You call it Judgement, We call it SinEmily needs the words to understand that she isn't being unreasonable. She just wants them to mean something and not be a string of words which flows into itself over and over again.She doesn't like her name either. Not because Emily isn't a pretty name but because she would rather be called something she feels like. (She has never quite forgiven her parents for choosing her name for her.) If she could, she would call herself Glass, because that is what she wakes up feeling like every morning. As if crystallised pieces of glass are edible and her insides tingle as she swallows them whole.Emily lets the words call her names sometimes. She writes them on her knees so that she can remember them. Sometimes the words call her a whore, and sometimes stupid, and sometimes a loser and sometimes a tramp (She has never learnt that loving too much is a crime and boys with pretty eyes sometimes lie.). She sits in the bathroom with a pen the colour of blood and writes them carefully
About Honour"Ever worried about what the world thought of you?""Nope. I only worry about what I think of me.""What do you think about you?""That I am a broken-eyed, converse-reject-wearing wise ass.""Really? And what do you call yourself?""I call me proud.""Oh.""What do you call yourself?""I am the grade school version of the heartbroken girl, who can't play the guitar so she strums a ukulele instead, who can't paint so she draws terrible pictures in graphite that keeps giving way.""I see you doing it again. Put the fucking pen down right now and stop it.""Stop what?""Doing that.""What? I was just writin-""You're cutting yourself to pieces with shark-toothed words again. Just because a sword is a beautiful, glittering object of honour doesn't mean it always has an honorable purpose.""Do you really think I am a sword?""Nope. I think you're beautiful, glittering object of honour. And the thing with honour is, it makes the world turn to stare in awe."
UndeservedI don't deserve to be an artist.
I don't know how to hold deep meaningful conversations with strangers.
I don't lament at night about a lover I have lost.
I don't watch the white smoke ebb into darkness.
I don't spend lonely nights admiring the true beauty of the world.
I don't sleep restlessly from the truth of suffering within this world.
I don't lie through my smiles or struggle to create them.But I do think I am a writer.
I am completely, irreparably damaged.
I cry all night over old words and emotional baggage.
I weep over my lost innocence.
I spend nights wishing for skin against my own
I long for insomnia to inspire me.
I beg for worlds to collide so I can breathe.So am I writer really?
Or just another misguided artist?
Bones"There are good days and there are bad days," you would say to me as you would try and explain away why the whiskey bottle was empty again this morning, why you smelled like her and why you thought it was best to let me know what you had done. At least that way, you were absolved of the gift of lying; the one your bones were too light to lift and just couldn't take, by bestowing me with betrayal.My mother would bring me an encouraging cup of tea in a giant pink mug instead of a cup and explain, "There are good days and there are bad days." Her eyes were always full of positive energy and strength and good will. I look back to those days and try and gain the strength she had in her bones from her words. I always fail.They told me I had a disease within my bones. It started from the bottom of my knee and was moving upwards. Because that is what bones did. They broke from the inside out. "There will be good days and bad days," they warned me. I knew at that very point that it was going
My InspirationYou once asked me what inspired me, sweet love;And I shall tell what you want to hear...It is a girl who isn't clever, but clever in what she knowsand a lost boy who knows exactly where he is going to go.It is the scent of cologne and smoke and lovemakingand a man who wears his heart on his sleeveIt is a woman who has always believed in her loverand he will let her down no moreIt is a sick man who is whole againand the wife who stayed by his sideIt is a writer who has found a brand new museand the paint of the artist who draws her loverIt is the words of a poet whose trust is renewedand the warmth in the words of the person who finds love anewIt is the broken hearted girl who is loved and doesn't knowand the tears that are caught in the hands of the unknown lover belowIt is the boy with the tuneless guitar who plays it anywayand the door opening just as you're walking away.It is the chords of a song which is yet to be sung...and of course, the sound of a rainstorm wh