The Collection of Emily Lingenfelser


I have been going through my old writings and am completely in awe. Sometimes, I can't even believe that I wrote some of the things I find. Writing is such an outlet for me, and it is something I am very passionate about. Blogging, of course, is one form of writing that I have grown to love. But I also enjoy poems, short stories, and just...flowing words together. Here is what I'm calling my "collection" of writings throughout the years. I hope that you enjoy them all and leave feedback!

If I Could Live a Life of Fiction
She slowly peeled the clothes off her body and stood naked in the steam-filled bathroom. Her hands trembled as she ran them across her face, her chest, her stomach. She'd never considered herself pretty, quite the opposite in fact. In her mind, she knew this was why he would not love her.

As she stepped into the shower, her thoughts began to wonder aimlessly. She thought of his effortless beauty that clearly ran deeper than appearances. The boiling beads of water washed over her skin, leaving it red with irritation. The searing pain suddenly felt reassuring; it was something that could be controlled unlike the rejection that was spreading through her veins.

She turned the nozzle and the scorching water beat down on her imperfect body. She was alone with her thoughts.

Remembering the words he had spoken brought tears to her eyes. Though the hot stream pouring down quickly washed them away. I'm not normal, Emily. I'm not capable of loving another soul. It isn't my nature. She replayed the scene in her head, reliving every moment. How she wanted to forget it all, including the fact that he was right--normal was a word that could never describe him.

She pictured how he looked earlier, in the midst of another Friday evening stroll. His coarse brown hair, in dire need of a haircut, still looked flawlessly messy. His green eyes wide with a child-like excitement. How many nights she had dreamed about being safe in his strong arms, gazing into his alluring eyes. He had swept her off her feet without even knowing it. Then again, the root of their problem was probably his utter obliviousness.

The water slowly began losing its numbing heat as she yawned. She quickly turned off the shower and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around herself. A cool breeze caught her skin and sent shivers up her spine. Her stomach sank at the familiarity of such a feeling--the one she got when he smiled at her.

It was hard for her to imagine life continuing after his blunt disapproval of her feelings. Like she had chosen to fall for him, a man of such intelligence and grace. But sadly lacking the ability to emotionally connect with a human being. She knew that from the beginning. I cut my heart out and replaced it with a second brain. That is what he had told her. Though it was meant metaphorically, it was undoubtedly the truth.

But love makes you blind to the truth. Then you find yourself living in a life of fiction, one created in your very own head. That is what she had become. A mere character in the novel of her life. An image of who she could only dream of becoming--the girl who would change his mind. Reality had a much different plan for her.

Momma and "daddy" are fighting again.
I hear their whispered screams echoing off the walls,
and the sound of glass breaking.
A vase.
Possibly a picture.
Maybe momma's heart.
People said I shouldn't be 'fraid of dying at eleven.
But the truth is, it keeps me up every night.
I wonder how he'll send me to Heaven.
Motivated by rage. Armed with a twelve-gauge.
I imagine he will start with momma.
And when he peers into my doorway,
I'll hold tightly to my teddy bear and close my eyes.
He can't hurt me anymore.

Once upon a time, I was a tree.
I swayed in the breeze.
Care-free: that was my life,
As a tree.

My truck grew fat.
My roots grew deep.
My branches grew tall.
My leaves grew.
Then fell.
Then grew again.

It was an easy life, being a tree.
But the thing about roots is they keep you grounded.
Grounded to the ground.
I was a tree,
and I was

I dreamed of being a bird.
I would spread my wings and fly far away.
Maybe across the world.
Maybe across the street.
I would have wings, to do as I please.
And I would be free.

Once upon a time, I was a tree.

A Love Story

I saw a snake out by the garden yesterday.
Slithering between cucumbers and watermelon.
It's two black eyes focused on mine,
Staring at me like we're old friends.
He absorbed my attention until I was consumed.
All I could think about,
All I could dream about,
Were those little beady eyes.

Today I saw him over by the tomatoes,
Knowingly waiting for me.
I smiled shyly, feeling a familiar sense of weightlessness.
As I maneuvered vegetables, making my way
Towards him and his gaze,
All I could think about,
All I could dream about,
Were those little beady eyes.

I laid in the meadow next to the garden,
As he descended over my body.
Moving from my toes to my navel to my neck.
I was intoxicated by every scale on his body.
As he exposed his fangs and poured his venom into me.
All I could think about,
All I could dream about,
Were those little beady eyes.

The Last Something that Meant Anything
I reread your letters.
The ones you wrote from that 8 by 10 prison cell.
And I picked apart every single lie that covered the yellow pages
Which used to give me faith in something bigger than just you and me.
I softly touched each and every word
Thinking maybe my worship would resurrect the existence
Of love that had died long ago.
But it didn't.
I arose from the bed which had become my tomb
For three solid days.

On my way to the back porch, I grabbed my cigarettes
And that yellow lighter you always tried to steal.
As I opened the sliding glass door, a gust of wind hit my face
And took my breathe away like your blue eyes used to do.

I lit the cancer stick and took a long drag
Letting the toxins wash away any sense of helplessness.
I clenched your first letter in my cold hand
And wondered what you were doing at this exact same moment.
Another drag, more strength.

I lit the letter dated August 6th, 2009.
And watched as the words you had written,
The lies you had told,
Were consumed by an orange flame.
A fury equal to the rage that I felt within.
Another drag, more strength.

I lit the letter dated January 8th, 2010.
The epitome of your deception:
I'm never going to hurt you again.
I fell to the ground screaming LIAR, LIAR
And watched as the words you had written,
The lies you had told,
Were consumed by an orange flame.
A sight similar to the one you will see in hell.

I smoked an entire pack of cigarettes
Before the twenty-seven letters became a pile of ashes
Slowly blowing away in the wind.

And I was reborn.

I Finally Knew I Simply Could Not Matter

We are caught on an elevator.
Awkwardly crowded amongst mutual strangers.
I keep my head down, my eyes down.
You continue to glance across the small space in my direction.
It's so strange to feel like strangers
With some one you loved.
I wonder if your favorite color is still green.
If you still get gassy when you drink.
But it is time to face the truth that I don't know you anymore.
The elevator dings: eighth floor.
An old man and his wife slowly make their way into the hall.
Your conscious kicks in, you gather up the courage to look at me.
I frown and swiftly exit the elevator.


I think about you down those eight flights of stairs
And when I land face down on the concrete,
You won't hear a sound.
You'll attend my funeral like I mattered to you.
Crying the tears of a victim,
Of somebody who has lost somebody important.
But the truth is you lost me long before I was dead.

My Rant on the Male Species
This is for the girls who have wasted countless amounts of energy applying make-up and god-only-knows-whats-in-them hair products to look good. For the girls who are tired of hearing the same lines of "let's just be friends" or "I'm not looking for a relationship right now".

We get it, boys.
You just want to get your dick wet.
No commitment.
No obligations.

And I get it. I get that sometimes you just aren't in the right place for a relationship. But I'm tired of the mind games. I'm tired of not feeling good enough due to your bullshit excuses, because that is all they are--excuses.

Run away, little boy.
You can build up your walls.
No girlfriend.
No problems.

But don't come running to me when nobody else wants to deal with your bullshit either. Don't come looking to me if you just want to fool around while you decide whether or not you actually love your girlfriend.


I've come to the conclusion, that I'm going to rip my heart out and eat it for breakfast.
I've come to the conclusion, that love is an illusion and all guys are raging assholes.
I've come to the conclusion, that I don't fall in love easilly with just anybody.
I've come to the conclusion, that no guy I've met has ever really deserved me.
I've come to the conclusion, that I'm too hard on myself when it doesn't work out.
I've come to the conclusion, that it's never going to work out (see previous conclusions)

Am I the only one in this asshole-fest predicament? Maybe it is just me. Maybe there is something wrong with me. I don't think my perfume was created to attract liars and cheaters. I mean, it smells like muffins.

I blame it all on the media and their inacurate depiction of relationships, love, teenage years. The guy you want never wants you. The guy you get ends up straying. WHAT DO WE HAVE TO DO TO KEEP YOU HAPPY? It's obvious you don't know what you want. Will you ever? Will there ever come a day when you'll wake up and want a relationship?

And truthfully, what defines a relationship? Is it really so bad to not want you fucking around with other girls? That just screams "SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASES" to me. I'm not asking you to marry me, to be the father of my child. I'm not going to tattoo your name on my ass.

re⋅la⋅tion⋅ship - [ri-ley-shuhn-ship] - noun
1.) a connection, association, or involvement; 2.) connection between persons by blood; 3.) an emotional or other connection between people; 4.) a sexual involvement; affair.

See, it's not such a big, scary word after all. If you put as much effort into NOT having a "relationship" as you did into actually caring about somebody besides you and your dick, you'd probably have something substantial in your life.

I don't want you to text me about how beautiful, cute, sexy, amazing I am.
I don't want you to text me about how you want to hold me when I'm lonely.
I don't want you to text me about how we should go on a date.

Because FIVE SECONDS LATER it'll flip.
You'll want her.
You'll want no one.
You'll change your mind.
And confuse the shit out of me.

Either you want me, or you don't. There is no inbetween. There is no "just friends" zone, unless you plan on it being just that. I'm not your booty call. I'm not your one-night stand. I'm not some girl you can sway. I'm not some girl you can play.

I'm beautiful
and cute
and sexy
and amazing.
And I want you.

Sing for the Moment
Tick, tick, tick.
We all stare at the exposed explosive.
Blue wire.
Red wire.
Why don't they teach you this stuff in school?
How to disarm a bomb.
How to mend a broken heart.
How to talk shit without getting caught.
How to have sex without getting pregnant.
You know, the important things.

Tick, tick, tick.
We all stare at the exposed explosive.
Blue wire.
Red wire.
The smell of death is in the air.
This is the end of life as we know it.
Everybody wants to whisper I love you.
Everybody wants to scream I hate you.
Everybody wants to cry and hold on to each other.
Everybody wants to spit and knock each other out.

Tick, tick, tick.
We all stare at the exposed explosive.
Blue wire.
Red wire.
Red wire.
Red wire.
Red wire.

Our bodies were discovered in millions of pieces.
Collectively intertwined in a grave full of regret.
I see you in Heaven a few weeks later, and yell
I fucking told you it was the blue wire, asshole.

I'm Tired..
I'm tired of the lying, the deception.
It is hard to concentrate when everybody is two-faced,
doing anything they can to put themselves ahead in this world.
We have none.
We lack them.

Honesty has become a lost art.
More people know how to knit lies than tell the truth.
We carefully create a masterpiece of fabrication.

Don't feed me your bullshit.
I'm full on your disrespect and self-pity.
Wallow in it, make yourself feel just a little bit better
about the lives that you ruin and the pain you cause.
I hope that allows you to sleep at night.

And when you confess your sins to the preacher,
I hope that he grants you forgiveness from the Lord.
And I hope that Lord doesn't remind you to latch your seat belt tight
as you're driving down the rainy interstate
and collide with a tree that appeared out of no where.
And I hope as you lay against the pavement, you feel at peace.
Bleeding from your mouth, lying from your teeth.

I forgive you;
I forgive you

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