01/23/20
She fell in love with too harsh angles, a body incapable of sustaining her, with little, thin, white lines. These are what she found incomprehensible beauty in. These are what she could create and control. These were her pride.
She was in love with the idea of love, the prospect of the impossibility. It was never a viable option for her, a reality she would never see come to fruition. So she wrote her own love stories that drew out the countless loves she desired and hated. It was another part of her truth she could create, all her own.
She found and worshipped the holy beauty that was silence. She took refuge within the folds of her mind and hid from the cruelty that was the world she was sentenced to be in. No one ever asked what dangers flooded her mind, what thoughts kept her eyes wide open through the night. So she kept it all inside. Her power stayed hidden, her secret never to be told. Only she knew the truth in her mind, and that gave her the strength to smile like life was just.
She was blind to the beauty that she wished she knew. Life was gorgeous, but she wished she could be, too. She didn’t know she already was.
About the Creator
Emery Pine
I’m a poet with sprinklings of fiction. I write with the soul, so I hope you find it interesting and relatable
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Letter 01/26/20
01/26/20 “If a star fell for every time I thought of you, the sky would be empty.” Unknown Dear Unnamed, If only you knew the degree to which my affections run, you would know the startling amount I love you. I have loved you for many years, throughout which I have yearned to reveal myself to you. However, I mustn’t, for our love is an impossibility that will only bring me heartache. Therefore, my name will remain my secret, but, love, if you only knew. I love you with an intensity that could out-burn the sun and out-shine the stars. I love you like the bees do the gentle, radiating colors of spring. I need you in the way the ocean needs the moon, for without you, the motion that brings life would cease to exist, tides no more, all rhythm and life smothered. My love is a forestfire, a burning, uncontrollable, unstoppable passion in my blood. God must not know the magnitude of this love, either, for it would bring even Him to His knees.
By Emery Pine3 years ago in Poets
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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