Ambriehl May Khalil

read it carefully


the same damned he who i watched have his way with my mother; wrapped her in his arms and covered her in blankets of despondency and made her create a facade that was … exactly that. a facade.

he, who i never thought i’d personally meet, crept his way up to me slowly, emerging from the shadows. you couldn’t imagine my surprise when i saw him, i thought i already knew him well enough, from watching him on the sidelines but, suddenly, he was there when i closed my eyes, and when i opened them, and he quickly made a comfortable home inside of me.

never mind.

i hate him.

he always tells me that nothing is okay.

he belittles me and yells at me until the tiny insecurities i held inside the back of my mind feel like a ticking bomb inside of my chest that has two seconds left until it explodes. he holds posters up of every single thing i’ve done today and tells me why it was all wrong. why didn’t i just listen to him? why didn’t i just stay in bed, like he told me to do?

and then i’m screaming, but i’m locked inside of a room with no lights, and there’s no windows, and the door that i thought was there a second ago isn’t there anymore, and i’m yelling for someone to come and help me but no one does. except him. he does. he comes, he always does. he lulls me into his false sense of security and comforts me, telling me that no one will ever love me the way he does. he holds me throughout the night and latches himself to me throughout the day, he always knows the right thing to say.

never mind.

i hate him.

he dips me in the refrigerator light, and he douses me in gasoline and then lights me on fire, and i’m thankful for it. and on the days i’m finally moving on from him, after he said that one thing that pushed me too far, he opens the front door and steps right back inside of me, but he’s bought his best friend with him this time. he always brings his best friend with him when i’m being stubborn. i am the skin and bones and he owns everything else. he sits inside of me, with his feet on the controls and steers me the way he wants; him and his best friend having their way, like they always do. they’ve always got their feet on my pedals.

never mind.

i hate them.

he’s my deepest regret and my most passionate insecurity. he’s the things that go bump in the night and everything painful all at once. he’s every nightmare and darkest thought put in a big box and tied nicely together with a bow on the top. the first day he came to me, the note welcomed me to the first day of hell, and oh my fucking god i wish i never opened that box.

i guess he’s not a he after all, he’s an it.

never mind.

i hate it.




he smelt like cheap cigarettes and clean linen
lips, tangled between a stick of future cancer
nicotine, nibbling away at his fingers
always watching, waiting
but never speaking.

you make me hate silence.

72 hours

i’ve been wearing the same underwear for three days. my sense of, what do you call it? stability? is gone. my lack of self preservation and love is evident from the way my shower hasn’t dripped once in 72 hours. i’d say i haven’t checked my phone, but i’d be lying—and you always said that lying makes me ugly, but i’ve already been avoiding the mirrors because i can’t stand the person looking back at me as it is—i check it one hundred and seventy two times an hour. yes, i’ve been counting. yes, i’m still waiting for your call.

shower everyday, brush your teeth morning and night, drink water, change your clothes, don’t sleep in the same bedsheets for three months”

demand demand demand. what if i don’t want to shower? what if i don’t want to brush my fucking teeth? how can i take a sip of water without it feeling like bleach melting the walls of my throat?

the underwear i’m wearing were your favourite ones, i wore them the last time you touched me, remember? i’m sleeping in the same bedsheets because every night for the past three months, you’ve slept on them, too. how can i clean myself, clean my house, my home, when everywhere i look, i feel you? see you? smell you?

you stood in that kitchen and we fucked in that shower and your dirty t-shirt is still sitting in the fucking washing machine because i can’t drag myself out of bed to take the load out. it’s starting to smell like mould. i’m starting to smell like cheap cigarettes and boxed wine.

(maybe that’ll be my identity from now on)

you’re indented into every single part of me and i can’t afford laser removal for a tattoo that covers my entire body.

Is this an update? What is this?

If anyone is even remotely interested, i’m here to share a little bit about what i’ve been doing, and why my blog has slacked off. I’ve never been one to post reviews, or long blog posts; as you’ve realised, my style is very much: post a poem, post a picture, post a story, and then leave. I’ve probably posted three times this entire year, and we’re five months in.

I’ve been writing, I promise I have. Sometimes I’m slack and I stare at my computer screen or the fresh page of my notebook for several hours, hoping for inspiration to hit. I guess the hard thing about trying to “make it” as a writer, is that I tend to get discouraged when it takes forever for one single thing to pay off. I’ll post a poem, and I get tonnes of “woo’s!” and “yay’s!” and then it’s silence. And i’m back to where I was; “is this really worth it? Why is this taking so long? God i’m useless.”

I know that’s not a good way to think. But here I am, telling you exactly what goes on inside my tiny brain. Keep in mind, this isn’t me crying and complaining – please don’t think that. I’m very blessed to be in the position that I am currently in. That’s another reason why i’m here, typing like a madman, trying to hurry up and get to the point.

A lot of you, and I mean ALOT of you may not know, but I’m an author. And no I don’t mean; “i think I can write so i’m gonna call myself an author” (no shade, no tea). I’m an actual author. I have a book. Shocking, I know. It’s not self-published. I have a wonderful team behind me. Please, refrain from running to the link at the top of my page to buy it, I need to say something first.

I’m currently knee deep in editing. Edit, edit, edit, edit. EDIT. So much editing. I’m editing my first book, fixing up all those pesky mistakes that I was blind to see when It first got published several years ago, now. The second edition (get ready) should be released this year. With a new cover. A new size. No more mistakes. So please, buy it THEN.

I’m editing my second book, that’s coming out this year, too. They’re not poetry, I’m sorry to disappoint you, if that’s what you were hoping for. (That’ll come one day, I promise). They’re novels; young adult, specifically. I can’t give too many details about my second one, yet. That’ll come out later on.

I just want you all to know what’s been happening. I have been editing, yes, but i’ve also started a youtube channel. This is a safe place for me to post my poetry and maybe a few other things if I feel like it. I’m not expecting anything to come from it, I just want to share my creativity and if you’d like to watch, please do. Please do.

I’m trying to really come to terms with who I am as a person. It’s something i’ve been doing for many years. I think i’m really close to the finish line of understanding myself. I’ve got a long way to go in terms of other things. I have many goals for the next few months, and the rest of the year.

I’m twenty-one soon. I still feel sixteen.

I changed my room around, again. I got a new desk. I bought new curtains and a record player. Sometimes I play my swan lake vinyl. Classical music calms me down.

I’ve finally sucked up and started purchasing candles, even though they’re expensive. They make my room smell nice. I need to buy new glasses, but I keep putting it off. I bought an iMac. It sent me broke. I have three more tattoos than I did at the end of 2016. I thought I drank coffee lots in 2016. I didn’t. I do, now, though. Too much. I’m scared my teeth will turn brown. I want to move out. Not because I hate my family, I love them more than anything. But I want that independence, and i’m a slut for home décor. I can’t wait to decorate my own home, but I know it’s not likely right now. My casual job isn’t enough, and my writing isn’t enough right now, either. I hope maybe next year I can move out, if i’m fortunate enough. I don’t know just yet. I’ll see how it goes. Some of the poetry i’ve written this year is the best i’ve done. I haven’t posted many poems, though. I’m greedy, and like to keep things to myself.

I’ve got a proper skin routine that I do every single morning and every single night. It feels amazing. I’m trying to eat better. I’m trying to do better. The point is, i’m trying. And that’s kind of everything. That’s me in a nutshell, in may, 2017.

Stay well,

A x

white picket fence

down the street there’s a little house, and it’s not discrete or anything. it’s just a little house with little brick walls and carpet that always feels a little damp. i’ve been there a few times; snuck in on the late nights when i should have been in bed sleeping. no one lives there anymore, not really. there’s been a “for sale” sign dug into the ground for about a year.

i guess no one likes it enough to put their money and trust into it. they’ll never know the secrets that lay beneath the soggy carpet and scraped up floorboards, though. and maybe that’s what makes me smile when everyone who goes for an inspection, walks away.

they’ll never know how we fucked like the world was ending on that staircase, and how i can still taste your skin between my teeth the second i put a foot onto the driveway. they’ll never know that the reason the carpets are always wet is because there are six leaks in the roof — and you made the sixth one yourself because you hate odd numbers —i could paint their positions with my eyes closed. it was home, if there has ever been one.

but sometimes you have to move. and you felt like it wasn’t safe enough for you to live inside anymore; you wanted something secure — something without a leaky roof and a broken staircase. but you weren’t talking about the house, were you?

i wanted you as you were; broken and maybe a little stubborn, but you wanted something (someone) new. and i stare at my abandoned home and wish i could still feel your presence around, while your footsteps indent new floorboards and you fuck someone else against your staircase.

i hope she’s warm enough for you.

i hope you’re never cold.

i hope your house, your home, never collapses on you.

i hope you feel secure and safe while her lips wrap around you, and you pretend like you can’t feel the emptiness that you’re bathing in.

you always end up missing your old house, in the end.


i hate you (i don’t mean it)

the last night i spoke to you, you told me to meet you in the yard
and i waited
and i waited
and i waited
and i’m still
right here

she’s a pretty little thing



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.