murdered someone
And because a thousand fan letters were sent in
They got to go free.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
We're locked in a race
And the only way to get out
Is by
Winning.
It's silent.
Stealthy.
Unspoken.
Secret.
There aren't rules
Or guidelines
Or officials.
The way it works
Is
Whoever kills themselves first
Wins.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
"Oh, hey Emily, will you be on our team?"
It was the very bad ending to a very bad day.
Three tests, forgotten homework, stuttered lines,
And this is what got me in the end.
Those girls,
The ones with the
Perfect long blonde beautiful hair
And the pencil skirts
And uggs,
The girls who even manage to make gym clothes look good.
We had lined up for
Captain ball
Which is really just
A mix of
Soccer and basketball.
And we had to line up,
Every inch of back touching the wall,
And the first seven people from each side would play, and then the next seven.
But of course
Those girls
The ones who can't bear to be
Seperated
For two minutes and forty-seven seconds
Had to have the perfect team.
No.
Just no.
I won't "be on your team."
There are no teams.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
We know it by the
Huge blinking lights
From rides that
Tend to make people
Throw
Up
Dairy Queen.
We know it by
Those big, intricate
Winding tatoos
That snake up the arms
Of half of the attendees
That have a message
That I can't read.
We know it by
Little children
Clinging,
Terrified,
To the hands of their
Irresponsible mothers.
And we know it
By inhaling so much
Secondhand smoke
That we're almost positive
That a little lung cancer
Has invaded our privacy.
We know it by
The Herndon Festival.
And we love it.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
It was supposed to be fun.
New school, new supplies,
Thin, neon highlighters glowing inside
Vera Bradley backpacks.
Skinny folders assigned to
Pointless subjects,
Which would be fattened
With pointless homework
By the end of the day.
It was supposed to be fun,
And for a little while, I forgot.
I forgot until History.
The new teacher hadn't lived here
Longer than a week,
Which was why he was
Excited
About teaching.
He had on a brand new tie
From Banana Republic
Which was obviously tied
By his wide eyed fiance.
His classroom was bare, as he explained,
"Don't worry,
I ordered posters yesterday."
The teacher wasn't the problem.
The problem was,
Between Richardson
And Roberts,
He still existed.
At least in the school system he did.
"Ashley Paulette?"
"-Here."
"Abby Richardson?"
"-Here."
"Bennett Rill?"
And my life shattered all over again.
The silence felt
Deafening.
Remembering how he wouldn't be there.
Not ever.
"Bennett Rill?"
The teacher was confused, looking around the room
For someone
Who was buried six feet under.
Someone who the teacher might've thought
Was sick, or vacationing.
It was supposed to be fun.
But then I remembered
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
I'm that friend
Who you ask to the mall
On those weekends
Where it's so nice
And sunny
That everyone's at the beach.
I'm that friend
That you walk home
With
On days
Where everyone else
Has mountains of
Homework.
I'm the friend
That you ignore
When they text you
Because they're so
THICK
That they're
Too stupid
And
Desperate
To take the hint.
I will never be your first choice.
But I can settle for last.
If it means
Going to the mall
With you
On those weekends
Where it's so nice
And sunny
That everyone's at the beach.
If it means
Walking home
With you
On days
Where everyone else
Has mountains of
Homework.
And if it means
Getting that one text
Saying that
You
"Have to go"
And you'll
"Ttyl."
I'll settle for that.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 10:11 PM UTC
You tell us to
Spread
The
Word
To
End
The
Word
But you mean the word
********
And you think it's mean
Because of
Mental retardation
And how it hurts
Their feelings.
Stop that word.
I won't mind.
Just don't turn around
And call
Him
A
******
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
I'm sorry
That I text you
At four a.m.
When
I
Can't
Breathe
Because of
Anxiety attacks.
I'm sorry that
I can't make serious phone calls
Or order at Subway
Around the corner,
Even though I know
I like thinly sliced turkey
And chipotle dressing.
I'm sorry that
I forget things like
Birthdays and middle names
And I'm sorry
That I don't know how to
Kiss.
I'm sorry
That you think
When I don't take a compliment
I'm fishing for you
To keep going,
Because in my rotting skull
That option
Isn't even possible.
I'm sorry.
So sorry.
That if you're
Nice to me
I will never
Ever
Believe you
Actually like me.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
"That's so gay!"
A use of
Slang and slander
In
The
Wrong
Direction.
If they use
Gay as in
Happy
The
Way
Most
Have
Forgotten
It would be a good expression.
But if they use it
As a reference to
Homosexuality
Then
I
Don't
Get
It
I
Won't
Get
It.
You can't be more gay
Than someone else.
There's no scale
Or
Chart
To measure
Gayness
And it's a bad expression
So gay is
Bad?
No.
Gay is not bad.
People who say "That's so gay."
They are bad
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
She may be ******
And she may check my fingers-
Slam her hard metal pole down on them-
Each time we practice lacrosse.
And she may roll her eyes
At
Me.
But I don't hate her.
I feel sorry for her.
Because I think I'm the only one
Who pays attention
Through the laughter and fun
That
He touches her.
And she makes a joke out of it
So her minions snap out of their dazed state and
Chuckle a little bit.
But his crawling fingers are greedy
And her words are scarce.
All of the brain-dead minions
Laugh when she jokingly screams,
****
Except me.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
I
Am
So
Bored
Civic
Studies
Oh
My
Lord
Droning
Teachers
Boring
Class
Chances
Are
I
Will
Not
Pass
Half
The
Student
Fell
Asleep
Zero
Knowledge
They
Will
Keep
Civic
Studies
What
A
Bore
Good
Thing
I
Like
English
More
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
I hate airplanes.
I hate them
More than
Anything
I've ever hated.
Except the flight
From Dulles
To Ft. Lauderdale.
I like that.
Especially at night
When it feels like
Stars
Can be caught with
A thin fishing line
Twenty feet away
And eventually you
Go off the mainland
And can't tell where
The water starts
Or
The stars stop.
Then you see a
Sudden line of lights below
And beyond that
An infinity of bright bursts
Of lights
And lamps.
All darkness,
Then suddenly
Light.
I really hate planes.
But not the flight
From Dulles
To Ft. Lauderdale
At night.
I love that.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
I can't fall asleep
On those nights
When I
Don't even know
If you'll be here
When I wake up.
Those nights
Are
All nights.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
I glare at it
During last period,
Jumping too high
But not high enough
To reach the swinging rope.
I'm in history,
And some glazed-over teacher
Is pointing at the
Chalkboard which has
Tiny scratches that look like words
Scribbled all over.
But I don't look at my notes,
Because my neck is craning
Too far back
To look at the rope
That is
My two and a half hours of freedom.
A single note is released into the halls
And the students chace it
And I leap into the air
Because the rope
Is reachable
And I grab it.
I begin to climb.
I sit by you on the
Dirt-dusted tile floor
Outside the gym
And we work on algebra
Or english if it's a good day.
And don't get me wrong,
I hate the familiar stench of homework
As much as
The next
Hunchbacked highschooler.
The rope stings my hands
While I climb.
You numb the burn.
But I have practice
And the rope is easy to climb
And I reach the top
In two and a half hours
And you get into
The yellow sardine can
That goes to your neighborhood.
And all of my muscles ache when you go.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC