an open apology to myself 


I am sorry for the times I doubted and ignored you. I’m sorry for damaging you for what I thought was eternal. I’m sorry for allowing others to, too. I’m sorry for overworking you until you felt empty. I’m sorry for not letting you make me happy, I know you tried. I’m sorry for redirecting your thoughts and changing your views. I’m sorry for not listening and not acting upon every instruction you rightfully gave me. I’m sorry for losing you when I needed you the most. 


I’m sorry for making you feel weak when all you wanted to be was strong. I’m sorry for letting others tug on your strings whenever they pleased. I’m sorry for not guarding you with my entire being. I should’ve. I’m sorry for letting you go, only to call back for you, again and again. I’m sorry for letting you break. I’m sorry for not realizing how much love you held until I took it all away.


I’m sorry for letting you become weary and dry. I’m sorry for the rivers you’ve cried and the sorrow, only you, have seen. I’m sorry for the things you saw; the things you shouldn’t have. I’m sorry for not turning away. I’m sorry that you couldn’t speak the emotions your pupils conveyed. I’m sorry you had to sit there, watching, defenseless. I, at times, feel the same.


I’m sorry for the things I did and didn’t put inside of you. I’m sorry for neglecting you on the days you watered pining for nourishment and love. I’m sorry for letting mouths of those who mean nothing to me force themselves upon you. I’m sorry for their brittle touch and for the way it made you quiver. I’m sorry for the times you wished to scream, but said nothing at all. I couldn’t bare your sound. I’m sorry for the times you spoke too loudly and abruptly, creating no influence at all. I know you thought it would help. I’m sorry for not loving you the way you should be loved, I’m sorry for not letting others. 


I’m sorry for the way your ribs peak out when you breathe. I’m sorry for not providing adequate warmth. I’m sorry for trying to make you looking like something that’s photoshopped onto billboards; I’m sorry for only loving you when I felt that you did. I’m sorry for letting others look at you like something that’s already theirs. I’m sorry for letting you feel like instantly acquired property rather than a hidden buried treasure. I’m sorry for the hands that touched you in your coldest moments. I’m sorry that I believed that they could provide you warmth. 

I’m sorry for the times that I couldn’t avoid others’ grasps. I’m sorry for the way they gripped you; ways you shouldn’t ever be gripped. I’m sorry for not pushing back hard enough, for not defending you enough. I’m sorry that people feel entitled to your embrace. I’m sorry that they think you’re an open invitation. I wish that no meant no. Some tend to believe that no means yes, or at least that’s what they said. They thought you wanted their touch. Maybe they knew you didn’t, but didn’t care at all. I’m sorry for not loving you for what you precisely are. I wish I never expected more of you. I’m sorry for letting society conform you into a mold of something other than yourself. You are perfect, I hope it isn’t too late for you to see it. 


I’m sorry for not allowing you to be your true self. I’m sorry for seeing you worst qualities rather than your best. I’m sorry for thinking that critiquing  was the only path to bettering yourself. I’m sorry for truly believing that you weren’t ever enough for yourself, or much less the world. I’m sorry for not telling you your own worth, every morning and evening, of every day. I’m sorry for not cherishing you the way you should be cherished. I’m sorry for thinking that others could fulfill your needs. I’m sorry for seeing you as one human of the billions, rather than one of a kind. 

You are perfect and you are mine.“”


long time, no write

Since I haven’t blogged in months and my life has turned back into an uneventful, summer bliss I figured it was time to get back into the writing game.

Unlike sophomore year summer Emilee, junior year summer Emilee has a minimum amount of complaints about her life.

Life is good. Really good. Annoyingly good. Good enough to make me unable to write the things I used to, and process emotions the way I used to. I hate to say it, but I’ve become one of those people; a person who is annoyingly talking about the joys in her life.

My parents are great… in fact, greater than ever. We get along? I don’t know how that happened within the span of a year, but I’d like to think that my anxiety meds had a GREAT deal to do with it. Thank you Prozac, you’re the shit. Since we’re on the topic of prozac, my dog used to take it too. He died, but I’d like to think the pill made both of our lives much better. RIP Baxter, I miss you. You were also “the shit.”

My friends… now that’s a subject that seems to never drastically change throughout the years. A lot of work as usual, but luckily I have a boyfriend that gives me the power to avoid most of them 99.9 % of the time. If I could redo anything starting from the beginning of my freshman year, I would choose befriending on close manners MORE than 5 females.

The thing that’s wrong with befriending ONLY 5 females is, they also only befriend 5 females. Therefore, you have the same friends. All the time. No breaks. With more and more and more shit piling between you over the many years. And what’s even worse than your 5 female friends, is your multiple male friends. The chubby, weird, AWESOME guys I befriended back in seventh grade have now learned to think with more than their brains. Instead, they now uses their penises.

Okay, okay, but now I’ll skip back to the positives. I mentioned earlier I have a boyfriend.  I love my boyfriend. He’s better than prozac, he’s like my savior. He rubs my head and gives me back massages when I’m tense. He deals with my anxiousness and awkwardness on a daily basis and still treats me like I’m the best thing ever (I’m so not). But what am I then? LUCKY. I’m lucky that I learned what I didn’t want and finally found what I did. Someone who’s kind, adorable, attentive, and most of all imperfect. Perfect is a word meant for the oblivious and ignorant. No one will ever be perfect. But damn, he’s pretty close. But what I have learned about love is, the imperfections become your favorite parts. You love someone for all the things you actually do LOVE about them, but you also learn to love the things you hate too.  I wouldn’t change a single thing. I mean I wouldn’t change a thing other  than the fact that he’s a year older and leaving me for college next year. That’s going to be a large, large, large, large, did i mention large? BUMMER!

Lastly (for today), I think that I’ve grown up. I learned my priorities and kinda, sorta what I want from the world and people around me. No, I’m not necessarily getting it. But I do plan to, someday. My life is full of somedays. But I like somedays because they give me something to look forward to. I can’t help but hope for that big journalism career, or going to the schools that are unattainable for me. I can’t help but dream of my perfect life with my three adorable boys and beautiful, kind husband. Someday sounds pretty good to me, of course if I make it there.



He told her to not think so much as he traced his fingers down her cringing back. Her mind spun with the words she couldn’t say, and the things she so badly wanted to. They sat in the backseat of the old pick up truck in the darkness of a summer night.

The car was parked in the furthest parking lot of the soccer and softball fields; the spot that he said he only took her. She felt an eerie sense of anticipation. But for what?  She wasn’t sure.

They’d been sitting for quite awhile, and all she wondered was how to find the words to say it. But she couldn’t. Her mouth was shut with a clasp so tight her eyes began to water. 

He noticed her silence but interpreted it the wrong way. He moved his hand from one section to another believing that was what she wanted. He believed that it was the anticipation masking her words, not her thoughts themselves. 

He thought it was a sexual satisfaction she desired, when really it wasn’t that at all. She wanted the words to come out of his mouth. The words she had waited for, for months and months. 

The words that originally made her drop her world and act irrationally. The words that made her abandon all that was good. The words that introduced her to a world so different than her own. 

She wanted to hear them. She wanted to feel them, and she wanted to understand them. She wanted to believe that all the decisions she made were right, she wanted to believe the hurt she caused had a purpose.

But as long as she waited, and as much as she acted, the words she longed for would never be repeated. 

The words held such an immense power over her that she would’ve done anything… and she almost did to hear their return. 

But at the end of the day, all she could see was his hands; the hands that desired nothing but a body to touch. She saw a mouth that spoke useless words that would change her perspective of them all. 

She heard nothing and felt nothing. Words turned into empty promises, and her mind held too many their her own. 


unfinished short story

He found himself sitting in the corner in the back of the little worn down café. Facing the window, rain droplets fell down one by one. He traced them with his finger as he stared into the glass, watching the cars go by. Dèjá vu crossed his mind of the day he met her. This same table, once before.

He suddenly missed the conversation from the other side of the table. He missed the sound of her laughter at his not so funny jokes.

For once in his life, he realized he made a mistake. The girl of his dreams was on a plane back to where she called home, and he no longer had an idea of where his was.

She was home.




prompt #3

There’s something about the way you look at her. A way that’s so apparent to everyone around you, even me. But she doesn’t look back at you the same. She never has.

Despite that, you still keep looking with this impeccable glimmer in your eyes. Your dream, you think, standing right in front of you. Almost a fingertip away.

But I stand next to you and watch as your eyes slowly deceive you. You follow her as she drifts further and further away. All that’s left: an eerie trace of what used to be.

But you hold on, onto those little memories that seem so big now. I see them fading. But you stand gripping to them with all of your might, afraid.

Afraid  of looking beyond the closed spaces.

Afraid of walking outside your comfort zone.

Afraid of seeing what’s outside that door.

Deep down, you know. You know she walked out of that door before you even opened it, you just didn’t know it then.

I hope you see it now.

I hope you walk away.

You deserve to walk away.



the ways I don’t tell you

Whenever you feel that I’m hiding things from you, it’s most likely that you’re correct.

It’s mostly for your benefit that I don’t say how I feel or elaborate on what I mean.

Because if I did, it’s most likely that I’d lose you.

I’ve learned from experience that it’s best to hold onto how I feel.

Because the things left unsaid are better than confronting the truth.

Maybe I’m wrong for believing that you are the same as everyone else.

But you’ve never proven to be anything else.

And if you did prove to be, the truth is I’d push you away.

Because I have a fear of losing what’s closest to me,

so instead of letting it happen

I’ll make you go.

Because I know you will do it on your own sooner than later.

Because people like you don’t stay with people like me.

And it’s my fault that I think that way,

but I’ve never met anyone who stays long enough to change my mind.

So when you feel that I’m hiding things from you,

remember that it’s better.

Because if you knew how I feel,

you’d run away.

By not telling you,

you will stay a little longer.

And then,

for once,

everything will stay as it is momentarily.

Before everything begins to change.


The art of passing through

We all know that our lives contain thousands of beginnings and endings. 

In the midst of those times, people walk in and out of our lives.

I have yet to understand just why people would be placed in our lives if they’re eventually intending on leaving. Most people think that it’s a lesson and prepares us for the people who will actually end up staying by our sides. 

Either way, even when we don’t exactly notice it, we’re always passing through.

We’re carelessly walking through people’s lives, allowing them to connect with us, and then leaving them for one reason are another. It’s not that we see these people as insignificant, it’s more than we are so self absorbed that their significance to us becomes blinded. 

It’s usually months later (or years in my case) that we realize we made a big mistake by just passing through. 

Even though we may see it as a mistake, it left an impact. Maybe not on us, but rather who’s life we decided to walk in on and then out. 

We leave little imprints wherever we go. On hearts, on minds, we changed something. 

There’s no way to determine whether we’ll be passing through or sticking around. Because of that, I think it’s really important to leave the right memory.

What I mean by that is, how will we be remembered? 

What will you do to make sure you left in a clean and kind way? Not a way that leaves the other person in 100 pieces that is always waiting for someone else to them pick up. 

I believe the best way is to pass through and not return. If you choose to leave someone’s life, intend on staying out of it. When you do realize that it was a big mistake, realize that it was yours. Don’t feel the necessity to come running out of nowhere back into someone’s life because you start to realize that back then it was easy.


Don’t leave without a specific and declared reason. We all know how hard it is to have someone leave our lives without ever having the answer as to “why?”. Be honest, whatever the reaction may be is the right one. 

Leaving with no reason, and no response does no good for anyone. It leaves an open door for the other persons curiosity, and tugs on every last string of their heart.


The “fade out” method.

I think it’s bullshit. You’re fading, and we see you drifting away. We’re trying to reach out and you ignore it. It’s so obvious and so rude. 

If the relationship meant anything at all to you, I would hope you leave it with a little respect. Don’t expect the other person to drift away along with you, it doesn’t always work that way. 

Imagine watching a plane fly alway in slow motion while the other person is standing inside looking out the airport window. That’s what you’re doing. That person is watching you over a slow, restless period of time walk alway from them. They’re trying to reach out but just can’t seem to get their fingertips to touch. 

You could choose to give them a day or weeks long time of hurt, but instead you’re giving it to them over a course of month +. 

Don’t just “fade out.” 

We pass through each other’s lives on a daily basis, but I can’t stress how important is to remember that some relationships require a little more attention than others. 

Everything happens for a reason, but it’s also really great to know what that reason is. 

writing rants

I used to think that in order to write well you had to have some kind of syndrome or addiction. I realize how stupid that sounds, I really do. But it’s the truth, I really thought that some piece of you had to be missing in order to write anything worth reading.

In most instances with literature, it’s pretty true. Writers either start out as depressed lunatics, or turn into them by the end of their first novel. They live their lives in books, hiding their emotions from the world. It’s only when the book is written that you can see how they actually felt through the use of their characters and background of the story.

Alcoholism also takes a major part in some of histories most well written novels. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s, ‘The Great Gatsby’, a novel I’m reading for my 11th grade english class proves the best uses of it. Fitzgerald spent most of the second half of his life working relentlessly to sell his first few novels. No book he had ever written showed more raw emotion than this one. Fitzgerald’s addiction to alcohol was not only shown in his real life, but it also stood as a major importance throughout the novel itself.

I guess what i’m saying is that the best writing is influenced by a number of different things. Unfortunately, it seems that most ideas are influenced by the worst of them. What i’ve also found is, it doesn’t take an extreme mental illness or substance to spark your imagination.

Our generation is constantly self-medicating and self-prescribing mental illnesses and problems. We overthink and believe that shoving a variety of different things down our throats will give us the answer. It’s almost as if we thrive off of our newfound negativity and can’t seem to push it off.

What needs to be realized is, imagination can be sparked off of so much more than our depression and anxieties. Truthfully, it’s awful that I even spent time relying on my saddest days to pick up a pen. I honestly believed for awhile that in order to keep writing, I had to stay sad. When I wasn’t, I had to make myself be.

Creativity should be based off of so much more than that. Experiences shouldn’t need substances in order to have interest. Stories shouldn’t all be written in our darkest corners.

Bottom line is, not every writer needs to have a problem. If you do (which most of us d0), work to fix it. It’s time to find different fuels for our passions.