There’s an art to articulating anguish without drowning in clichés. In If I Could Turn Back Time, Kayla Gilheany’s background as a poet transforms Elaine’s heartbreak into something startlingly lyrical—where rage, longing, and hope collide with the precision of a sonnet. This sixth installment dissects how Kayla’s prose turns emotional chaos into a kind of sacred text, proving that even the messiest feelings can be rendered with grace. Spoiler: This isn’t your typical “dear diary” breakup story. Every sentence is a carefully placed brushstroke in a self-portrait of survival.
Notice the rhythm first. Kayla’s paragraphs oscillate between staccato outbursts (“Damn, I want you so much.”) and sprawling, breathless confessions that mimic the stop-start cadence of grief. Her poet’s ear shines in moments like Elaine’s 4 a.m. prayers—where repetitions (“God what was the point?”) build like a incantation, blurring the line between pleading and poetry. Even the witch’s chants (“S-A-R-A-C-O-O-P-A”) aren’t arbitrary; their nonsense syllables mirror how heartbreak reduces language to raw sound. This isn’t writing about pain—it’s writing from inside it.
Then there’s the imagery. Kayla avoids tired metaphors (no “heart like shattered glass” here). Instead, she conjures visceral, unexpected visuals: Loveville’s crumbling sign missing its “L,” the witch’s emerald eyes reflecting Elaine’s envy, the crows circling like “omens no one heeds.” These aren’t decorative—they’re psychological X-rays. When Elaine describes Jack as “my sunshine, my drug, my life—until he wasn’t,” the triplet structure lands like a funeral bell. Poetic techniques (anaphora, synesthesia) weaponize nostalgia, making the past feel both hyperreal and already fading.
The dialogue, too, thrums with poetic tension. Jack’s mixed signals (“I’m not ready… but maybe later”) form a cruel villanelle of false hope, while the witch’s speeches crackle with slant rhymes and abrupt caesuras that mirror Elaine’s fractured logic. Even silent moments are orchestrated—like when Elaine’s hips “accidentally” brush Jack’s, a stanza’s worth of desire packed into that fleeting touch. Kayla proves that poetry isn’t just about prettiness; it’s about density. Every exchange carries the weight of what’s unsaid.
Most daringly, Kayla lets ugliness be beautiful. Elaine’s social media stalking isn’t sanitized; it’s rendered with grotesque lyricism (“I gagged wanting to smash my phone”). The witch’s truth bombs (“He just didn’t love you. That’s not a crime.”) land as perfect iambic punches. By giving shame and obsession the same careful language as tenderness, Kayla validates the full spectrum of heartbreak—not just the photogenic parts. The result? A book that doesn’t just describe healing, but enacts it through language, one precise, cathartic sentence at a time.
If I Could Turn Back Time reminds us that heartbreak, at its core, is a storytelling act—and Kayla ensures Elaine’s is told with savage elegance. Next time, we’ll explore the book’s cult following: Why readers are tattooing quotes and sending Kayla tear-stained letters.
