Creating Our Forever

Let’s talk about sunshine on rainy days and the safety of land on stormy seas. Let’s talk about gold in the streets of Hartford and dragons while we sit on a plane.

I want to be silly and weird and have childish conversations, avoiding the things that matter for the irrelevance of 100 years from now. I want to forget the serious things in life and live out a fantasy where tomorrow never comes and forever isn’t a time but a state of being.

Let’s drive away on the winding, ever-changing ripples of time and forget the drab, the dull, all of the mundane. Let it fade away under the mist before our wandering gaze so long as you remain here with me.

I once asked an old boyfriend of mine to tell me a story where we never die and all he could say was: we won’t die, we’ll become stars. But I don’t want to burn billions of miles away from you or sit in an empty vortex without air or sound. I want to listen to the drumming of your heart in the safety of our own forever and lie upon the softest grass, the sun forever shining over us.

So if it rains, talk to me about sunshine. If we’re adrift in a storm, remind me of the land. If we’re in dangerous territory, distract me with fanciful tales. And if we’re ever stuck with no place to go, don’t tell me when we die, we’ll become stars.

I want to associate us with all things positive and beautiful, and when I’m with you, I want forever to become a state of being that we can fall into together.

▪☆ Written Oct. 10th, 2017 ☆▪


Day Eight: Change, She is

Of steel eyes, unyielding brow

The mountain does not move.

Of titanium roots, all-proof soul

The mountain will not fall.

Insurmountable, it stands.

Weakened ankles, broken spirits

The traveler loses all hope.

Crippled wings, shattered fingers

She touches the ground.

It is not without regrets or scars

That her body flattens grass.

It is not without help and love

That her body, weary, rests.

Broken bones, damaged faith,

A kind muse knows all.

Ruptured heart, burst lungs,

A kind muse heals all.

Songs of joy and sorrows dealt

Crumble for singing seamstress.

Mended wounds and loving scars,

She alters the course of time.

Day Seven: One Hundred Word Confession

What does it take to gain her attention?

How much must I embarrass myself?

Is it useless? Am I in denial after all?

Probably. I’ve wasted all my efforts.

I’ve struggled to preserve her happiness

At the expense of my bleeding heart

I have dedicated and damaged myself

For a friendship I will never believe in.

And if I were to put my foot down, it,

Inevitably, would expose the phantom

That she has made her life’s foundation.

To end my suffering, I’d destroy her.

And so, without ever taking a step, I

Will always back down for her happiness.

Day Six: The Dog We’ve Beat to Death

I have thought of leaving you behind

I have wondered of the joys that exist

Outside of feeling love only for you

And I have saddened every time

Because I am your leashed dog

With an utterly oblivious owner.

Without sparing so much as a

Glance, your hand falls, flays me

Open like a gutted, common prey.

I thought of leaving you behind

I wondered of the joys that exist

Outside of aching, pining naively

And I’ve been unwilling each time

Because, for you, I lie shackled

Dog of wilted spirits, hopeful tail.

Without lifting a hand, a finger,

You give hope, faulty wings

As useful as soggy pancakes.

I think of leaving you behind and

I wonder about how you’d react

To losing your last constant:

A leashed, hopeless dog, that’s

Taken to being led by the nose.

I thought of leaving you, of moving

On to someone else, someone new,

But none would be better for me,

None are suitable for an old dog

Of few tricks, little knowledge, I,

A dog that knows nothing better,

Am silently being led to slaughter.

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.