The Girl Behind The Red Door...

I'm Emily. 23. Film major. walking jukebox. Working in Television/news. Every word I cannot express logically comes out in a mess of poems and writing or whatever you may want to call it. Some of you draw. Some of you write. Some of you take photos or sing or play an instrument or scream your words out loud when nobody's listening. But that's the beauty of life. Those are the things that make us feel alive.So, I'm here to share with you the things that make me feel just that. oh yes, and what I write on here is mine so pleaseee don't steal it >.

We live on a blue planet that circles around a ball of fire next to a moon that moves the sea, and you don’t believe in miracles?

Life

Well, after many years of wanting a career where I can travel, I got a phone call telling me that after 2 interviews, I am now going to be flown to Atlanta for a face to face last interview with Delta.

I have a wonderful man who supports me, but isn’t necessarily happy with that career choice. I think he’s worried, and that worries me. I am proud of myself for making it this far, but if I do get this job, I’m just nervous..

just nervous.

:(

Over

The greatest minds have been the most miserable. They have drowned themselves in a bottle and a typewriter and I often wonder if I will have to do that to keep up with him.

I heard about a car accident today and with a shaken voice this frail girl told me that she could see the blood pouring out of the mangled metal. It was like a waterfall of life losing its home in someone, like a symphony of cells screaming that being saved is a shout to some black-holed void in the universe.

It’s over,

it’s over,

it’s over.

I wonder if that is the way you sighed under your breath when she turned her back on you. I wonder if you ever wished that she may have been the one whose blood escaped to the earth, creating a new life form far away from your imagination. Did you ever look for her in other faces, did you long to feel the comfort of her hands from someone else’s around your throat? Were you ever afraid to take the stairs for any number of years after the last time you fell silent from her serpent force?

How many suns have to come up until she can no longer make tears burn your open wounds, how many nights did you spend wishing that you never understood what rings symbolized and never felt the burn of needles stabbing your skin as a result of proving that her story needed to be etched into your arm?

When you kissed the lips of the black haired princess you vomitted two syllables towards, she smiled because she liked being compared to your favorite parts of death and your favorite color which was hers now, too.

You may have wanted her to rip the thorns out of your side so you could see colors again but then you remember she took the blooming branches from your heart and painted them in rotten sililoquies, squeezed all the life out until your veins started pumping stale poison.

When she spouted

It’s over

It’s over

It’s over,

She had no idea how many times you had arranged the words to spell out some sort of hope on your childhood walls. She had no idea how many lucid dreams you experienced, changing your own future for the better, twisting your brain matter together to create a future against all odds.

You once told me that you have to accept that things, they change,

that I am not a frail little birdie who cannot find her wings,

and maybe we can find comfort in some things just being

Over. 

Warmth

I haven’t felt the warmth of the sun in weeks.

Still, I scroll through pages that your ghosts wrote and I wonder if you miss that demon, the one who threw out your jackets and your dignity to the street while you were packing the rest in your car.

I wonder if you can feel her pain as she curses you under her breath and behind her tears that started exactly eighty five days, fourteen minutes and thirty five seconds after you took the final bow out of the doorway, after she kept that shirt and your cologne, after she asked you if maybe coffee was an option, one more time…

Just one more time.

I am standing on the edge, and the wind is perpetuating the chill inside of me. Still, I have the sun inside of me. Still, your hands wrap around me while begging for a reason why I want to let go. I have fallen more times than I can count and these walls that I have built you have punched through, but there’s an illogical timeline that heartbreak follows and all you can do is wait with your heart open and your eyes fixed on whatever the future is.

Sometimes I think about her and the souring memories she so desperately wants you to gravitate back to in a straight line, the finish line right back into her arms.

But I am standing on the edge and I am not afraid to jump. I know that you’ll be right behind me. For you, I have created beauty with words and for you, she created the sound of a death march. But baby, I always knew you liked the color black and the chill of the cold enveloping your bones.

I just hope you can learn to love the warmth of the sun. 

The Letter

I heard, what feels like a long time ago now, like that of a far off fairy tale, a love story gone wrong, that writing a letter to express my feelings was “childish,” cowardly, even. 

I have to disagree.

I believe that your inner most workings, the nails that puncture your veins with ribbons of intense pain, emotion, heartache, I believe earnestly and wholeheartedly that these feelings are meant to be spilled out from heart to ink to paper in a way that only few can successfully express. Letters help, they hurt, they heal, they bring the dead back, if even for a moment. They awaken feelings of a troubled past or even one of adventure. Nostalgia, it’s wholesome. It’s tingly. It’s light. The opposite of darkness, that is. Heaviness can overwhelm, too. This comes with a heavy sigh.

The closure letter- I ripped open an envelope that contained a check for a former employee. (I kept it safe, it’s locked up I swear) but I ran out of envelopes, and dammit, I needed to mail this letter. So I did. I dropped it in the box, and I walked away. This feeling is a mixture of relief and disbelief, longing to be in the present and excited for the future. So I did it. I. Did. It. 

And that’s it. 

Que sera, sera.