I quiver and arch, curling inward

And reach for soft petals to heal my skin from the burn

I overlook the quiet blanket of snow outside my window

Too absorbed in warming my body to enjoy Winter fully

Rays of sun beckon my being to rise

I long to emerge from the covers–a resilient Spring bloom

Gently awakening, given time to flower and unfurl into something

But I sprout too quickly and the residual frost beheads me

Yet I regrow, as I always do

A hardy perennial planted in finite earth

I feel the heat and humidity of Summer. The intensity and fervor

The season fills me with a vigor I find absurd

Sweat leaves a salty remnant on my tongue, but I want sugar

Chocolate and spices–the flavor of Autumn’s frigidity

Aching and yearning, I ask for the chill to return. To cool me

Please, take me out of my misery

The equinox unveils atrophy under foot

Gold. Burgundy. Rust. Tree corpses. Decay.

Renewal to some. Death to most. Why not both?

The trees shed their life and hibernate. But I cannot do the same

I am cursed to carry all my traits and continue on when I’d rather sleep

It’s not long before I wriggle in Winter’s grip

And wrestle for Spring with my fists

Soon it will be summer.

Before I know it, the sun will stay up later. The days will be stretched longer–like saltwater taffy, pulled gently. Changing seasons beckon me to stop and ponder. While I anxiously chase my shadow, they bring moments of clarity. They allow room for personal reflection, as temperatures fluctuate and leaves shed or grow. I find myself noticing how I’m prone to rush, becoming blindsided to the beauty of each period.

I keep myself busy with creative projects. If I don’t, I’ll either jump into an existential crisis or collapse with the dreaded, weighty thought that I missed out on an opportunity I could have taken. The fear of missing out. The fear of not becoming. Ideas are constant, but perfect execution of them is elusive. In those moments, I question my artistic worth; am I even good at this?

In an attempt to cull my fears, I bottle monsters. But they outgrow their glass chambers, breaking their cages and unleashing themselves on me when I least expect their presence. I perpetually rush toward the next era of my life, abandoning the trapped feelings. Nothing is without consequence, however. Neglect causes them to erupt, flooding my body with the force of a tsunami.

There’s nothing wrong with living in the uncertain. And while I know this is a fact in my mind, it doesn’t always translate to heart language. I yearn to know. Pieces of my timeline are constantly picked up, rearranged, and stuck into a different place.

Life consists of the confusing bits and pieces—building blocks with no identifiable shape. If we were to run the course of our existence chasing after perfect bricks with which to build our reality, we would tire ourselves out and die before seeing any structure emerge. Objective perfection does not exist in us nor the world we occupy.

Uncertainty makes me uncomfortable–but so it is to be human. We love knowledge, crave it even. The fruit in the Garden was the first instance of humanity’s desire to know. Comprehension is to live in elucidation, and doubt is fumbling for a light switch in the dark. However, uncertainty can be holy in a way knowing cannot. It’s where faith is grown.

I want to imbue hope. With my actions, mouth, and art.

I’ve learned to sprint with all my efforts, aiming to achieve what I want in life before time runs out, because I know I am finite. I will die someday, and I want to pass knowing I enjoyed my minuscule existence and brought joy to other’s.

I hold that my purpose directly relates to God’s presence. Since I believe a loving God exists and that he can be known, at the very least, I can stand upon the idea that there is a divine purpose woven into my being.

We discover meaning in the tangible and mundane–the way we notice the goodness in our lives, see joy amid sorrow, love others with our souls. And eternal meaning germinates in the sphere of what we cannot see.

Both can be true at once.

Self awareness is only one part of the cure. Without change, understanding my patterns means nothing. So, here I am. Seasonality frightens me. I know I’m prone to sprinting through life. Calming the racing creature in my chest that yearns for speed requires patience. But, Rome wasn’t built in a day. The civilization of my timeline won’t become an empire quickly, and I’m learning that’s okay.

cover image from Pinterest

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I ask an endless question: what is His plan?

I close my eyes. Reach out a hand

There’s something there I can’t see

An invisible kingdom. Finality

I believed myself a hero and pure of heart

Thinking good luck and best wishes would take me far

Sailing from corporeal to the infinite

Inside Paradise’s boat with rotten oars

{ but }

I inhaled a deep breath, as though it was my first

Quenched a spiritual thirst and felt the air flood my lungs

And seep into my organs—that heavenly oxygen

Drifting the wide ocean with Him at the helm

I open my eyes and His hand meets mine

I am not given perfect, visual elucidation of the something

Yet, I trust in God’s timing

My heart yearns for knowledge of eternity

I bring Him my finite question: may I see the beauty of what you’re building?

Ecclesiastes 3:11

“Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end.”

cover image from Pinterest

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The sun shines through large windows. Nature seems to crawl into the house through the expansive glass. Reflections of green leaves paint the ivory walls in a honeydew hue. Sheer curtains flutter in ripples. Autumnal breezes playfully flitter through the house. They teasingly graze the walls of books and the flowers in vases. Some birds sit high in the trees singing to their kin, while others stomp around the grass for worms to devour.

Cookies bake in the oven, a recipe I’ve been meaning to try. Scents of cinnamon and apples and brown butter swirl in waves upon the shore of the living room where we sit and read. I hear young laughter outside and smile. Their voices are the brightest melodies I’ve ever heard. Never did I believe with certainty I would have this, though I did pray anyway. Hope fueled me during the days I felt forsaken. And not a day goes by that I am blind to the blessing, nor the richness of the simplicity. I never did long for wealth measured in numbers; I desired the opulence of a family filled with fondness for each other. Something mine, where love is natural. It flows from us like a perpetual stream in the wilderness.

Everything has worked together for our good, but there are still valleys and peaks. Perfection is not found in our dwelling. And goodness is not the absence of pain, struggle, or strain. Even some of the healthiest fruits and vegetables and roots contain bitterness. Astringency does not equate to evil. In our home, sadness is just as welcome as joy at the table. We apologize, forgive and mend as many times as needed. We don’t keep count of offenses. Endurance. Our life is like a Ghibli movie, complete with the complexity of human relationships and the delight of the ordinary; both coexist in harmony.

The kids feel safe to voice their inner world with us, and we give them the care they deserve. We love them so dearly, even when we’re exhausted and our muscles threaten to give out. The words we use are selected with wisdom. We know soft answers turn away wrath. Our devotion is planted in a faithfulness, one that weathers storms and trials and grows stronger for when the next torrent comes. We know life is imbued with ups and downs. We expect change, and though we may fear it, it does not rule us. We have each other aboard the ship.

I turn on the espresso machine, grind the coffee beans, measure and tamp, pull the shots, and make our beverages the way we like them. I make syrups for us, each with different flavors that match our natures. We sip our unique drinks on the veranda, watching the morning ignite the day. Yellow and orange leaves twist in the air, billowing downward, announcing a season of rest.

Soon, it will be Christmas, and I think of winter.

We’ll survive the cold again, we always do.

Hebrews 11:1

“Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.”

The above verse has been on my mind recently, touching my soul in many applications. Reminding me faith isn’t easy, but it’s worth it. I have much to look forward to, though trials will occur and change will rock me.

I’ll remain steady, rooted in hope.

I pray it’s an encouragement to you, in whatever way your heart may need. <3

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You’re there in every flower I see.

Time doesn’t create a barrier,

It builds a fondness, a surety.

Chaos is imbued in my duality,

And Venusian energy flows in my veins.

Epiphany.

A moment of clarity. Reverie rooted in reality.

Dreams and musings.

Lilac hues remind me of you,

The shade of lucent sunsets,

Flowering wisteria branches.

We are contrary, complex beings.

In our natures, you possess what I lack.

Apricity and brumous. Opposites attract.

Let me be your sun in the winter. You are the fog that calms me.

There is a safety to your hands, a comfort.

The refuge in a stormy night. A lighthouse at sea.

I long for your company, I pine for your presence.

A moth to a flame. You enrapture me.

There is nothing fleeting in my words. I’m stubborn in my affections.

It’s vulnerability carved into the skins of ancient oak trees.

Dearest recherché inamorato.

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Doctor, help. My guts are spilling out and there is something wrong with me. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I can’t articulate the feeling; my thoughts and words combine into an ungodly mass inside my skull, above my throat.

All I know is, I am a mess of knots. I am jumbled. I’d like to untangle the cords providing the makeup of my inner world, but the ends are an ouroboros. An eternal circle of my self destructive patterns.

I’d like to love, but I think I will ruin it. If I’d been alive in 48 B.C., I’d have been the one to set the Library of Alexandria ablaze. Not on purpose, never on purpose. That’s why it would be all the more tragic, you see.

I love with a fire of intensity and passion, while believing my affection calming like that of the Mediterranean Sea. A relaxing day in Santorini.

Love can be reckless.

Consequences be damned.

And then, Wisdom crawls back up the cliff I pushed her down. When you know better, you have no excuse for ignoring Wisdom. I am the fool. I babble irreverently and piously within the same breath, believing myself both a sinner and saint. I ignore Wisdom’s call. I leave my heart unguarded. I told the sentry to vanish so I can feel.

But it’s not just love that tears through me and leaves wounds. I have said I contain multitudes; I do not lie about my layered nature.

Did you know I loved using semicolons in my research papers? I would wax academically about a variety of theologies. Argue my position. Provide evidence. Footnotes and Works Cited. Discontinuity and Continuity—the hermeneutical study of God working in time (can we even know how God works in the concept of time and be unwavering in our foundational belief?). I can enlighten you about demons and angels and the concept of a soul. Tripartite or Bipartite? I hold to the latter, but even I can’t be certain.

The library was my second home. I know the shelves and decimal locales like floor plan of my home, complete with turns and nuance. Let me show you my favorite weird books. I know the location of many, from ESP to puppet making to The Odyssey. I keep checking out Homer’s works (I doubt I’ll ever read them completely).

There is something wrong with me tonight. I’d like to run or fight but there’s no where to go and no enemy in sight. I talk a big game about being mean, but really I live to please. You’d think I work at Chick-Fil-A with my level of people pleasing. And then I ruminate that I scheme. I am nothing more than a faux noblewoman who thrives in musty catacombs engaging in deceit.

I’m writing this in my notes app. The place where I keep to-do lists and random thoughts I know I’ll forget. Interspersed between “dream journal” and “mom things” are pieces like this. Stains blotting a garden of thought with pesticides. They are thorns, slicing into the petals with titles like “baby names.”

Even in my trauma posts, I cannot help but use simile. I rhyme like a poet trapped in a dictionary, between the thesaurus and the concordance.

Even my pain is curated for you to see. For why would I post something completely raw from me? I’m pretty sure you’d unsubscribe and scroll away, leaving me to wonder what I could have said to make you remain. The girl who’s friends always changed became a woman who just wants to be around someone who’ll stay.

When I peel back my skin, let you in, and give you a flashlight to examine my cavity, will you run away screaming when you see my heart still beating?

emma here: if you’re new to Marblehead, I like to write my sorrows for the internet to read. subscribe if you like that I guess 🤷🏻‍♀️

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Someone won’t wipe it away with a careless touch,

Leaving smears of red when they leave.

I could sew it into the pocket of my jacket

Hoping no one throws the clothing into the flame,

Acting like nothing was sacrificed in the process

Hiding the organ is no option.

Who would I be without my heart?

A doll, a husk. Something hollow

But wearing it on my sleeve is tiring,

It gets bruised and beaten often

Until it’s bleeding and the flesh is mutilated

And I stand on trial, battered devotion in hand

Proclaiming to the jury my innocence

The prosecutors counter that I should have hidden my heart

To prevent the abuse of my affection

“It’s my fault, after all.”

I know nothing other than offering myself up

To those who would make a mockery

Of the altar I shed myself upon,

And then I wonder why I’m drained,

Depleted, and ruination rendered incarnate.

I don’t feel myself right now, like a glass half full.

I’m not sure where my contents spilled. My mood is fickle, so this depressive state amid the recent highs of my emotions doesn’t surprise me. But I’m always left reeling. Why? Especially, why this moment? Spring is here, and I should be happy. And yet . . . something is wrong.

My body is tense, tight, and twisting. A snake caught in a vice grip. An ouroboros of my self-destructive tendencies. Fangs descend from my jaw. I ponder briefly why I’m poisonous before biting my prey.

“Love is never wasted,” I quote to myself, more as a comforting lie than an inherent truth. If love is never wasted, where does it go when there’s no direction? Does it reside in the ether? Is it tangible and formable?

I find myself in a limbo state between knowledge and ineptitude. Who I am and my expression of self. It’s difficult to archive yourself when you don’t recall the history. My heart is a constant. She’s my beating companion, filled with anxiety and avoidance in halves. I run in place, believing myself to be traveling far.

cover image from Pinterest

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The old house, renovated, is ready to fit us in. Accepting with arms wide. There’s a garden outside and a coop for the chickens. I’ve started to ferment a starter for the weekly loaves. A library filled to the brim with stories and knowledge, low enough to the ground that our kids can reach. Your house is just down the way, and we can walk there. Cobblestone paths leading toward a hidden alcove for thinking and writing. Dinner invitations bring community to the table. We talk and play games and drink coffee into the night. The kids run about with homemade cookies in their hands, their laughter lighting the place with magic. Nostalgia crafted in the moment.

We do not yell; we know how to use our words in conflict. Our hands are used only to tend and mend. The birds sing every morning, and we tune in each dawn. Our farm stand is stocked with eggs and flowers for the neighbors to share. At night, we read and scheme (in the ways of whimsical beings). An optimist at heart, I see the brighter days ahead even when my brain tells me I’m surrounded in darkness. Walk with me, through the planted rows of sunflowers, look at the starkness between soft petals and angled seeds.

She runs in the yard, collecting rocks for her treasure pile, and we giggle at how wild her hair flows. Untamed and wholly herself.

Weekly dinners at the House. We get our fill of a feast and laughter that heals the soul. The best medicine offered in the world. Peace and comfort. We do not search around looking for greener grass. Ours is watered lovingly by every hand that lives here.

Oh, how I wish you could stay here with me. What a selfish thing of me to desire.

The time difference will only remind me of how I can’t sit on the porch with you today, and how I won’t be able to attend her 2nd birthday. The little girl I loved before she was even born occupies the softest corner of my chest.

Thank God for technology; we don’t have to send telegrams and wait months to hear back like families of the past. But I often long for your company, on some great ranch out in the middle of nowhere. Some place I can see everyone’s faces and pretend you’re all safe in my hands, shielded from natural disasters and uncontrollable circumstances. I hold you close to my heart in spirit since I can’t protect you from every harm.

This is my letter to you. I will miss you more than you know. When I meet you at the airport, part of my heart will fly across the world with you.

I’ll learn the language, I’ll try. The cultural recipes will become part of my kitchen repertoire. When I bake the almond pastries in the Midwest, part of you will be there with me, through the thousands of miles. I’ll sip a mazagran in the summer and write with you in mind.

I love you, always. Until the end of time and past it.

cover image from Pinterest, letter graphic added by me

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It held wrinkled and misplaced button downs,

Dirty socks strewn about. Careless. Weary.

Lazy or tired? Downtrodden? Defeated?

I felt like a clown for letting you see inside

Does this feeling exist elsewhere?

Can I archive the pain somewhere it can hide?

Perhaps I should have zipped away the confines,

Because all I can do is compare your luggage with mine

I spy t-shirts neatly folded, organization divine

While mine is a mess beholden—a sad sight for longing eyes.

I sank into myself, the clothing on my chest melted into my skin

But you showed me the rest, where your heart has been.

It wasn’t perfect, no, not at all. And I felt relief knowing,

The two of us weren’t afraid to be witnessed by the other.

There were crumpled clothes wrecked,

With their tatters and stains and scars

And we looked at each other with sad,

Understanding smiles. We let our shame be compiled,

Sorting through the piles, and we figure out what to mend,

What to leave behind, what to carry forward.

Our bags are lighter, now. Delicately present—we cannot remove them entirely.

When the weight gets too heavy, hand me a piece of clothing.

Do the same for me.

Sensitivity is not the same thing as cowardice. My heart may be made of glass, but my bones are welded of steel. I carry strength and frailty in the same form. Your burdens are mine too, please, let me care. And when I grow weak, I ask for your hand to hold me upright. This world is in desperate need of genuine concern, of those who are willing to let their suitcases be seen. We’re in good company.

Can I shoulder the weight with you? Will you confide in me? I promise you can. Will you let me share?

Cover image from Pinterest

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Looking at a simple building

The whole world fitting inside

With warm dripping sun

Palms waving hello

In the gentle salt laced breeze

A place of toasted bread

And cheap melted cheese

Where a love for pickles was born

Like a spiritual awakening

Learning the scrumptious flavor

Of pickled cucumbers

Eating outside during the beauty of the day

In comfortable company

Under awnings and trellises

Talking about freeze tag and nonsense

Among the deli paper crinkles

With their red and white checkers

As if I could hop right into them

And play a game

Hey marbles! With all the heavy stuff that’s been happening on the platform, I wanted to post one of my drafts I’ve been saving for a rainy day. It felt like we all needed some silly whimsical art, and it’s not much, but I hope this helped to lift your heart a little or brought you a smile. This is a poem I wrote a long time ago about a memory I have of my childhood friends and I eating grilled cheese at a deli we used to frequent after church. It’s a fond one, and I’m thinking about them today. I wonder how they’re doing.

love ya,

emma xoxo

cover image from Pinterest

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This is all you have, seriously?

No wonder your platform is degenerating.

You claim you care about free speech,

Yet all you seem to propagate is festering rage

“We want Substack to be a safe place for discussion and expression,”

But you don’t actually care about our wellbeing or safety.

If you did, I’d see your work in droves.

We both know there’s more accounts where they came from,

Their wretched holes.

“Robust discourse.” There’s an idea! Oh, how intellectual you are.

Do you consider hate speech and bigotry a valid contention?

“We work to find a reasonable balance between these two priorities.”

Your cards are dealt. I see your play.

Of course you’d give propaganda the right-of-way.

“Offending behavior includes credible threats of physical harm to people based on their race, ethnicity, national origin, religion, sex, gender identity, sexual orientation, age, disability or medical condition.”

Already, you have a bias against us. “Credible.” Are my bleeding wounds not enough proof for you? I leak crimson over your interface and you see nothing but a shrew. Am I the bad guy now? I’m simply showing out your point of view.

“We don’t allow porn or sexually exploitative content on Substack.”

Oh, but you do. And you thrive in its misery. Anger brings more mouths you can earn from. I’m not naive. I know the symptoms of a declining platform when I see one.

Your diagnosis is terminal, but you hold the cure. You keep it locked behind gambling additions, useless features, and patronizing emails. Degeneracy sells, and you’re rich in their coin.

Art is political, and I’m simmering with rage today, so I wrote a poem.

& fix your mess—it’s not our job to clean up for you.

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*just a heads up, because of the length, this post is best read in the app :)

lovefool: the four loves (in plain text)

Storge

You are my first loves, the faces I met when I felt the world at once

Love from you has never been transaction

I’ve never made a payment for affection

You are chicken soup on a cold, sick day,

The midnight God talks, and the lighthouse

I needed to keep the serpents at bay.

A grown up. I’ve matured, and the map has been exchanged

But our love remains. Always.

I’m writing this with the pen you gave me.

This is not the end, though the miles

Stretch between us like fence posts

You are my built in friends.

We witnessed all the best and worst

Of each other but still call

Phileo

I prayed to God for you, half my life it seems

He brought us together in perfect timing

I always felt strange, I never fit in

But our paths intertwined,

and I found family, not related blood

My best friends, my kin.

Our late night catch ups,

Days on the town, bookstore runs,

And coffee dates

Refresh my spirit.

I’ll always be generous with my hugs and

Saying “I love you,” because I mean them.

Our souls are kindred,

We are analogous.

Eros

We’ll make our bed in the soft grass

Fragrant cedar branches will be the ceiling

And fireflies will be our twinkling flames

There is no painful burn when we touch

Neither is rendered to ash.

Ardor flowing, desire bright

A candle, glowing and steady.

I’ll know every part of you,

And you’ll know every part of me.

Not just the shape of the other,

But the formless echos and resonance

Only visible from honesty

Memorize the stretch marks and the dips in my hips

I’ll trace your cheek with my lips. Study your eyelashes.

Our bodies align in eclipse

We have a lot of love to give

Eros is more than passion

We can go from heat to heart

Talk about the darkness, its tangible touch

When sleep evades us, the crickets hum

But we’ll tune them out with our words

Our lullaby for tired eyes

The sun rises, and I still love you

You’re my best friend.

I care for your soul

And the withered blossoms there

Let me water them with comfort

You tend me with your hands,

I’ll heal you too

Together we’ll stitch the wounds we’ve inflicted

Wet the skin with saline and use a needle to stitch the valley

Agape

I constantly fail, yet this love is shown to me in full.

The movement of feeling into action. The spur of service and sacrifice.

In absurd times, there is a call for absurd loving.

Invite the tired neighbors for dinner though it’s last minute

Throw open the shades to warm them though you prefer the shadows.

Buy coffee for a co-worker. Don’t ask for anything in return.

Agape does not expect. It does not long for retribution.

And the most foolish receiver of this love is me.

I studied theology, you’d think I’d know,

But God’s love is a beautiful mystery

Told through history and genealogies

Culminating in a Mediator who bled

So I don’t have to face the separation of my soul

From the One who loves me despite the sin I hold

Author’s note: This poem is largely inspired by feeling so much love and the different forms it takes. So, I looked into Greek words for love since I was familiar with some used in the Bible. If you’ve read C. S. Lewis, you may also recognize I borrowed one of his titles, “The Four Loves.” Storge refers to familial love. Phileo refers to friendship love. Eros refers to passionate love. Agape refers to sacrificial love. I wanted each love to bleed into the other, and hopefully you can see that play out in the text. In English, the word “love” is thrown around often and slapped on about everything. But there’s a depth to love that extends far past any superficial use of the word.

I want to give a huge shoutout to for the inspiration to make a zine for this poem! If you haven’t read her essay about zine making or the poem zine she and made, you should! They’re both fabulous writers and makers here! I’m thankful to call them friends. <3

love ya,

emma xoxo

The art pieces used in this zine are sourced from public domain databases. The playing card on the first page is from Pinterest. The apple in the cover image for this post is from Pinterest.

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I am familiar with my shadow self. I invite her for tea daily.

Pin a red thread to my chest so it connects to yours. I don’t want to be alone.

Significance, empathy, sanity.

I carry shards of the mirror I saw myself in, letting the fragments cut my skin.

What identity should I wear today? Roll the dice. It’s a one-in-twenty chance.

I try on your qualities, see how they fit in the sleeves, how tight they are against my stomach.

Wear them for a day, shed them the next.

I envy your love. I envy your goodness.

Let me stitch them to my skin so they become part of my body.

Honesty.

I can be unstable. Combustable. Will you lend a steady hand?

Risk the burn for me.

My fists white knuckle the pain in an unrelenting clutch, and I nurse my wounds.

I’m so attached to the bone I found, I’ll starve to death gnawing on the calcium.

“Believe a new tale,” let the old fable fall like scales from my eyes.

Serpentine. Jealousy.

Morbid thoughts crawl into my psyche, but I can face myself thorns and all.

Fangs retract and grow. Shame builds, expands, explodes.

Poison thrums with the blood in my veins. Mithridatism is my practice, but you are not immune. Could my toxins be made into a panacea?

Comfort and chaos. Selah.

I am a storm of love and ache. You never know when I’ll strike or what my lightning holds.

Melancholy.

There is more inside my chest than withered agony.

I pull the ribcage open for you to see.

Notice the bird residing there, the song it sings against my flesh.

Her notes are woven with sincerity. Hear the symphony.

There’s a chronic need in my brain which throbs constantly, asking to understand who I am. It cramps and thrashes against my skull. Who am I? I don’t know. But, if I’m not being myself, am I truly living? I’ll excite you, share my universe with you in all its galaxies, and then after a while you’ll escape my arms and wonder why I’m so much. Don’t mistake my care for manipulation. I am contradiction made manifest. A people pleaser, an eldest daughter, and a middle child, someone who has always correlated my worth with how much others accept me. Handwritten letters are points. Love notes are a scorecard. I take on too much. I have only two hands, but I try to hold everyone’s. Because, affection is currency and I long to be rich with its tender. And there, in the mental swirl, yearning takes a form of its own, opens its maw, and swallows me whole.

{cover art credits: Pinterest | If you know who the artist is, let me know. I couldn’t find them in any searches, but I love their painting style.}

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You are not formless, not a concept.
I speak in metaphor and simile
Please, forgive me.
You are like a painting, each
Brushstroke a decision
There are multitudes in your layers,
Sketches underneath and gesso in between

You are your own, as I am mine.
We have no need for each other, and yet
Would you believe me if I said 
I long to understand your mind?
To ask why a scar resides there and 
What makes your gears turn, to know
the attic of your brain intimately,
even when darkness stirs

You are a person, formed and made
Uniquely as the snowflake on my nose.

Your life is an ever changing landscape, and 
I would journey to catalog the flora and fauna
Held within, if you would allow me so.

I'll bring water for your garden
And encourage the flowers to grow.

This is my first audio recording of anything I’ve written outside of university work, so I’m a bit (lots) nervous. But, I’m happy to share with you the poem I wrote in the manner my brain read it to myself.

My interpretation of sonder is a bit different than its original context for this poem, but it felt like the perfect word to title this piece. I wanted to write a poem about longing for someone yet knowing they remain their own person despite your thought of them. Yes, I can live without you, but I don’t want to. When you care for someone, you should see them as a full human with layers and intricacies that are not yet yours to discover unless they invite you in. No one is owed a debt of intimacy from another person, but everyone deserves love. You may only be a spectator of someone’s life, but you can still care for them deeply.

love ya,

xoxo emma

photo credits: Pinterest

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Sometimes I think I’m not worthy

To have a cup of coffee

Since I can’t keep my moka pot clean

I bought a stainless steel one

Since I corroded the aluminum

And every brew tasted acrid

Even now, in my new pot

I’m always getting grounds in my latte

As if the appliance is spiting me somehow

I’ll convince myself the weariness

Prevents me from my duty

And fulfilling those ideals

Do I deserve another?

Or should I simply surrender

To the reality of acidity on my tongue

And grounds in my teeth?

I wrote this poem a while back, and its sat dusty in my drafts. It’s irony isn’t lost on me, considering how it’s about my procrastination. Recent years have been a catalyst for me to ponder how laziness (not always the reason for procrastination), makes my life more difficult than it needs to be. This leads into musings on inherent worthiness and what we deserve on this earth anyway. It’s moments like this, when I realize my failure to act resulted in something gaining ruin, that I wonder about the consequences of larger procrastinations in my life. I’m not sure if I’m making any sense, but I hope at least one person relates so we feel less alone. My coffee didn’t have to be acidic and full of grounds if I had cleaned the pot the first time.

{cover image: Pinterest}

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A chiffon realm
With salient swimming swans
Fluttering and floating
In still, fresh water.
The solace of a jasmine
Garden, tended with care, 
Their white as snow petals a cairn
Draping red rose blooms like a holy
Shroud covering the bloodied sinful
With righteous, pearly robes.
I can see myself, growing
Older, with wrinkles
Lines in memorial of smiling times.
How my skin becomes soft, fragile,
Resplendent. I am named after forgiveness
And favor granted. Elegance, goodwill,
Unmerited.

I feel a sense of imposter syndrome surrounding my ownership of the name, Grace. Do I deserve it? When I think of the word, images of soft animals and forgiveness flood my mind. But, when I look inward, there’s no soft animal inside with my heart, but a tiger. I hold this name in my fist, desperately praying the word applies to my wild heart. For some reason, it does. And the gift doesn’t come from me.

{Cover Art: Anonymous, French, 18th century | Design for Upright Decorative Panels | The Metropolitan Museum}

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The one to create dissonance in the midst of divinity

My obsessive scheming justifies no end

I led my flesh to the flame, willing to feel the pain

Yet I only burnt my soul

The scars on my hands are evidence of intention

A reminder of the failures of my heart

Light within, I have hid you

Underneath webs of flesh to dim your light

And kept you in the hollowed out dark

{selah}

How I yearn to delight in your warmth

And the bright endurance of your reproof

So the first thing people witness in me is you

And even when I fall and break a bone or two

Your light does not extinguish

Your presence does not subside

As I face truth in a solemnly wooden pew

Carrying the weight of shame in my palm

The fire of rebuke lifts the burden

{cover art: Pinterest}

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if you liked this poem, you may like these too:

they forbid upright movement

prostrate yourself to the almighty

and perhaps you may lift your eyes

to see something become of you

my knees are bleeding

my tongue is dry as bone

and there are thousands among me

all crawling to the same end.

look, someone has already made it

across the chasm you could never cross,

but many hands build a bridge

{cover art: designed by }

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We’ll have our own lives

Some will build a white picket fence

Others might dig a garden trench

Local or long distance

Married with kids

Picture perfect green cottage

Raise babies like we’ve got this

Learn and grow from mistakes

Dance in the kitchen

Bake cinnamon coffee cake

Church on Sundays

And midnight sundaes

Bedtime stories with dad

Give them the childhood we had

And maybe years from now

It’ll be you and I saying vows

Or maybe we’ll go our separate ways

Watch as our friendship frays

Slowly unraveling into flames

But maybe it could be you and me

Creating something completely our own

{cover art: Gustav Klimt’s Farm Garden with Sunflowers}

Sometimes, I wonder if things would be different if I just raised my voice. Often it is a matter of volume and speech.

Maybe one day a star with a mind kindred to mine will reach out from the heavens to dwell with me.

{cover art: Gustav Klimt’s Fulfillment (1910–1911)}

To drop off some things I don’t use

Sifting through the t-shirts I no longer wear

And the dresses of my youth

When I spied something

Which caught my eye

I couldn’t put in in the metal container

To be taken away from me forever

I have lived and known

This shirt of my teen years

How I wore it each day

Until the hem started to unravel

And fray

I clung to this decrepit thing

Like it was a lifeline

Knowing full well I couldn’t wear it again

And I mourned its loss

To never feel it against my skin

I took one last good look

Before letting it fall to the road

Where it met my tires

And I drove over its fibers

{cover art: Pink Roses in a Vase. Watercolour by Pip}