I’d Have Chosen Fire

And I’d have chosen fire,
all consuming, drowning me in its being,
rather than to endure the slice of my happiness made absent,
because of you.

In a life that I had punctuated with a solid period, you bombarded with a million question marks left crooked on the line.

Your soul left dust in my mind that indulges my conscience in suspicions of even the sunrise of a new day.

I thought we were the answer, and love was the question at hand.

But I’ve decided that you were a hurricane, and
I am afraid of storms.
By: Amelia Faith Pratt


His Eyes Have Changed

When you’re seventeen and carefree you never think it can happen to you.

You bump into a boy with shaggy hair and eyes that change colors with the shade of his shirt, and you think it can’t happen to you.

That shirt and that accidental bump were the beginning of a magnificent swirling of racing hearts and late night french fries and kisses in the freezing cold. That bump turned into intoxicating conversations and intertwined fingers along the busy sidewalk and happy endings for every book, even if they were sad.

That bump turned into love.

But then when the kiss was over or the book had been closed, that bump turned into a shove, and that shove turned into a punch. Conversations once so euphoric end with tears streaming and wrists slammed against the wall. Fingers that so delicately held a heart that trusted and a hand that begged for affection now wrap themselves tightly around your neck.

His eyes have changed; but not as they used to.
By: Amelia Faith Pratt


If you’d have asked me then if I could’ve lived without that boy, I would’ve said no;
not in a million years,
not in a million lives,

I would’ve told you that his words lived in my thoughts and
his touch danced on my skin. 

I would’ve exclaimed that his eyes held my longing and

his ears held my secrets and

his hands held my heart.

I would’ve pulled out my diary and showed you the photos of us that were so delicately taped to the thin pages, my name gently scribbled next to his.

I would’ve whisked you to my desk where the rose he gave me for my 16th birthday was carefully pressed in the cover of my my favorite book.

I would’ve told you of his laugh, his smile, his soul; of course I cannot live without him. Him.

I would’ve yanked out the bag stuffed in the back of my closet with the sweater that I don’t wear anymore because he told me I didn’t look pretty in it.

I would’ve handed you the picture torn down the middle of the girl he thought was more lovely than me.

I would’ve driven you to our place and set out a blanket, and cried because I was never good enough.

I would’ve rolled up my sleeves to show you the scars on my wrist from the day he told me he was leaving and I wanted to die.

I would’ve told you of his harm, his destruction, his worst; but I still would not believe a word of it.

If you’d have asked me then if I could’ve lived without that boy, I would’ve said no;
not in a million years,
not in a million lives,

But now that boy is a stranger,

and I’m not even that sad.
By: Amelia Faith Pratt

Dreaded Endings, New Beginnings

        Senior year: the final countdown, the last shebang, the long awaited end to the best and worst four years of your life. You never believe high school will fly by, until you’re a senior and you’re saying goodbye to the people you’ve grown up with, caps delicately placed on their heads and diplomas carefully cradled in their hands. Final hugs will be shared, last words will be expressed, and new chapters will begin. You’ve spent four years wishing graduation day would hurry up and come faster, but when it finally arrives you find yourself begging for just a little more time. One more pep rally, one more football game; one more prom or even just one more walk down the halls of the place that shaped so much of who you have become. “I can’t stand this small town, I can’t wait to get out!” you remember yourself muttering under your breath countless times. “High school is so dumb.” you so often exclaimed to your parents. Regret floods your brain as you dread leaving the secure, loving and tight knit community you’ve known for your whole life. You kick yourself for ever skipping a volleyball game, a choir concert, a post football game whataburger run–all of the things that seemed so insignificant, all of the things that you declared “maybe next time” to without a second thought, are suddenly the experiences that you long for the most. You’ve been chomping at the bit to leave, and now that it is time, you want nothing more than to stay.                                            
      Senioritis: you think it exists. If you’re lucky it sets in beginning of senior year rather than earlier, and seems to only worsen from there. It is the root of all hatred towards high school, and it gives you a sorry but good enough new excuse for your bad grades and netflix binges. Teachers fear the effects it has on student motivation. Senioritis is like a dark cloud that whispers constantly in your ear, telling you that you should no longer care because you’re almost done anyways. Nothing at this dumb high school matters, nor can anything or anyone here do anything for you anymore. Just a little longer and you’re free. On the days that are difficult, the days that you long for new relationships and different experiences, your mind tricks you into believing you’re ready to go. But I promise you, it will be harder to hop into that car loaded down with all of your belongings and head to a college without home cooked meals, your mom’s hugs, and your puppy’s kisses than you could have ever imagined or prepared yourself for. So let’s do ourselves a favor. Let’s cherish each other. Let’s go to the movies with our parents, and let’s get up a little bit earlier to grab coffee with a friend. Let’s drag ourselves to the last basketball game, even if we hate basketball and we don’t want to miss the new episode of our show. Let’s practice kindness and grace to our classmates, the people who have walked beside us every step of the way. Let’s get rid of senioritis; it’s not real anyways.
By: Amelia Faith Pratt

Age 18