Adventura, Poetry
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It’s not me,
it’s you.

Tell me
when will you stop blaming
the length of my skirt
for the courage
of your hands?

One day,
you’ll have to take a break
from looking through my shirt
and maybe look deeper through
my chest instead – look and
maybe find all of the mess
you’ve left behind.

I would have thought
that day was yesterday but
I forgot how tightly daddy taught
his boys to cling to their ideals.

Wait –
I’m getting mixed up
with all the boys through the years
that have taken the liberty
to make themselves comfortable
under my shirt.

Who is it this time?

Doesn’t really matter.

Doesn’t matter if you’re high
or half asleep in their bed,
doesn’t matter if you’re home
and awake, tucked safely in
your bed – there’s always someone
waiting in line ready to break
what feels safe.

But I guess I should stop
before I roll too much dust
on your crisp, clean shirts
but I can’t be the one holding on
to this dirty laundry anymore.

This entry was posted in: Adventura, Poetry


Hi, I’m Emily and I like to think of myself as a kaleidoscope, but one that ranges from a spectrum of commitment issues to emotional hoarding, all circling around varying shades of anxiety. People say I have trouble ‘staying present’ and I’ve found that daydreaming becomes significantly less acceptable in your 20’s.

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