Reading and Feeling

Just a girl named Amelia who loves poetry and loves sharing her thoughts with the world.

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바자 스트라이프 블라우스 (2 colors)

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An Excerpt from a novel in progress

I was eleven when my mother died. Looking at her lifeless body at the funeral is my least favorite memory. She wasn’t my mother anymore. She was death. She was pale. A ghost. A ghost of what my life used to be. I stared at her body. Her cheeks were sunken in and chalky instead of plump and pink like I remembered. Her lips were a light purple and chapped. Her hair, once tempting for me to stroke and smell was now brittle. Her fingers were clamped together and looked as if they could never be torn asunder. I was tempted to take one of them and crack it off. I wanted to break her body apart, to break every bone and tear the skin off in an attempt to reveal what was underneath. I wanted to peel her skin back and find her warmth and crawl inside and stay there. I wanted to be her knife and her body be my sheath. But in my mind as I tore her limb from limb, as I pulled out her heart and her kidneys and her liver and her intestines, I didn’t find her. I crawled into her body and pulled the flaps of skin over me and felt cold. I felt dead. This thing wasn’t my mother.  It was gaunt and bony and awkward and horrific and awe-inspiring and it made me sick. After staring at her for what seemed like hours I could feel acid rising up in my throat. I ran out of the funeral home and puked on the sidewalk. I couldn’t stop. I just kept getting sick until there was nothing left to be hurled out of me. I collapsed in my vomit, in the chunks and yellowy brown waste, and began to hyperventilate. Seeing my mother’s body… seeing that thing… that’s what made her death real.

[readingandfeeling-blog]

What's The Worst Part?

Silence screams

Eardrums shatter

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Untitled Haiku

Watching the rain fall

Always waiting for the sun

Won't you come visit

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"You'll never get over a hill if you stop at its peak"

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"I like typos. They let you know that the writer is human."

[readingandfeeling-blog]

Lost at Sea

Storms throw tantrums as winds whip you this way and that

Lightning strikes the mast of your heart, burning it to a crisp

It swallows up the ship of your mind and crushes the sail of your soul

It drowns your crew of feelings in a watery grave of woe

You’re left alone on a raft of splintered boards with no oars

You’re stranded and have lost all hope of ever being the captain you were before

All there is from east to west is a never-ending collection of your salty tears

What can you do but sit and wallow in the long lost memories of happiness that swim about you?

You can never go back to the land of joy and freedom and light

The sea shackles your raft to the now calm waters and you drift further into the vast nothingness

The loneliness makes you go mad as you drift for days, weeks, months, years

Time has been lost

What’s the point now in trying to swim to the sweet and inviting land?

You know you’ll drown on the way

All interest in going back to that land you faintly remember flew away long ago

You and the sea are one now, giving each other all you need to just barely survive

In the night, waters thrash to and fro, beating away that last shred of hope you keep hidden

You find yourself staring at that dark grey cloud hanging above your head as you lie awake

Still, you are taken deeper into this haunted water until you enter a shadowy cove

So there you stay, hidden away in your cove of despair

Nowhere to go now, is there?

Nothing to try now, is there?

Your mind whispers to you, “Let’s just stay here for a while.”

[readingandfeeling-blog]

Just a greeting

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