Emily

Emily Fucking Dickinson

(An Ode To Emily)

0502.2025

⊰⊹✿♡✿⊹⊱

(This is Emily Fucking Dickinson, time-traveling into my cortex on a Tuesday, eyeliner smudged, with zero fucks left to ration.)

She wore white—

for the purity of feels,

because language’s blood

is vivid on clean linen.

She closed her door

to temper her silence

into the sharpest blade,

before it bleeds the eyes

and ruptures the soul.

They called her mad.

She said it was

thinking—

“LOUD.”

She folded verses

Turned them into

charges of dynamite,

tucked them away

between some worn buttons

and the rolling thunder.

The men withheld her—

turned her to a whisper.

But she was a riot

yelling in slant rhyme,

and she owned everyone.

Nature was her side peace.

God—her pen pal.

Death wooed, but

She made him wait

at the garden gate —

then she reshaped

the cosmos.

They thought her lonely.

She was just

undisturbed.

Call her a ghost—

but do it right:

“Emily Fucking Dickinson.”

The bitch who stitched bees

into her vowels

and wrote eternity

on the back of an envelope.

m.c.f.