Erica Scott
Bio
A young adult, self-proclaimed poet from Florida who writes from a place of uncertainty, just hoping to one day reach the depths of someone else's heart besides her own.
Stories (9/0)
Just a Sip
I watched a dog walk into a coffee shop today, and I know it sounds strange, but I wondered if the smell of steamed milk reminded him of past lovers, if chai tea reminded him of early morning kisses. He looked into my eyes for a split second, and I could have sworn he sensed it - my fear of loving you. The fear I try to contain by sitting in little shops, writing away memories as if they were mine to keep forever. Silly of me. As silly as a dog in a coffee shop, I suppose. Though both things happened today. So, I’ll write again tomorrow in hopes you’ll slip away with each sip.
By Erica Scott11 months ago in Poets
A Letter to My Readers
And if these words ever seem too tragic, know that they stabbed me long before they were written. They wrapped their spindly fingers around my throat and told me never to speak. They gauged out my eyes and made me adjust to the darkness alone. Know that they pierced my heart with their jagged teeth, and drained it of its only life source. They sucked the very oxygen from my lungs, lifeless is how they like to operate. If these words ever seem too tragic, too disconsolate, know that they’re lucky to be born, for they come from a writer who's already dead -whose final resting place is on paper.
By Erica Scott11 months ago in Poets
Should've Had Decaf
Today I sat in a coffee shop and told the walls how great you were. I sipped my coffee with lips you used to kiss, the ones who told you she believed in everything you wanted. As the low lighting and fog of steamed milk floated to my eyes, I let down one last tear at the thought of who you were, the man whose not real, just a dream - one both you and I had. I walked out with a coffee stain on my sweater, a reminder that some things need to be washed away. So I left your ghost in the seat on the back wall, next to the window; you waved goodbye with a latte in hand and a smile across your face. You found peace in my absence, coffee shop or not, the ghost of who I wanted haunts every window I look into, every stain that melts into my sleeve.
By Erica Scott11 months ago in Poets
Oh, a Night.
The man who tried to shoot my mother and I is now dying of cancer. She visits him every night. But I can’t forget the echo of the gun or how fast my heart beat. I can’t erase the smell of liquor on his breath or the taillights of my mother as she, without me, drove off and left. I can’t un-feel the grass on my soles or the cool breeze of that March. I can’t unhear how he said my name in the tone of a man ready to die. I can’t unsee the gun pointed towards my face, then at his, as he noticed the tears in my eyes. He’s dying of cancer, and she visits him every night. But I’ve been living with his death ever since the incident, the one she never admits.
By Erica Scott11 months ago in Poets
