Day Five: Who I Am

I’m not the kind of girl to grasp onto smoke
And listen when you tell me it’s cement.

I’m not the kind of girl to sit around all day
And wait patiently for a text from you.

I’m not the kind of girl to dissect your words
Forever looking for the truth in your lies.

I’m not the kind of girl to be made complacent,
Giving up all the others for you, silent speaker.

I’m not the kind of girl to listen to white noise
And pretend it’s music, to satisfy your needs.

But it’s been five years, and I’m forced to admit
That, for you, I forget all the different girls

That I am not — always and without fail.

Day Four: Who You Are

I wrote this about a year ago to convey my thoughts to a girl who never ever heard them. Originally, I set them up as a series of eight numbered days. I’ve already posted the first three without the day titles for some reason, but here’s Day Four.

Perched, like the purest dove,
She overlooks all that is
And ever will be for me.
She must know what awaits
Must be aware of all the pain,
Like finely carved arrowheads,
She sends my way from her spot
Atop the altar I built for her.
Before her enshrinement,
The angel way up out of my reach
Was pinned down before me
By her own doubts, misconceptions
About who she was and
Could ever still be.
And like a fool, a hopeless martyr,
I taught her how to turn chains
To dust, and broken wings to
Weightless clouds built for flying.
With words of praise and understanding,
I lifted her with my own two hands,
Set her high up beyond my reach,
And promptly forgot how to fly.

If you’re a dove on a pedestal,
I’m but a hawk without talons.

A Siren’s Warning

A shiver of fear, a frightened quiver along the spine,

A silently howling, haunting cry, choking the throat,

Curious wandering eyes fall upon her frozen figure,

Trembling by the door and shaken to her very core,

The two inch demon continues crawling by her toes.

Everyone knows now. There’s a centipede in the foyer.

A Shadow Lost in a Wave (Oct. 2016)

All my thoughts have stopped. Erased.

Muted. My skull, flooded with nothing,

Is a blank track playing on end.

Like lava it had flowed once

And overnight, the volcano withered away.

An empty basin, glorified and still,

It produces nothing but echos

Of a once great chorus.

Pause. Delete. It has been cleaned.

In sparkling new clarity

it is pure, without scars.

It is terrifying

to be so


Poetic Musings From Detention-Land

Otherwise known as Amelie wrote this in detention and rather likes it but isn’t sure what to call it. Or, if you prefer, Untitled.

A torrential downpour of nothing, falling upon a playground of silence in waves of tiny drops, overflowing into lanes of emptiness, each filling with a deep, profound lack of something that leaves the space hungrily gaping, an invisible mouth full of bittersweet air.

In My Dreams

In my dreams

She’s not nearly so cold

In my dreams

She’s really quite bold

In my dreams

She never has clothes

In my dreams

She’s really quite bold

In my dreams

She’s never gone cold


I look forward to that class more than most would deem healthy. All they see is a bunch of students packed into uneven groups and working on homework, talking or sitting on their phones. All I see is the girl who sits next to me.

She’s not very talkative and has hardly anything on her phone and sometimes gets so bored she does homework that isn’t due for another week. Sometimes she’ll smile, but only faintly, and the others have begun to think of her as the silent ghost of the room. But I know better. The quiet beauty beside me, the same girl with a body like a Goddess, is terribly, terribly shy.

On occasion, I’ve gotten her to talk to me, so I know she’s not dumb or has nothing of value to say. It’s just not her nature to be loud when surrounded by strangers. I know. I’ve seen her in the hall, with an open path of gawking boys trailing behind her, just chatting away with a close girl friend, so I know she’s not like she is in class all the time. And maybe it’s because I know this that I started fantasizing about her in the first place.

It all started sometime in December, just before Christmas Break. I took a picture of her. It wasn’t on purpose, she just happened to be in the background. But I saw her there once the break had started, and I had been entranced. She was smiling. Not that small curl of the lips that she’d typically do, but an honest to God smile. The kind that plumped up her high cheekbones and exposed the glistening pearls of her teeth. It was beautiful.

Whenever my thoughts would stray from preparing for the holidays or work, there she would be, sitting in her own little world, smiling. I wondered about what made her so happy, what might amuse her. And slowly, I started thinking about all types of things, like her worries, her doubts, her pimple-less skin, even the freckles that were hidden away by the rim of her glasses. I wanted to know why she never wore makeup or seemed to favor her three most baggy sweatshirts when her body was as slender and beautiful as a dancer. By the time Christmas came and went, I was curious, wanted to know more about her.

And then she started appearing in my dreams.

The first time, I was lost and confused, surrounded by a bunch of old friends, and had no idea what was going on. Out of the crowd, she surfaced. In her own little impenetrable bubble, she literally floated up out of the crowd and knelt down above them. She reached her hand out towards me, a little secretive smile playing at her lips, and suddenly I understood why Jasmine would go out with Aladdin for a carpet ride.

As soon as her long, slender fingers met mine, I was with her, in her world of blissful peace and quiet, the noise of the outside blocked from entering by her touch alone. I realized, then, that unlike before when I’d been with my friends and my surroundings had looked like school, now everything was green. There was grass that sprang up beneath her feet, trees that would grow just to shield her from the sun. When she laid down, a checkered blanket appeared below her. And with a small smile, she invited me down to lay with her.

After that, every time I closed my eyes, I could see her. With eyes and hair as deep and rich as the finest chocolate, and skin the shade of supple caramel, she would smile that real, unabashed smile for me. The feeling was indescribable. It honestly felt like I had been let into her sacred place, that she trusted me. It didn’t matter to me that it was a dream. It felt real.

A few days before school was to start up again during the new year, my dream got better. She was waiting for me on her little picnic blanket, in a shoulder-less, white sundress, looking as happy as any pure, innocent child. Per usual, I laid next to her, I listened to her sing with the voice of a bird, and then I felt her dainty fingers on my chin. I let her turn my head away from the clouds, and I watched as her hand moved beneath her skirt, the ruffled layers raised high up her thighs to reveal the creamy softness of her legs. She tilted my head up even further and closed her eyes, lips parting, silently asking me for a kiss.

The feeling of kissing her was indescribable, like my body was hooked up to an electrical outlet and set to charge. I felt her free hand lightly touch down on the back of one of mine, and let her guide it with feather soft touches between her legs. I was greedy. I rubbed my fingers on her soaked lips and slid them into her, rolled up into a sitting position and pushed her legs wide. She gave me another smile and arched her back, hands slipping away to give me free reign. I used it well.

I watched her dance from my fingers, felt her get closer and closer, and then I took them away. I was beyond greedy. I was ravenous. I moved her skirt all the way up and out of the way and tugged open my pants. And just like that, I was in her, wrapped up in her arms and legs, and listening to her breathless cries. I could feel her still on my cock when I awoke. Could taste her lips on my tongue and feel her warmth on my fingers.

I was addicted.

I daydreamed more. I went to sleep earlier and slept in later. I buried myself in the idea of fucking the hottest girl I’d ever seen. I had her everywhere — in my room, in a classroom, at my job, anywhere. I friend requested her on Facebook and invited her out to coffee, but when I met her something was different.

She didn’t like it nearly so much when I followed her into the bathroom and her cries weren’t remotely as sweet no matter how hard or long I tried.

And by the time school started up again, the girl who sits next to me no longer smiled and no one was curious why.


Sorry, I really thought this was going to turn out sweet . . . It didn’t.

Thinking in Poems

Lately, I’ve done something amazing:
I’ve started thinking in poems.
Which can only mean one thing:
She’s back, and I never actually let go.
After all my talk of “goodbye”s and “carry on”s,
here I am again,
Thinking in poems
In broken fragments
And jagged edges full of old emotional scabs,
I try to breathe life
Into the dog I’ve beat to death.

By now, my family can tell.
It’s been three days and all my words are starting to fall together
Like planets drifting out of orbit
Like paper planes being taught to fly
The words are overflowing,
Going every which way they can to get as far out of my chest as possible
To be spoken, to be heard,
They betray me.

I open my mouth
And there they are.
I’m thinking in poems
And speaking in tongues
Tongues of love and lust and
So much fear
Fear that she’s no longer single
Fear that she’ll hear my words
Fear that she’ll tell me again, “I loved you before”
And from this fear stems soul-crushing, debilitating
Anticipation that she’s not single
That she’ll hear my words and tell me sweetly, gingerly, longingly
“I loved you before.”

I’m thinking in poems
And star-crossed hearts
And my words are spilling out
When it comes to her
I’m speaking in whispers
And high-pitched, nervous tones
And my words are spilling out
To anywhere that she is not.

Sorry, this poem is all over the place with syllables, but I did this more as a “spoken word” kind of thing. Either way though, I think the disorganized aspect fits pretty well (or at least, I hope so).

‘Til Dawn Do Us Part

Her voice, like satin, takes over my senses,

Lulls me to my knees and leaves me aching.

With silken phrases, she shackles me in place

And on her loneliest nights, visits me.

Supple skin bathed in the glow of the moon,

Appears a mirage, ethereal phantom,

Indomitable, she falls unto me

And with feather soft, reverent caresses,

I unravel her, peer into her soul

And convince her she’s beautiful.

With quivering lips and fingers, we touch,

For a breath, a moment, I ensnare her

In the shrine of my love, my memory,

I cherish every moment, store them

For when she’s his, dripping in his sheets,

Letting him touch her like I do, knowing

It’s for naught. Regardless of others

She always manages to find her way back.

She calls out for me, her home, her Square One,

But never the number one, treasured one.

With gentle hands, lingering kisses goodnight,

I, the vampire she made, will drink my fill

And keep her locked in my clutches ’til morning

Incinerates me from her memory.

In a Circle Without End, I Race

She makes me ramble

With lips parted and eyes unfocused,

The writer of endless arsenal,

I ramble for her.

With heart in throat and tongue in cheek,

The child of unending nervousness,

I dance around it.

With cotton ball ears and heart eyes,

The woman of eternal wisdom,

I fumble for words.

Rambling, dancing, fumbling in circles,

The Goddess of Undying Confidence,

I evade myself.

Thoughts of a High Schooler

The other day I read one of my friend’s books, and she didn’t understand what I meant when I said, “This character is supposed to be me, right? Their thought pattern should be more spazztic then.” So, here it is. This is exactly what I meant.

Note: These are my actual thoughts at random points throughout the day. My sister would text me randomly and I’d record my thoughts. I tried to keep them as close to my actual ones as possible.

~ – ~

5:49 am
Am I a robot? *Alarm Goes Off* I’m totally a robot. A robot who’s low on fuel. *Sets Ten Minute Timer & Goes Back to Sleep*

6:10 am
*Alarm Goes Off to Get Ready* . . . Just . . . just one more page. I just need to edit. One. More. Page. *Sips Coffee* I can totally do this.

6:40 am
Where’s the moon? It’s normally over there . . . or was it over there? . . . . Ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no cloud thick enough~! Gawd, I’m hilarious. Op, there’s my bus. Greaat.

7:20 am
If I were an acid, what kind of acid would I be? Why an acid? . . . How many moles of hydrochloric acid would be made from a mole of Mg at STP? . . . I have a better question: where fore art thou, Google?

7:50 am
¿Por qué tomo la clase de español cuando no puedo hablarla? Eh . . . más or menos. ¡No necessito que trabajar con mi pareja! . . . ¡Personas estúpidas! ¡Personas estúpidas en todas partes!

(Why do I take a Spanish class when I can’t speak it? Ehh . . . sort of. I don’t need to work with my partner! . . . Stupid people! Stupid people everywhere!)

8:30 am
(Customer Service Class) Customer Bob doesn’t want your help, but you know he’s going in the wrong direction. What do you do? Write the roleplay. Well, since Bob and I are roleplaying, obviously I get out my whip and handcuffs and teach him how to ask for directions. . . No, I doubt Mr. XYZ would like to read that.

I’ll just say aloud that the organic produce is in aisle O and that I have work to do there, and hopefully Mr. Bob will follow. Yeah, that sounds practical.

9:00 am
I need a hammer. A giant one. *Another Person Cuts Me Off* A freaking cartoon-sized hammer. Be like Wily the Coyote but with more skill and better planning. That Explicative fowl isn’t gonna be alive for long. I wonder . . . is today’s society making kids more violent? Whatever, I just want my hammer.

10:20 am
(My eat with teachers time)
Oh, look there’s the transphobic “phobic means fear and only fear” butt face. Wonder if today he’ll be as big of a hypocrite as usual. Pffftt is that even a question? No, no it is not . . . My hammer should come with spikes.

10:50 am
Isn’t it scary how conformative adults can be while criticizing the lack of individuality of my generation? It is scary, Amelie. Oh, thank you, me, I thought I was the only one! Oo, look my lunch is here! I love food ❤

11:20 am
What kind of taste would an adjective have? I imagine all things related to sentence structure are soul-curdlingly bitter.

11:50 am
No, please do go on about how you can’t find a “connection” with a girl while staring right. At. Me. And while you’re at it, go ahead and notice that I’m looking in the opposite direction to fully appreciate a blank space!

12:20 pm
(Study Period)
This is exhausting. Trying not to laugh while eavesdropping is like convincing my stomach to not growl in the middle of a silent test period . . . ah, damn, I laughed at my own genius, now they must know I was listening. Aw they’re trying to include me~ move along, scum, I still hate you all! Aww but you have food!

1:30 pm
(AP Psychology)
Science. Science. That girl is pretty. Science. Science. But she’s so annoying. Why can’t pretty people be nice people? Because that’d be unfair. True, me, very true. Science. Science. Science. Maybe she’s nice deep, deep, deep, deep down . . . and letters will soon be taken out of math. Bah! Science. Science. Science. Science.

2:20 pm
So, what you’re telling me is: I can solve a log without a calculator, but I’ll have a calculator during the test? *Scribbles Out Notes* Yeah, I’m just gonna use my calculator, thanks.

3:00 pm
FREEEDOOM! *Gets Cut Off* Explicative, where is my hammer?!

3:20 pm
Plot. Plot. Plot. Wait . . . what da hail is that? Is that a coffee stain? Genius, past self! *Makes Coffee & Dances Back to Laptop*

3:50 pm
Why do my characters hate me?! I just want you to follow the plot, Caprice. Just follow the plot, Caprice! Amaya’s following the plot. Why can’t you?!

4:00 pm
When’s dinner? I want pizza. No, not pizza. A sandwich. A laarge sandwich. With guacamole . . . Never mind, pizza’s good.

6:00 pm
What is love? Baby don’t hurt me (don’t hurt me) no more. Caprice, please don’t hurt me (don’t hurt me) no more! . . . Shot through the heart and you’re to blame, you give wolves a bad name (bad name). I do my part and you play your games. You give wolves a bad name (bad name)!

~ – ~

After that, all my thoughts were completely unintelligible and mainly focused on my character being a total butt to the beat of random songs. So, I figured this was enough of a sample. This kind of makes me seem like I have a short attention span, but on the outside no one can tell so it’s fine. This’ll just be our little secret, you, me, and anyone else on the internet on this fine, bright day (unless it’s dark where you are). Well~

Ciao for Now,
~ Amelie J. Hyde