Poetry Writing

What They Were to Me

A night of milkshakes and split latex.
A wasted wedding in all senses,
A tired and slipping drive home,
The smell of cigarettes buried in my hair
follicles, broken air conditioners.
Unanswered messages and easy
Conversations gone silent after
Confessions of President’s Day.
One night in summer snow watching
Deer skirt past the truck.
Casual coffee. Nothing serious.
Awkward movie nights with
Christ on the walls watching.
Wiffle balls and baseball bats.
Midnight walks in small towns.
Lost socks, broken shoes, laundry.
Broken ribs and suffocation. Suffocation.

A jacket shoved in the back of a closet.
A pot of flames burning memories
one by one, realizing how small he made me.

Moving forward. Drinks in bars.
Memories of two years of different men.
Different hair, different skin.
In my bed, my skin. And in the end-
I am better for it, even alone.

via *


  • kayla lynn

    it's all those fucking little things. and perhaps once you emerge from the haze you see things differently and yes i cannot agree more with you Emma, in the end we are better for it… this is so beautiful.

  • Bone

    Ah yes, the small non-sensical kind of things.

  • The Purple Assassin.

    I like who we become after they're gone.

    Stronger. Darker.

    I call this beautiful.


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