http://slow.writerscafe.org/amberhays The original writings of author Amber S. Hays en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776031161 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 I can remember almost everydetail of the times we spent together.It’s the thing I’m least proud of in my life.Self Disaster.You lead me to “love” and then gave me a warm exit.But I swear to God I’ve never been so cold in mylife. I can’.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1278102/ It’s not early, and it’s not late. Just like when you speak to me, I’m there, but not really. I've had a few days off, and I had hoped to find some sort of solution that Ihad been missing these last few months while rushing around, killing myself inwork and.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1278094/ Chivalry is lost in translation.Beneath wastedbreaths on cigarettes, And sloppy screamsof youth. It’s beneath thehand of your father the first time he struck you, And on the tongueof the one you loved first, with underwearpushed beyond your knees with .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1205258/ I keep forgetting that with timecomes distance,And an aging heartonly begs for things that are new, instead of repairing the old.And when the suncomes up so does everyone else, like puppets with wire strings, waiting fortheir morning coffee; Habits not meant to be broken.I’m gett.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1205253/ The tides havebegan chewing at me again, and the rawness of my feet continueto blister, closing in on a bleeding end. It’s humid here. And there isn’tany comfort for me to find in anyone’s voice. Clear your throat, but I stillwon’t be able to he.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1205252/ It's the first thing I think of in the morning, Well,right after my coffee and morning piss. Youwouldn't know, that would you?Howbadly my heart writhes to inch closer to something so unfamiliar, it'salmost familiar?It'severy time I walk down the hall, every.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1205251/ The ragingforce has seemed to return. shaped by fingers and false words. I’m running at a stand still, and yetevery face I see has me wanting to retract myself even more. It’s outrageously sad to think that distance could mend whatbreaks me. Sometimes th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1198676/ These voices pluck into the strings of my rib cage screaming it’s songof dissatisfaction.Sensitive to the hands, it takes time getting used to the nagging. And I cannot ask of anything that would resemble help, because that would mean I am weak.But I am weak with the notion that.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1169846/ I tried to forget. Your slimy hands and twisted smirk. I tried to forget the first time I went to church for church. I tried to be happy when I had sex for the second time, And I tried to be happy when people told me about their successes.I tried to show you my heart, but there w.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1167705/ It starts with a similar tone,Back against the frame,I can’t recall the last time I felt alive. Only the last time I felt withdrawn.I remember almost every place the pills took me, but I can’t remember happiness.Drowning in a foreign language of what you people call love….I c.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1164495/ In the confinement of my neatly cluttered room, I sometimes stand naked in front of a patch on my door where a mirror couldsit, but doesn’t. And I imagine my body to be something new. Not necessarily skinny and all bones, or even muscular. Just new. Something that isn’t fil.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1161091/ I’mlearning that the definition of love is more of a universal fling than the actof loving singular and indefinitely. That love is real but not by society’s most recent standard. And infatuation plays just as much a part in loving as your heart does, beatingin your chest.A ru.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1158880/ Things don’t change; people are just better at dealing with the situationspresented.My footsteps are barely noticeable along the creaky floorboards, and yourquestions are posed withcaution.I keep pretending that hearing the clattering laughter of other’s teeth doesn't.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1158878/ This morning I woke up and it had felt like I had never been to sleep. And when I gave my sister a hug as she was leaving, it didn’t feel real.I sometimes wonder why it’s so hard to walk up 4 steps to a home that haunts me, and why when I talk no one listens.I think god has left our.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1144418/ Last night I dreamed,Of places and friends I’ve never seen, And my heart was beating so effortlessly,That my real heart seemed to stop. And in that moment I held a hand,And our pinky fingers got caught on foreign land, And as the story always goes,I slipped away from underneath .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1137799/ Nights make me feel singular. A distant pace between the new and old; an idling car with no driver.Surrounded by silent pianos and empty bottles of liquor,I can’t think of anyone. Not tonight.I’m the quiet type. Loudly dispensable. Overlooked, tucked in, and fucked.I’m re.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1135530/ I thinkit’s fucked up how you stole all corners of my mind;the places I used to hide.It’s a back and forth motion, like the morning we became wind. It was nothing special.Nothing at all. Casual. I don’t know about most people, But I find it difficult to flee fro.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1133199/ As every day goes by,I become a little less angry, and a little more numb.I can’t tell if it’s from the lack of human contact or just the alcohol consumption. I couldn't tell you if you asked. Maybe I’d say both. Or maybe I’d admit that crying is all .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1131250/ I write about you from time to time.But don't we all? All of us who want to remember? http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1129214/ It’s in the morning before the sun starts to rise that my heart is the heaviest.That I’m the most quiet.It’s calm, but the wind is sharp.And so is regret.I regret ever speaking.Closed throats and side glances, Living among the sky is beyond my price range.All these years and I.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1127048/ Your moon is no different from mine, But they sure as hell aren’t the same, I can’t even remember the last time someone said my name. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1105604/ It’s discouraging, life is…One morning you wake up and it’s snowing outside, and you confide beneath the half-dozen blankets to keep you warm.The next? Well… it’s summer. But the blankets are all still there. Smothering the feeling you once had acting as some sor.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1105584/ Holidays are always hard. The daysI hoped I’d see you…Your name came up inconversation the other night, but Iswear to you I almost threw up. Thesedays I can’t tell whether or not you think of me, but I cantell you this: I think of us.T.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1105573/ Broken.Silently whisper into the winds of the night praying to be heard. Praying to a God I haven’t seen in months. And as the earth that stands changes pace, I change as well.I feel not what has been placed inside me. I feel what was already there. The cruel sanctuary of though.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1059939/ Vacation getaway. Conversations with friends, And God pounding on my door frame. The louder the memories, The quicker I return, And last night I died in my dream.They just stood there, Patting my back, like it was time to go. I love you doesn’t mean a thing unless it’.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1012766/ The sun burns me with regret and yetthe glow of it leaves me speechless. These moments I throw towards the wind alwaysseem to find their way back.And the waves of the unmerciful sea beg for mylife.I dip my toes, and just like the soft touch by alover, I’m in the water.No l.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/1011596/ I see pictures of when the colors were once in our eyes linking(separately) to the light in the sky.At which was once the worst time in both of our lives. Back to the beginning of black tar heroin and sexual tension, I was flying incircles, and did I mention?I conquered the wors.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/981674/ Emotion is all I'm trying to relay. Just like most of my writing, this is a way to filter my brain. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/981672/ Wrote this in March, 2009. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/951684/ Cancel the call; I’mnot sure I can talk. My tongue is wrapped in plastic, smothered inthe stench of overrated words. They trip and then stagger over the spit thatsits, still collecting and bubbling over my feeble lips. I can’t swallow.Anything that I try to.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/951669/ Asimple beat: The heart’schaos strung togetherby the amount ofuntitledf***s that theworld rapes us of.Alive.It’s the ideathat this inequalitythat providesyou the very breathyou breathe alsorips the vile s**t right out of you.Trust. I don’t trust.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/951666/ Today, there isn’t any sunlight to enhance thecolors of this world I’m surrounded by. The dullness of the leaves gradually make their waytowards the ground.Where I’m from, not geographically, the treesaren’t so tall. And the sky isn’t th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/951664/ Flirtatious attempts toinhale your soul; to have you. Hidingbehind the weakness of intoxication, I allow myself to the truth. Pickingme up, metal played through the darkness. Itis morning. The sun will rise soon, along with the bodies that consumeit.&nb.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/951289/ Thepresentation of a memory. Single file line. Step right. Headdown. Don’t let the crows feed your soul. The power of depth. I never really know howto say,I’m not quite over this.I’m not quite born again. I’m not new.New. The smell.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/951214/ Through the doubledoors, we leave our souls at the first step. My misguided feet nowlead me into a spiral of emotions. Vomitcomes close but I swallow that down. Bestrong. Don’t cry. Be strong. The scent of things being “too clean” co.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/951208/ It is by design that our bodies connect.And furthermore, that our actionsare composed of the sparked single moment when our eyes see our thoughts.The distance between amillisecond and our reaction towards the very emotion that sets us aside fromall other beings in the world is just th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/951204/ TheDevil was waiting for me when I got back home last night. And God told me to close my eyes, but I kept on driving. Jesus saved my life. But so did my best friend.I cried because I’m not strong, but I told a friend that she’s strongerthan I’ll ever be.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/951040/ Found my childhood, all bottled up into a plastic yellow flashlight.Faded black marker determines the possession between my sister and I. The nights hiding beneath the sheets conjuring stories…The nights spent scared and alone in the dark; it all sits beneath the screw holdingwhat g.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/950840/ I saw the candles burn out, just in time for thesun to come up. I waited on the feeling of my breathing to inspire me, but when I stoodup, the clouds made me choke on their grey reality.I consumed the blackness of coffee, hoping that I’d stay awake longenough for the fe.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/950789/ Whatdoes it mean?A pity f**k then leave crawling back towards the door?Do you understand what you did to me?I’m in this hole of shattered self-images; of something I think I didwrong.Nothing but a kiss and averted eyes when your feet started moving. I kissed more than that f.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/950552/ Back to my wrinklinghands.They always seem to catch my attention, holding such painful bliss.If I were to search them, I’d first find that my palms are etched with valleysfilled with the ever-troubling, ragingseas that seem to complicate what is drowning my world.The length of my f.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/amberhays/950546/