Author: Lindsay Erin

Lindsay Erin is too short to be considered an adult, yet has a higher maturity level than that of her peers. On Mondays, she does not make sense. Follow her on Twitter and Tumblr.


He ate my heart with a spoon;
chewed slowly only to spit
it out in a linen napkin to show
the waiter its flaws. They will apologize profusely
and offer him another,
no charge,
until he is finally satisfied.


my medicine supply is quickly dwindling;
when i shake the orange bottle i can hear the
pills rattle around the emptiness.

my mother has not called the pharmacy to refill
my prescription. i have asked her repeatedly

every morning she hugs me and tells me she
loves me
yet cannot take the time to make sure the part
of me she loves
stays intact.


it is November and it is cold yet you are
not wearing a shirt and there is a
boy breathing hot
promises into your skin
braiding whispers across your
scalp and with each move he
gets closer till you are
naked in his presence
completely vulnerable and you open
up and let him in
give him permission to explore
caverns once labeled “off limits”
and once you are enveloped in the
no one can hear you scream
it is November and he is kissing you
for the last time