❄️amabee❄️
@itsamabee.bsky.social
write the world as you see it, then make it better 🩵indigenous fantasy author🧸poet🫶🏽Swiftie🗡️Genshin fanatic & lore video essays🎀cozy games🐈cats✨lawyer
Collection Available on Amazon💕 Slowburn - a sapphic poetry collection
Collection Available on Amazon💕 Slowburn - a sapphic poetry collection
Pinned
November 25, 2025 at 3:55 PM
obsessed with my new friend #witchhatatelier
November 24, 2025 at 10:11 PM
obsessed with my new friend #witchhatatelier
laugh and buck
be wild as fuck
but never forget
wild ones still hug their mamas necks,
and your bad behavior will bite
those you love next.
#poetry
be wild as fuck
but never forget
wild ones still hug their mamas necks,
and your bad behavior will bite
those you love next.
#poetry
November 24, 2025 at 10:09 PM
laugh and buck
be wild as fuck
but never forget
wild ones still hug their mamas necks,
and your bad behavior will bite
those you love next.
#poetry
be wild as fuck
but never forget
wild ones still hug their mamas necks,
and your bad behavior will bite
those you love next.
#poetry
Reposted by ❄️amabee❄️
Ambedo
n. A kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details; raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream in your coffee. Briefly soaking in the experience of being alive, an act that is done purely for its own sake.
n. A kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details; raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream in your coffee. Briefly soaking in the experience of being alive, an act that is done purely for its own sake.
November 24, 2025 at 9:12 AM
Ambedo
n. A kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details; raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream in your coffee. Briefly soaking in the experience of being alive, an act that is done purely for its own sake.
n. A kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details; raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream in your coffee. Briefly soaking in the experience of being alive, an act that is done purely for its own sake.
I do not want children in this life.
Yet in another,
I would tuck you in.
Tell you every bedtime story.
Lift you on my shoulders to breathe from higher places
I know not if you ever ventured to.
Mother believe me I—if we end
up tied together in another life—
would be your Mom this time.
Yet in another,
I would tuck you in.
Tell you every bedtime story.
Lift you on my shoulders to breathe from higher places
I know not if you ever ventured to.
Mother believe me I—if we end
up tied together in another life—
would be your Mom this time.
November 24, 2025 at 2:38 AM
I do not want children in this life.
Yet in another,
I would tuck you in.
Tell you every bedtime story.
Lift you on my shoulders to breathe from higher places
I know not if you ever ventured to.
Mother believe me I—if we end
up tied together in another life—
would be your Mom this time.
Yet in another,
I would tuck you in.
Tell you every bedtime story.
Lift you on my shoulders to breathe from higher places
I know not if you ever ventured to.
Mother believe me I—if we end
up tied together in another life—
would be your Mom this time.
Scrolling inevitably brings grief to me,
universally isolating as it is.
Eventually will I think anything
besides, “I want my mom back.”
Eventually will I breathe through posts reminding me—oh right. . .
Mom slipped into that final, silent sleep.
When!
When?
Please.
#poetry #grief #dailypoem
universally isolating as it is.
Eventually will I think anything
besides, “I want my mom back.”
Eventually will I breathe through posts reminding me—oh right. . .
Mom slipped into that final, silent sleep.
When!
When?
Please.
#poetry #grief #dailypoem
November 22, 2025 at 4:34 AM
Scrolling inevitably brings grief to me,
universally isolating as it is.
Eventually will I think anything
besides, “I want my mom back.”
Eventually will I breathe through posts reminding me—oh right. . .
Mom slipped into that final, silent sleep.
When!
When?
Please.
#poetry #grief #dailypoem
universally isolating as it is.
Eventually will I think anything
besides, “I want my mom back.”
Eventually will I breathe through posts reminding me—oh right. . .
Mom slipped into that final, silent sleep.
When!
When?
Please.
#poetry #grief #dailypoem
What is a wish
if not a promise
to oneself of a future endeavor?
What is a dream if not the
seeds of a wish?
Where are you planting your promises?
When do you water them?
When do you harvest?
Since when did obtainability have anything to do with wishing-dreaming-wanting?
#poetry
if not a promise
to oneself of a future endeavor?
What is a dream if not the
seeds of a wish?
Where are you planting your promises?
When do you water them?
When do you harvest?
Since when did obtainability have anything to do with wishing-dreaming-wanting?
#poetry
November 21, 2025 at 9:28 PM
What is a wish
if not a promise
to oneself of a future endeavor?
What is a dream if not the
seeds of a wish?
Where are you planting your promises?
When do you water them?
When do you harvest?
Since when did obtainability have anything to do with wishing-dreaming-wanting?
#poetry
if not a promise
to oneself of a future endeavor?
What is a dream if not the
seeds of a wish?
Where are you planting your promises?
When do you water them?
When do you harvest?
Since when did obtainability have anything to do with wishing-dreaming-wanting?
#poetry
kindle less fires,
than you remember starting.
visit more tables,
than you can fathom setting.
laugh and cry and sing,
words alone waste life’s mysteries.
do more than a luna moth might,
knowing the exact time until they die.
Love so deeply,
our grief comforts more than aches.
#poetry
than you remember starting.
visit more tables,
than you can fathom setting.
laugh and cry and sing,
words alone waste life’s mysteries.
do more than a luna moth might,
knowing the exact time until they die.
Love so deeply,
our grief comforts more than aches.
#poetry
November 19, 2025 at 8:25 AM
kindle less fires,
than you remember starting.
visit more tables,
than you can fathom setting.
laugh and cry and sing,
words alone waste life’s mysteries.
do more than a luna moth might,
knowing the exact time until they die.
Love so deeply,
our grief comforts more than aches.
#poetry
than you remember starting.
visit more tables,
than you can fathom setting.
laugh and cry and sing,
words alone waste life’s mysteries.
do more than a luna moth might,
knowing the exact time until they die.
Love so deeply,
our grief comforts more than aches.
#poetry
Obsessed with #witchhatateliertrailer as if i needed an excuse to cosplay her again
November 18, 2025 at 9:02 PM
Obsessed with #witchhatateliertrailer as if i needed an excuse to cosplay her again
Reposted by ❄️amabee❄️
Happy birthday, Qifrey! (19 November)
November 18, 2025 at 3:00 PM
Happy birthday, Qifrey! (19 November)
**Dog Earring**
Lost in other realms
I read and reel
until the crickets start signaling
it's the moon's time to feel.
Habit flips down a corner,
you always begged not to dog-ear a page
remember--"leave no trace!"
Lost in other realms
I read and reel
until the crickets start signaling
it's the moon's time to feel.
Habit flips down a corner,
you always begged not to dog-ear a page
remember--"leave no trace!"
November 18, 2025 at 8:58 PM
**Dog Earring**
Lost in other realms
I read and reel
until the crickets start signaling
it's the moon's time to feel.
Habit flips down a corner,
you always begged not to dog-ear a page
remember--"leave no trace!"
Lost in other realms
I read and reel
until the crickets start signaling
it's the moon's time to feel.
Habit flips down a corner,
you always begged not to dog-ear a page
remember--"leave no trace!"
Endless reeling,
stone cold windows of steel
the icy winters of youth
know just what the years steal.
What I once begged for—a sled and an hour—is a flick of the wrist.
Unnecessary. Next year.
The sledding hill has been barren for years.
If it snowed would the urge drive my bones?
#poetry
stone cold windows of steel
the icy winters of youth
know just what the years steal.
What I once begged for—a sled and an hour—is a flick of the wrist.
Unnecessary. Next year.
The sledding hill has been barren for years.
If it snowed would the urge drive my bones?
#poetry
November 18, 2025 at 3:09 AM
Endless reeling,
stone cold windows of steel
the icy winters of youth
know just what the years steal.
What I once begged for—a sled and an hour—is a flick of the wrist.
Unnecessary. Next year.
The sledding hill has been barren for years.
If it snowed would the urge drive my bones?
#poetry
stone cold windows of steel
the icy winters of youth
know just what the years steal.
What I once begged for—a sled and an hour—is a flick of the wrist.
Unnecessary. Next year.
The sledding hill has been barren for years.
If it snowed would the urge drive my bones?
#poetry
A bird that cannot fly retains its wings
i cannot say eloquently what i cannot say plainly.
i can only erupt
vomiting like Vesuvius
as everything turns to ash
and call myself a monicker earned for feats far greater than words from me.
I retain Poet, flapping endlessly.
i cannot say eloquently what i cannot say plainly.
i can only erupt
vomiting like Vesuvius
as everything turns to ash
and call myself a monicker earned for feats far greater than words from me.
I retain Poet, flapping endlessly.
November 17, 2025 at 2:59 PM
A bird that cannot fly retains its wings
i cannot say eloquently what i cannot say plainly.
i can only erupt
vomiting like Vesuvius
as everything turns to ash
and call myself a monicker earned for feats far greater than words from me.
I retain Poet, flapping endlessly.
i cannot say eloquently what i cannot say plainly.
i can only erupt
vomiting like Vesuvius
as everything turns to ash
and call myself a monicker earned for feats far greater than words from me.
I retain Poet, flapping endlessly.
sunset like a painting
circumstances from dateline
overnight corpses and coffins and coffee become my Sunday times.
circumstances from dateline
overnight corpses and coffins and coffee become my Sunday times.
November 17, 2025 at 2:54 PM
sunset like a painting
circumstances from dateline
overnight corpses and coffins and coffee become my Sunday times.
circumstances from dateline
overnight corpses and coffins and coffee become my Sunday times.
My sister bent over,
clutching so tightly I thought
she would never let go.
Tears reflect, rolling down
but the metal has no arms
with which to wrap around.
So I do.
Swaying to her sobbing tune.
Everyone returns to life.
I convince her we have to go.
She lets go.
Did I?
clutching so tightly I thought
she would never let go.
Tears reflect, rolling down
but the metal has no arms
with which to wrap around.
So I do.
Swaying to her sobbing tune.
Everyone returns to life.
I convince her we have to go.
She lets go.
Did I?
November 17, 2025 at 2:50 PM
My sister bent over,
clutching so tightly I thought
she would never let go.
Tears reflect, rolling down
but the metal has no arms
with which to wrap around.
So I do.
Swaying to her sobbing tune.
Everyone returns to life.
I convince her we have to go.
She lets go.
Did I?
clutching so tightly I thought
she would never let go.
Tears reflect, rolling down
but the metal has no arms
with which to wrap around.
So I do.
Swaying to her sobbing tune.
Everyone returns to life.
I convince her we have to go.
She lets go.
Did I?
there are 496 instances of grief
in my voicemail box
it’s near five hundred now
i remove the phone app
there will never be five hundred
i hide all notifications
I need no more reminders
of what once always was
of what now never can be
in my voicemail box
it’s near five hundred now
i remove the phone app
there will never be five hundred
i hide all notifications
I need no more reminders
of what once always was
of what now never can be
November 16, 2025 at 6:11 AM
there are 496 instances of grief
in my voicemail box
it’s near five hundred now
i remove the phone app
there will never be five hundred
i hide all notifications
I need no more reminders
of what once always was
of what now never can be
in my voicemail box
it’s near five hundred now
i remove the phone app
there will never be five hundred
i hide all notifications
I need no more reminders
of what once always was
of what now never can be
The phone rings
instead of Mom
saying it’s fine
saying “sorry to worry you”
I hear “There’s no easy way to say”
what the caller’s title conveys
the knowledge seeps in
through silence anyway
Mom won’t be calling again
instead of Mom
saying it’s fine
saying “sorry to worry you”
I hear “There’s no easy way to say”
what the caller’s title conveys
the knowledge seeps in
through silence anyway
Mom won’t be calling again
November 16, 2025 at 6:03 AM
The phone rings
instead of Mom
saying it’s fine
saying “sorry to worry you”
I hear “There’s no easy way to say”
what the caller’s title conveys
the knowledge seeps in
through silence anyway
Mom won’t be calling again
instead of Mom
saying it’s fine
saying “sorry to worry you”
I hear “There’s no easy way to say”
what the caller’s title conveys
the knowledge seeps in
through silence anyway
Mom won’t be calling again
north— the way I lied
south— how we met again.
to the east, supper time
in the west morning coffee
brewed under Sunday’s Times.
When we lift up the hood along the drive
everyone is trying to get by.
there is no world that does not encompass
the endless efforts of humanity
south— how we met again.
to the east, supper time
in the west morning coffee
brewed under Sunday’s Times.
When we lift up the hood along the drive
everyone is trying to get by.
there is no world that does not encompass
the endless efforts of humanity
November 14, 2025 at 6:31 AM
north— the way I lied
south— how we met again.
to the east, supper time
in the west morning coffee
brewed under Sunday’s Times.
When we lift up the hood along the drive
everyone is trying to get by.
there is no world that does not encompass
the endless efforts of humanity
south— how we met again.
to the east, supper time
in the west morning coffee
brewed under Sunday’s Times.
When we lift up the hood along the drive
everyone is trying to get by.
there is no world that does not encompass
the endless efforts of humanity
sunset like a painting
November 14, 2025 at 6:20 AM
sunset like a painting
Two books finished in October
October 30, 2025 at 7:57 PM
Two books finished in October
