You call me baby

You call me baby when I make you cum

Only all I feel is numb.

Your gratitude is palpable but not sincere,

It’s the hollow in your eyes that makes me fear.

I can’t help but to feel,

the torrid relationship we have is nothing real.

I want you to see me

Not my hips or thighs,

But the sea green of my eyes.

Look at me and call me baby

I wish you wold feel something for me maybe.

I grieve the loss of you every day,

though I have you so close in all the wrong ways.

You call me baby when I make you cum.



Often, as writers we try to encompass our audience into the story, or poem or whatever it is we may be writing. On this occasion, this post is purely about me. Emily Marie, and my fucked up quest for validation.

My whole life has been one masochistic quest for validation and acceptance. From group to group, my outfits changed, my persona changed, my stories changed, my life and attitude changed. Now, some of these changes have been hugely beneficial, they have created who I am today (although I still have no idea who that is) for good and definitely for bad. On a larger note, this changes have just created chaos and puzzlement for those around me. Those, who have stuck around long enough to witness my changes. From group to group the want to fit in has been so tangible it’s like a ticket that says: Congratulations you finally fit in!. Clearly, that ticket never appeared. Chasing acceptance and validation is chasing an elusive ghost. Glimpses here and there but nothing solid. Solidarity is something I have sought out since I can remember though I am probably the least solid person I or anyone else, has ever known.

In the past few months, my life has been in utter upheaval and I have been really trying to dig deep and find who I am. Which by the way is no easy feat. I will say, I am working on validating myself. Maybe one day, I’ll create a post detailing the nitty gritty liaisons and encounters I found myself ensnared in, on my question for validation.


Belonging is a funny thing. It is more a feeling than an activity. When you belong with someone, or someone’s this automatic sense of security and giddiness just washes over your body. Well, at least for me anyway.

My whole life has been one big bandwagon. I’m with this group, no wait I’m with this group! I’m a drifter, I never attach myself and I don’t really belong anywhere particular. This all has changed recently in a big way. I have found myself linked to a motorcycle club that has become a family to me. Now, I haven’t known them more than two months, and I don’t know all of them. Regardless, they are ride or die, if I am one of them then that’s it. The cool thing is, I am not a biker and I don’t want to be, but I still belong. Albeit I belong by default because of my boyfriend but nonetheless I am in there.

Call me naive, and call me young (because I am.) but these guys are family and I love being part of the club. Tons of bad shit about bikers is constantly spewed but at the end of the day, those guys are brothers and that is definitely something I can get behind.

So here I am, no longer a drifter.

You are how old exactly…?

I’ve mentioned the idea of lying before now but thing is, I am the one doing the lying. I am the one being sneaky and underhanded. I am the one who holds all the cards, its a royal flush baby. My lies are pure gold and they get gobbled up like PEZ. Sometimes we lie to protect, sometimes to help ourselves and other times just to bullshit. The problem is, the liar doesn’t really feel the sting until they are the ones being lied to.

Ya know, I was going to make this hypothetical but then I realized, shit that is just one more misguided truth. Here is the deal: My boyfriend lied, big time. This isn’t about sympathy or calling him a bastard, because he isn’t. He just lied and I of all people, get that. We have been together for awhile now and in recent conversation I said “hey babe your birthday is soon you will be 29.” and there was a pause, I stand corrected, there was THE pause. So he tipped his head and kind of just looked at me, followed by “Well, actually I will be 34…” Oh boy. There goes the wind, right out of my sails. Good Lord Almighty, I was creeped out to the umpteenth degree. He rushed on to to say he didn’t want me to see him differently, and yada yada yada. I just kept walking, tuning him out and calculating the age difference in my head, which mind you, had just jumped substantially.

All in all, I was hurt and angered that he had blatantly lied to my face, how could he hide something so large? What else was he hiding? If he genuinely cared about me, where was the honesty? These questions looped through my head like a perverse soundtrack. Eventually I shook off the weird vibes looked at this man and knew I could forgive him and move on. But the kicker is this: for once in my life I was able to step out of my own selfish shoes and look in on how the people around me felt.

Lying hurts, it hurts to be lied to. It is deceptive and sneaky and sometimes we don’t even catch ourselves doing it. I certainly have been known to fabricate things, that quite honestly didn’t even need the touch-up. So karma is a bitch, poetic justice even. I guess my point is, we don’t fully understand the ways in which we hurt others, until we get hurt.


Soul Demons

Anger can be beautiful but so fucking destructive. The rage just builds up so goddamn hard and a surge of violence just shocks every fucking fiber. Being lit up like waves of electricity coursing through a whole being. Smash, over and over again. Bam there goes a wall. A bloody bruised fist. Weak and shattered. When the anger dissipates and the sorrow takes shape. An animal unto itself. Sorrow is the fucking team of demons dwelling inside. Waiting to attach and feed on the shame and weakness. Soul food for demons. Like fuck, anger is brutal. Emotion is too raw and masking the anger is a joke. Be angry. Be hurt. Fucking scream.

Don’t let the demons win.

Reality Wish List.

I am tired of living every one else’s truth. Here are some of my own truths.

-I want to waitress, I want to make tips and wear a heinous uniform.

-I want a dingy beach condo, that smells damp and sandy.

-I want to learn to play the guitar, I don’t mean just learn a few strings, I want to be Pink Floyd proficient.

-I want to publish poetry. Not wishy washy poetry, but beautiful gritty poetry. The hard to stomach type that revolts and delights all in one.

-I want to do something dangerous.

-I want to see Iowa, I want to walk around and leave a mark on Iowa.

-I want to be in lust, feel the fear and desire in my stomach. The clammy hands and the want.

-I want to be in love.

-I want to go see an underground concert, get caught up in the madness of it.

-I want to sleep in a damp bathing suit, and not worry about being called “musty”.

This is a list of things that I need before I die. Sometimes I think I might die.