0 0 0

Maybe Someday

There are nights when I sit up
wondering if things will always end this way.
I’ve spent years in the beds of men
who didn’t deserve my body
and never cared for my mind
or the thoughts that ran through it
as their fingers ran through my hair
and I refuse to waste another day
being treated like a falling star when
I was born to burn like the sun.
I am more than a temporary fix for
your lonely days,
I am more than the heart, bleeding
on my sleeve.
I am the clouds in a stormy sky
and goddamn it, someday
this rain will clear up and the darkness
raging through me will evaporate
into the most beautiful rainbow
your sorry eyes have ever seen.
Maybe someday someone will come
along who doesn’t dull
the color radiating through my
Maybe someday someone will come
along who knows what love
Maybe someday.

0 0 0

There is something tragic and beautiful about falling in love with a ghost, the unspoken words of experience that lingers in the air, and I was good at it.

I turned moments into poetry.

You can't help loving a poem.—  The embodiment of things that can't be fully explained, like love. Like falling in love.

My first experience of love was meeting in the midnight hours, laying in the cul-de-sac and looking up at the stars. It was notes tucked into trees by the lake. It was being given a book of love poems, with a page marked with the words meant for me. It was giving my journal, myself, in written form to someone else and having it returned with a page that said "I LOVE YOU".

What else is love than having someone accept you for who you really are?

But it wasn't real.

And then like the Santa Ana winds it disappeared seemingly without notice. Because at the time, love, to me, was a fairytale. It was moments made into poetry.

I lived inside the poem and not the moment.

I have honed my craft in building structures out of words.

Surrounded my heart with a structure built on heartbreak, graffitied the walls with every broken promise and lie. Boarded the windows and nailed them shut.

I built a maze of hopes winding underneath but always leading back to the same heartbroken home.

I have been living in a world of yesterday's and tomorrow's possibilities but never the moment.

My heart is aching for a demolition.

-Melanie Hamblin

0 0 0

He and You

He was the type of man that was always looking for the dewy-eyed girl.

A searcher of the skipping steps of an innocent heart.

He never heard your silent cries, because recognizing his wrong doings was something he never understood.

A lover of little hands within his pant pocket.

He was focused on pleasure, devoid of morality.

A purveyor of treachery, with a no refund policy.


You feared his gaze like a lepers touch.

A faint hearted girl you became.

You taught yourself that love was a lie.

A brave heart, in a torn nightgown.

You sought salvation in a broken woman's arms.

An untrained warrior.

You learned to be your own heroine.

A fighter of a war not meant for you.

You held your own for far too long.

A patron of confusion, with a shattered view.


He was the type you guy that was always looking for the next transition.

A searcher of a pretty face, with a healing hand.

He never heard your pleas because his ears were filled with wide-eyed dreams.

A grandstander of the highest accord.

He used your heart to make himself a taller man.

A purveyor of broken promises, with a no refund policy.


You licked his wounds until your tongue rubbed raw.

A glutton for punishment.

You never learned what it meant to be loved.

A seeker of heartache.

You learned to love the hand that shoved you down.

An untrained seamstress.

You stitched your wounds with rusty needles.

A wearer of battle scars, reminiscent of a warrior.

You grasped the floor for salvation.

A patron of unanswered prayers, with a hopeful heart.


He was the type of guy that was always looking for the misplaced comma, before your sentence ever exited your lips.

A searcher of missteps, because appreciating the dance was something he has never understood.

He never heard what you said because he was set on dissembling.

A hypochondriac of emotional ties.

He was focused on the facade; vapid in character.

A purveyor of charm, with a no refund policy.


You touched his body like an answered prayer.

A beating heart reborn at noon.

You still haven't learned what it means to be loved.

A faint hearted woman, with hopeful eyes.

You have become an angel, who makes love to his body like a sin.

A dewy eyed romantic, taking root in an empty man.

You have been a patron of empty lies, broken promises and heartbreak.

A lover, looking for an open hand.

You choose the man that will lash your soul.

A patron of mistreatment, with a raw heart.

He will be the type of guy that is always looking for your hand.

A searcher of the treasures concealed at the bottom of your heart.

He will hear your song and his heartbeat will serve as the melody.

A lover of tenderness.

He will kiss your forehead with salvation, for he knows you have fought too long.

A purveyor of unyielding love, with no need for a refund policy.


You will kiss his wounds with love an acceptance.

A healer at heart, renewed in his arms.

You will learn what it means to love and to be loved.

A fighter, who can put down her sword.

You will find in him, a hand that will never let go.

A fire of a love that will never die out.

You will know what "home" means by building your love, together.

A warm kindling will ignite at the connection of your palms.

You are the seeker of truth, there is no need to desire a lie.

A patron of reflection, with a new outlook.


-Melanie Hamblin

1 0 1

Start to Finish

Eye contact. Smile. Look away. A sideways glance. Eye contact. Grin. Uncertain Laughter.  

“Is it just me or is this super awkward?”

“It's not just you.”

“Well that's a relief...”


Pause. Look away. Look up.


“So, you like me, huh?”

“I mean... I don't know you.”


“But I would like to.”

“Oh.” A smile.


A meeting. Refreshments. Conversation. Laughter. Conversation. Deep and intimate thoughts, exchanged.


“This is weird.”

“What is?”

“I don't know...” Awkward half-laugh. “I guess it's just that, we've only just met. You and I have really only seen each other a few times but the way we talk, it's familiar. Like we've been exchanging witty banter for years now and this is just a part of our routine.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No... It shouldn't be...”

“You don't seem sure of your answer.”

“I suppose I'm just not used to letting people in.”

“Is that what's happening here? You're 'letting me in'?”

“I think so.”

“Does that scare you?”



Another meeting. More conversation. More laughter. Performances given. Performances observed. Performances, enjoyed. A car ride. A confession.


“Hey, can I tell you something?”


“I haven't been totally honest with you.”


“Well, you see,” inhale, “I like you. I mean, I guess I have sort of a crush on you. It's fine if you don't feel the same I just – I wanted to clear the air.”






Time wasted. Time spent. Time shared. A plan. A get together. A weekend get away. Alcohol. A touch. A joke becomes a proposition. A kiss.


“I thought you didn't feel the same way about me.”

“Maybe I changed my mind. Maybe you misunderstood me. Maybe I lied. You'll never know.”

“Won't I?”

“Maybe.” Pause. “I'm not looking for a relationship.”





More kissing. Touching. A break. Lie down. Sleep. A day passes.


“What happened yesterday probably shouldn't happen again.”

“Alright. Why?”

“I really like you. I don't want to get hurt.”

“I understand.”


Weeks pass. A friendship grows. Feelings grow. Two people. A sleep over. A morning spent together. An afternoon spent together.


“I have a problem.”

“What is it?”

“Well, remember what I said? About keeping 'us' a friendship?”


“I changed my mind.”


“I want you. And even if I can't have all of you, I like you a lot. I shouldn't not do something because I'm afraid of being hurt.”




A nod. Smile. Lean in. Kiss. Kiss harder. Fall back. Hands push. Pull. Hips sway. Fingers wander. Lips wander. A tongue slips. Lips part. A moan. A sigh. A plea.


“Don't stop.”


A dynamic changes. Hugs. Hands held. Kisses. Warm embraces. Bodies fit like puzzle pieces. Heads on shoulders. Sounds absorbed. Scents memorized. Sights, mesmerized. Time passes. A dynamic changes.


“I guess I'm just afraid that, if we get together, I don't know... things will change. Or, worse, they'll end. Just like that, just as soon as they've begun.”

“I mean, we're already pretty much in a relationship, all that's missing is the title.”

“I know but it just feels different”

“Well, I don't want to pressure you but I know what I want. It's still the same. I still want you. We could stay together years or we could break up an hour from now but I'd like to give us a shot.”



“Do you want to be with me?”



Time passes. Happiness. A relationship grows. A love grows. Suddenly, things change.


“So, I think it's for sure. I think I'm leaving.”


“A couple weeks...”

“Okay... You know, as much as this is going to hurt, I think you're doing the right thing. This is really important for your future. No matter what, I support you one hundred percent.”

“Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too.”


Four days before three months. A great distance. One has been gone some days. Things have become too much. Tears. No embrace.


“I love you. I love you so much. But I can't handle this.”

“I love you too. What do you want to do?”

“More than anything, I want to be with you. I want us to be happy again. But that's not something that seems possible right now.”

“I know.”


“So what do you think we should do?”

“I don't know... I guess... I guess, for now, we should just be friends.”



For weeks after, her eyes watered as though she'd been staring at the sun and had only just stopped to make eye contact. She stumbled when she walked, drunk off sleepless nights and restless thoughts. Her only redeeming quality was that she did this with a smile on her face. People believed that her allergies were acting up. People believed that the medicine was having side effects. The smile she so often wore to comfort others, remained, as genuine and soothing as ever. As quickly as they were created, whole worlds shattered inside her. Universes fell apart in the folds of her skin. Stars didn't explode out of existence, they simply ceased to be and all she was left with, was the hollow black of empty space.  

0 0 0

Moving Day

To the last boy I kissed,

this is a poem, and this part of it is yours.

I am sorry that I couldn’t stay. I 

am sorry that I made you think I could.

Your lips were dynamite. Your lips 

were hot dusty embers. Your

lips made me go insane.

I loved you like I love the boy I took to prom,

and I’m sorry because you loved me

like he loves the boy he is taking

to his prom.

I thought maybe you could save me-

from the bridge, or the bottle of pills

in the cabinet, or even just the way

I need to curl up and cry every

so often.

I thought you were the dashing hero but you

were the one who loved more and

I was scared and you offered no


You are still the last boy I kissed. Your

taste is on my lips. Your text is on

my phone. I don’t delete my messages.

You are still the last boy I kissed. You will

never be the last boy I kiss. 

Move on. I can’t save you. You can’t save me.

The moon is beautiful tonight. Move on.

The ocean is the same here as there. Move on.

There are other girls who will love you more. Move on.

I will be here. You will be there. It has been time

for a long time for you to pick yourself up and move on.

4 0 4


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1 0 1


I grew up in a house

with a band-aid covering the wounds.

My earliest memories are of an

apartment, with my mother.

But the house, with my father. I remember a

pink room, with a sloping ceiling, and

glittery lotion I keep in a drawer.

I don’t remember when or why but one day

We were all in the house again. 

I do remember lipstick tubes and diamond

earrings, scattered in the bathroom.

Powdered skin, perfumed neck, leaning in to smear

a mauve smudge on my own baby cheeks.

I do remember a day at a day-care and a hill and

a plastic car and a knee gritty with pebbles and blood.

And months later my mother, cigarette in mouth,

refusing to put a new band-aid on it. 

“It’s not an open wound.”

But it’s festering. I remember expensive hotels and heavy

dressy coats in New York City. 

The wound had stopped bleeding, the ache had dulled.

But it’s festering

I couldn’t stop the thundering trains in my head. I couldn’t

stop the scar from staring me in the face.

I blotted out the middle school years with black pen ink in 

different journals, slid under my sagging mattress.

I scratched out the summer before I began high school.

Cry it out. There is something more inside of me. There

was something more inside of me, before.

I remember boys and whispered fights across the kitchen table

just because it’s quiet doesn’t mean it is okay

and I can still smell the way the first boy smelled next to me on the

couch. And I can still remember flinching, just a little, when

he wrapped his arms around me, but melting in the end.

I remember losing the guest room to my father and writing in a thin

black notebook I think I might be going insane

And I don’t remember all of it but I know I kissed the wrong 

boys at the wrong times in the wrong places, and I began to

wonder if there was ever a right time or a right boy or a right place.

Now I have been the heartbroken and the heartbreaker but I didn’t think

before that I could be both. 

I know I will remember it like it was yesterday, not one thing but everything.

I know it will be true. Band-aids don’t do anything for healing.

4 0 4

American Hearts: Flash of Silver

I wonder what she's doing here. It's early in the morning, the city is just rumbling to life and except for a smattering of strangers scattered along sidewalk tables, everyone is inside avoiding the rain. And then there's her. She's standing with all her weight on one leg, arms crossed, hair pulled back, staring into the water. The sleeves on her jacket are pulled halfway up her hands and it's apparent that it's probably belongs to someone who's seen what she looks like underneath. Her arms uncross and slender fingers dig into a pocket. The sun glints off of something metallic, surely a coin, and I'm racking my brain to figure out what's going on without the luxury of seeing her face.

I wonder what she'll wish for. I sit and sip at my juice, struggling over whether or not I should tell her that this particular fountain is a total crap shoot when it comes to cosmic wish fulfillment. Maybe her job is awful. The boss rides her too hard, or some jackass in upper management makes a lewd comment everytime her blouse fits a little too tight in the top. Perhaps her grandmother is in the hospital with something terminal, and she's spent every night for the past month sleeping in agonizingly awkward hospital chairs. For all I know she's wishing on a midnight train to take her our of a city painted up with her poor decisions and past mistakes.

I wonder if she'll even have to stop her. The waiter brings around another glass as I wait on her to slide the coin back into her pocket. Instead, I watch her elbow bend and wait for the comforting ring of her thumbnail knocking a dead president into the air, but it never comes. It never comes because it was never a coin. The silver band arcs through the air, the sun catching for the briefest of moments in the modest gemstone, and lands silently in the water.

I wonder if it's landed next to mine.

0 0 0


eyes bury me beneath their gaze
heart heavy with these memories
lost in your mouth your breath a haze
eyes bury me beneath their gaze
i split in two, my mind decays
love fills me fatal as disease
eyes bury me beneath their gaze
heart heavy with these memories