Ambriehl May Khalil

selfish

i want to indent myself in you, make a mark that’s so deep inside of your skin that it becomes a permanent scar. i want to be the girl you think of when you hear that song and when you move on, if she ever plays it, i want to be the reason you make her change it. i want the next girl to unintentionally feel like borrowed bedsheets instead of brand new ones, because you’re still so encompassed by the memory of me, you’ll struggle to hide it. everything will be mine. that song is mine. and writing is mine. dancing in our underwear to that record on vinyl is mine. three a.m drives are mine. that book is mine. that band is mine. those mugs, that quote, that artwork, it’s all mine, to you. i want everything you think of to be inked with memories, so much so that nothing she does will surprise or impress you, because it’ll already be done before. i want to be engraved into your memory, to the point i’m all you can remember.

it’s feeling a lot like christmas

home

you remind me of that feeling i get when i put on my favourite jumper after it’s been freshly washed. it’s comfort and you’re something like home.

i still love you, though

you are the calm before the storm
the late night silence
the taste of a sugar cube on the tongue.
you are nostalgia and the bitter taste after a cigarette, but the inhalation before it.
you’re 11:11 wishes and the feeling of euphoria,
that moment when your hand is clutched so tightly with theirs and you’re waiting, waiting and waiting for your favourite band to take the stage. the anxiety and excitement leading up to that final moment.


you’re the feeling of “home” even just for a little while.
you’re ink stained fingers after writing all night and four a.m coffees.
you’re unmade bedsheets
snowflakes when they fall on your eyelashes
smudged drawings
the needle hitting your favourite album on vinyl and the crackling before the first song starts,
dancing in your underwear at two a.m
falling asleep to the pitter patter of rain against your roof and bedroom window
soft traces down your back, across your hips,
closing
your
eyes.

you are the moment when the sun is setting and the sky is swallowed by different hues of oranges, reds and baby pinks.
the early spring mornings when the air still has a crisp chill to it, but you can still smell the blooming flowers and freshly cut grass.
you’re the water that encompasses me as i sink down into my midnight bath, willing the cold air around me to dissipate.
you’re the swell in my chest when i see an arrangement of stars in the sky that are so beautiful they take my breath away
you’re midnight drives in summer with my favourite song blasting through the speakers and my arm out the window, flowing with the wind,
but more than that
you’re the laughter that comes along with moments of pure joy, and love, and light.
you’re the moments in life i cherish and the feelings that sink deep into my bones. you’ve made your way into every memory of mine, every favourite i have.

but mostly,
you’re the feeling of falling in love. and i have.

h o m e

i hate you” written on a cake (with a hint of icing)

when the sun went down, leaving behind blazing oranges and reds in it’s departure, we were left with nothing but shaking hands and laboured breaths. every moment after feels like i’m trying to breathe you in, suck you up, make you stay. i want you to stay. i’m tired of always picking the bones out of you, chewing and chewing and then choking, and there has to be a limit right? to how much can one person handle? to how much can two people tear each other apart before all their flesh is gone? i know you’re tired, too, i see the way your face sags with relief after we’ve finally stopped screaming. there are fire alarms going off somewhere, police alarms, a car alarm, an ambulance. they’d come to rescue us if they knew about the fire we’ve ignited. they don’t though, so we’re left with nothing but a flame between us that we put out by silence.

you sleep on the couch honey, i’ll take the bed.

on the nights i object, you insist that it’s fine, even though i know it’s not. even though i know you wake up with a crick in your neck. even though i know the reason you hate the bed is because it smells like me. you can’t lie to me baby, i see right through you.

you hate the way you crave me, even after we are burnt out and the entire house smells like smoke.

sunday is the day for baking

safety switch

You know when you’re in a car, and that old song is on the radio? the one that you kind of know the words to, but not really, because the only reason you actually know the song, is from having to hear your mother play it once or twice when you were growing up?

So, that song is on the radio, and it’s raining, but you’re laying in the back seat instead of driving. The rain is getting heavier every few minutes and suddenly it’s so loud that you can’t hear the song anymore. Instead of turning the volume up, you close your eyes.

There’s something about the way the rain sounds and smells that suddenly makes you think;

i feel kinda safe,”

even though you’re not really, not at all, because somewhere around the corner there is another car and they’re driving too fast for a wet road, and in a few minutes the collision will send you flying, killing you instantly.

That’s how it feels being with you.

You’re the few moments of “i feel safe” before the car hits me.

loose papers

How foolish of me to try and put you onto paper, when the pieces that make you, you, couldn’t suffice to a mere few words. The thing is, people are easy to write about, and words are easily bent and manipulated to fit the shape of someone that us, as writers, oh so desire. What i’m trying to say, is that everyone can be written about, except you.

You’re a writers worst nightmare, and taking you apart piece by piece is something i have tried to do; believe me, i have tried, but there are not enough adjectives to describe you anymore. Suddenly, words mean nothing and the paper sitting in front of me has been blank for four hours, and it’s nearly five a.m. Suddenly, i’ve consumed four coffees today; the bitter taste from little to no sugar, is sitting behind my teeth and rotting them away. I’ve been chewing on my lip—if i were to look in the mirror i am sure that i’d see a bloody mess all over my face. I’m sure i’d see more than a few black circles that resemble the little sleep i’ve had because is all i do is spend hours obsessing over you. Recreating you. Imagining you.

You’re not just a writers worst nightmare but you’re mine. You’re mine, because i can write about everyone but when it comes down to writing about you, i no longer know how to explain to my readers, that when you speak, i can hear your voice running through my veins.

You’re in my veins. You’re in my veins. You’re in my veins. You’re in my fucking veins and you’re covered in my blood.

But how do i explain that to someone else? how could i explain what i mean when i say that you looked at me today? that, even if it was a glimpse, it meant so much more than you could possibly imagine? that, when i fall asleep, the only thing i think about is how badly i want to taste your skin?

You’re my worst nightmare, but you’re the best one i’ve ever had, too.

There’s no paper i own that could hold the weight of you anyway,

You’d surely make it drown.

– happy birthday May

liquid confidence

like the liquor in your cup,
i’ll dissolve
beneath your touch.