Hi, my name is Emma. I'm 25 and I write poetry. I've been writing since I was a kid, but I really settled in on poetry in high school. I feel an overwhelming need to throw my art into the world so here I am. Please enjoy.
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@emspoetry
Hi, my name is Emma. I'm 25 and I write poetry. I've been writing since I was a kid, but I really settled in on poetry in high school. I feel an overwhelming need to throw my art into the world so here I am. Please enjoy.

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The thing about depression that no one can really explain well is how it calls to you. How it insists. Sometimes there is a catalyst and sometimes there isn’t. Sometimes the catalyst was months ago but your depression doesn’t forget. My depression feels like climbing into bed after a long day. It’s so comfortable. It’s so cozy. But I know if I stay too long I’ll get sores, and my muscles will atrophy, and my joints will weaken and my blood will have trouble circulating. And I have to get up. I have to get up. I have to get up.
In another universe, I’m not homesick for a home I can never go back to.
The thing about depression that no one can really explain well is how it calls to you. How it insists. Sometimes there is a catalyst and sometimes there isn’t. Sometimes the catalyst was months ago but your depression doesn’t forget. My depression feels like climbing into bed after a long day. It’s so comfortable. It’s so cozy. But I know if I stay too long I’ll get sores, and my muscles will atrophy, and my joints will weaken and my blood will have trouble circulating. And I have to get up. I have to get up. I have to get up.
In another universe, I’m not homesick for a home I can never go back to.

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The best of my poetry notebook (pt. 2)
There’s so much of me I’ve lost to the people I’ve loved. Who are they to have taken so much of me?
The best of my poetry notebook (pt. 1)
I know I am meant to be swept out to sea, one piece at a time. How generous, the sea is, to call me home despite my sharp edges. How generous she is to accept me when we take so much from her.
I suppose the ebb and flow will smooth me out eventually. Maybe, that’s what she takes from me.
I want to hike to the top of a mountain and once I reach the summit, I want to admire the beauty of the town it overlooks. And then I want to scream. I want to scream so loud. I want to scream that it’s all unfair. I want to scream that it should’ve and could’ve been different. I want to scream.
There is so much of me that is fury and fire. Strength and steel. And then, it seems if you get me at just the right time of night or after a few drinks, I’m just as much of a victim as I’ve always been.
Who are they to have taken so much of me?
It doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter anymore. Let it go.

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I’m so happy I’m not who I used to be, but a piece of her still lives inside of me and she still doesn’t deserve what happened to her.
I’m not sad. I just need the warmth of the sun on my skin.
I’m not sad. I just need to hear the birds sing.
I’m not sad. I just need the breeze through my hair.
In Another Universe
In another universe, my father’s mental illness doesn’t become my own.
In another universe, I don’t inherit my mother’s generational trauma.
In another universe, I am 8, laying on the trampoline at sunset. The tree leaves rustle in the wind and slowly, fireflies begin to glow above me. I have so much time, but it doesn’t scare me.
In another universe, I don’t run from my home, but to it.
In another universe, my grandmother is still alive.
In another universe, school makes me excited instead of scared.
In another universe, my childhood dog is still alive. Her snout is greying, but she still plays with our younger dog so we think she has plenty of time left. And she does.
In another universe, I don’t have to be the one that saves me.
In another universe, my poetry isn’t sad.
In another universe, I’m living in a white farmhouse on a few acres of land with my partner. We grow our own vegetables and there are fruit trees scattered around the property. We spend our days tending to the land and taking care of our animals.
In another universe, he never touched me.
In another universe, I don’t worry about making my mom proud. I know she is.
In another universe, I am comforted by God instead of afraid of Him.
Has anyone ever wronged you so brutally that you’re tired of feeling the pain of it? You wish you could let it go… but it lingers, latching onto the crevices of your brokenness.
Somehow, I feel simultaneously nothing and everything

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There is so much of me that is fury and fire. Strength and steel. And then, it seems if you get me at just the right time of night or after a few drinks, I’m just as much of a victim as I’ve always been.
Who are they to have taken so much of me?
“People can just as easily become drugs and you were my heroin.”
— complextheories, Withdrawal. (via wnq-writers)