Poetry By Emily Long

       R. Miller CC



Polychrome
                after Megan Falley

I tracked my mood every night 
                in graph paper scribbles to see if the medication was working. 

Picked up a paintbrush on New Year’s morning--
                the January I wasn’t sure I’d stick around to see--

put those 365 variegated pixels onto a canvas
                reminder that the bad days are not my whole picture. 

Tangerine for the birthday my friends baked
                two cakes to celebrate because I deserve to feel full. 

Periwinkle when her ghost kissed 
                my cheek in a dream and I could almost taste the song of her

laugh. Onyx when her suicide 
                note looked less like a stoplight, more like a map. 

The canvas is soot-stained and tear-smeared 
                but I’m more struck by the warmth of this life,

the tenacious waltz of apricot and saffron. If I squint 
                my eyes just so,  I almost can’t see the black anymore. 

It was the year  I spent the longest day clinging 
                to my sister in the emergency room while the nights got greedier outside. 

The next morning I inhaled 
                a whimsy of wildflowers and watched a moose lope 

through a Rocky Mountain meadow. Marigold 
                skinny dips in Maine, siena sobremesas in California, strawberry 

ice cream with my dog and lavender boba with my nephew. 
                The night we got too high and painted the living room August 

so it could always be peach season. The night it seemed easier to die 
                 than to feel. I flushed the handful of pills down the drain 

instead of my throat, wept 
                with the eastern light. This cocktail of capsules

makes me mourn the sunrises I almost dyed
                whiteout, so I write myself a love letter in a kaleidoscope 

of Sharpies and tell myself to keep going. 
                There will be more good days. 

Holy prism of wonder, you will paint more good days. 

You who wanted to leave but stayed
                to see the backyard apple tree blush into spring.

Sway to Billie Holiday with your niece
                perched on the dimple of your waist. Kiss

and be kissed and be and be and be. Every day you write
                yourself a horizon you become 

your own redemption.

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Eleven Truths and a Lie    
             after Willa Tellekson-Flash

1. Don’t ask me to choose a favorite flower, but it’s dahlia season and they look like fireworks without the terror of a gunshot.
2. I know how 5pm July sunlight warms the linen duvet, fills the bedroom—it’s honey and I’ve always had a sweet tooth. I might not know it if depression didn’t put me to bed so early. I think I’m glad to know.
3. After 72 sleep-deprived hours with a new puppy, I panicked and almost gave him away. 
4. Now I can’t fall asleep until his head rests on my thighs, reminding me to exhale.
5. Most days I want to live. This isn’t the lie.
6. There’s a box under my bed filled with every handwritten letter, birthday wish, foreign postcard I’ve ever received. I reread them more often than you think.
7. The lightest I’ve ever been was the day I spent floating in the Adriatic Sea. The same day I stopped believing in God.
8. Maybe it all works out in the end. Maybe we make it.
9. I bought a book called How To Live When a Loved One Dies. I didn’t find the answer I was looking for but here I am anyway, living. 
10. Petrichor also means there’s sweetness after grief.
11. I wish I loved myself better when I was younger. 
12. My favorite color is now, and wherever we’re headed. ​

A Catalog of Gender Euphoria

My first tattoo, a bouquet of all the places I’ve called home. A reminder I can replant myself anytime a place starts to feel too small. Tie-dye coveralls, indigo softness. Chopping off 8 inches of hair to start fresh in the spring, even when a former friend told me not to. A writing workshop where everyone used they/them pronouns for me & it was helium. Floating belly up arms open in the Pacific, more levity. The snail tattoo crawling down my forearm. Bubblegum pink lipstick. Chunky, dangly, inconvenient earrings. A closet full of shared button-downs, androgynous & colorful & well-loved. Periwinkle nail polish. Tortoise shell glasses & summertime freckles on the bridge of my nose. The picture of me & the dog on the beach, walking toward the wet horizon. We both turned back for a moment before our toes met the waves again. My languid dress the color of daffodils. I look like a flower blooming right from the sea.

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Emily Long (she/they) is a queer writer living in Denver, Colorado. A winner of the 2021 True Colors poetry prize with Vocal Media & Moleskine, Emily has also been previously published in Anti-Heroin Chic, Quail Bell Magazine, & Passengers Journal, among others. You can find Emily on Instagram at @emdashemi, or more likely, you’ll find them paddleboarding, hiking, and climbing in the Rocky Mountains with their partner and rescue pup.