found poetry by emily corwin from their 2001-2020 diaries

2007

Girls who work less than me will go to better colleges.
In two years, it won’t matter who I am now.
I learned from a website that I will die on December 2, 2069.
I have completed Segment 1 of Apple Driving School.
We are doing Routine B for Wednesday Morning Assembly.
K and I attended the Grand Hallows Ball at Borders.
K slammed his head into my mouth
at the Homecoming Dance and I got a fat lip.
J doesn’t even think we’re close enough to invite me to his after-party.
I can’t believe I’m someone’s girlfriend—and he called me so!
We talked about when we first thought this could happen.

2008

A tree with many glittering eyes.
He read my poems and said, Do you really think like that?
It’s been a week since I got a Facebook.
I had my first champagne and it tasted like shit.
I didn’t have a good time.
I am picking up my own bruises.
Either be my friend all the time or none of it.
I hate these leftover emotions I have for J.
My hat always fell backwards when we kissed backstage.
The same clusters of snapping shoes,
The same geometric traffic.
There was a room made of raw, dripping glass.
A room for wedding cakes, telescopes, and thermometers.

Emily Corwin’s writing has appeared in Salamander, Black Warrior Review, Passages North, DIAGRAM, Ninth Letter, New South, and elsewhere. Her books include tenderling (Stalking Horse Press, 2018), Sensorium (University of Akron Press, 2020), and Marble Orchard (forthcoming from University of Akron Press, 2023). She lives and works in Michigan with her love-person, Joe, and her very pretty cat, Soup.