the something I am missingthe wood paneling in the living roomhas been peeled from the paint;bare and brash and boldand I'm wonderingis there something thatI missed?you were the colour of my poetry,you were the delicate bone structureof a beautiful face,you were the pull of bow-and-arrow lipsinto a crooked fragile smile.my house is not my house;it has been infiltrated bya monster, and he hasblotted out, invisible ink,every line I wrotebeneath this roof.all I'm thinkingis how your breath is in the walls,how the nights fell lonelylike faded flower petals,and you were five hoursahead of me.you are blowing smoke ringsfrom the mouth that once sang me songs,you are reddening your eyeswhen once you cried for love;and in this housethat is no longer my own,I am remembering;remember, remember,because this is what I was missing,that somewhere in my heartthere is a room you have carvedin your own hand;that somewhere in my heartyou are somewhere in the worldthat isn't endless across the
the heart never forgetsI cannot remember where I fell in love;I can remember where I hated you--the hallway fluorescent,white cinderblock walls,shiny behind alcohol-glazing--and I can remember where I begged forgiveness--4am silence finally fallingin the weekend dorms,frantic fingers dialing your numberin vodka-stumbles--but I cannot remember where I fell in love;I remember the first night we spent together--we muffled our voices as I beat you in cards,you pressed yourself against the walland I pressed myself against you;you missed a meeting in the morningbecause we forgot to sleep--but I cannot remember where I fell in love;the days surrounding your birthday,where I stayed in your apartmentand shared a bed with a boywhom I did not let myself see I loved;the sun filtered,woven slatsthrough the thinly clouded glass;the nights where the floodlightsthrashed between the blindsuntil your body became a barrierfor my shaded eyes;I cannot remember where I fell in love;but as soon as the
moth househappiness,elusivelike a moth,paper thinand breathing heart,skin with liltingpowders,flight under blood.your breath is paintedagainst the skyand i am travellingin spiralswith itto the stars.behind my lipslies a sunin full bloom.we are static,side by side andsong-hearted.i feel the sunpeaking from its curtains,i feel warmcreating photographsof my body in your arms.happiness,elusivelike a moth:i have caught it.
writing and other ironiesyou used to not be able to write on paper, only on things that don't exist. you used to feel your mind, deluging with thoughts and strings of pretty words and pretty worlds, urging your hands to write down the magic within, but the second you touched a pen, the blank paper was all the ideas you had. you used to bask in the loveliness of writing, feeling the catharsis, feeling beautiful for a moment of time.you don't anymore.today you've gone to write poetry seven times, and have come up blank. the instant you hold a pen, there is flooding words, gushing words, pain and blood and beauty and more blood. that is what your paper has become since you pierced it so sharply. you don't even know you had things to say until you started moving that pen across the page. and now you can't stop. and now you can't stop. and now you can't stop feeling, absolutely feeling, drowning in feeling, bleeding out feeling, bastardizing feeling. there is no silence anymore.
there aren't enough metaphorsi palely existin a recumbentslumber,full of cleopatra's majestyand an empty stomachi drum my headoff the backboard of my bedand listen to the pretty sounds it makesmy aggression is wornlike ground coffee on my body,taking it out with burning fingersall over my frozen skin until ibecome honey, bees flocking to my coati spill you, a crackedchina cup of black tea and cream,over the sidesof the waterfallmy frame quakeswith every rumbleof my stomachwatch my silly bonestremble in fear and winds,silent rib cage dancesinto stronger spotlightsto be discovered by the talent agencyattached to the ends of your wristsraindrops writhe guttersover my neckand under my spinei am so goddamn miserablebut i have always heardself-hatredmakes for beautiful wordsand beautyis something a mirroralways leaves in its wake.
all the way home.this is a poem at midnighta walking away of hands.it is beautifulwe will never run outof salt the way werun out of lovewe are children of the seaoceans inside ourglass bodied vesselsand drifting along rough sands.i want to touch youa hundred different ways,to kiss you like i need it to breathe.you just tell me about making magici can tell you about making love(and how they are both the same).i love you more than i love myselfand i wish that actually meantsomething. instead i rely onpoorly structured lettersand wrap my head round the wildflowersin hopes that we can liehopelessly entangleduntil it is uncertain wherei end and you begin.make me laugh and you have my soul.the way your heart beats in my ribs,around my spine,you are magic.
stir crazythe way i feel about you is rivers & skiesknees bent into little peaks facing the heavens.you are the thrumming heartbeatreveling in my chest,the very lifeblood swarming,engulfing my veins,the poetry of our bodies together.you are the monday moon,the sparkle of crystal under the sun,the smeared ink making its wayacross the page on the ship of my hand.the beauty that you hold is that offorevers and fluttering fingertips,the promises i wish to hearofalwaysandforever,the strange sickness of being wantedand the sick strangeness of touch,the knowing that tonight,with your skin sleeping next to mine,i can wake in the morning's lightand you will still behere.
perpetuation of a speciesi feel like sexwarm and stickyand close and sometimesa little dark with shameor secrecybut that doesn't make meunwholesomeor immoralthat just makes me normaland not just humanit makes me universala constanta perpetuationand no one can look at mewith true displeasurebecause the one who didwould be the one whowas never here.
tomastomásman at the counter,feels the steel rim under hiscoffee-brown fingernailsfor an hour every day while hestains his cup with his dirty mouth;wore his wedding ring from 1973 untilyesterday afternoon after seeinghis wife kissing another manwith tonguehe put his hand on her shoulder androughly turned her, shejust told him howhe can never remember the divorcein 1974, please won't you remove yourring, you're making my husbandfeel uncomfortable;used to write poetry on the backs ofnapkins at the diner with the red stools,wrote them for the pretty girls healways wanted to kiss and turn theirblonde hairs between his thumbs and forefingersand never even asked their namesforgot his own after he let iterase from his wrist in black pen in the rainforgot his amnesia from the accidenthe was in last week, forgot the accident, too;went home and burnt his hands onthe radiator he always thought he neededto save, cried at the skin danglingin helical sentences and sang,
contactwould it be possibleto grow so comfortable withanother person'sskin,that distancewould feel like tearing off your own?
open opinionthe empty mouth of poetryall blackened throatand stunted teethan echoexplainingstandard shapesto meall these wallswant (youto want)all these walls
see the cradlei want you, at three in the morning.i want to borrow your booksand read their words invisibletaking a pen to the marginsto make sure you remember infifteen years that page two hundred andeighty seven made me cry from itsfirst paragraph to truncated eighthi am completely guiltyof wanting your lips on my lipswanting your bones on my bonesa heart beat from my chestmoving into yoursa field of stars stretchedacross my bed& you and i lying beneaththemi hope you don't mind.i'm soaking in sin like thesun's dying raysand feeling electric.for once in my lifei am on fire.
the last magic I believe inIt's been years and I'm still here. Recycling the same sentences. Stuck in the same words. Buried in a past that doesn't quite belong to me anymore. It's funny how with enough distance nothing ever looks real anymore. It's like the way I can stand four miles from the lakefront and can still see the horizon. Clashing blues and greens. A straight line of water against an even straighter line of sky. And that's it. It's everything and it's nothing and for a little while I can pretend I'm somewhere else. Somewhere new. That I can see an entire ocean sprawled out in front of me, instead of the dirty familiar waters of Lake Michigan. I've grown up here and I've grown apart from here, but I'm stuck at the top of the hill on the corner of the street that my sister lives on and I just want to run and run and run and never look back, but that's not all there is. That's not all that's left.It's so much bigger than that so I trace the familiar roads back to my home and I sit in my living room and
what is meant by playing deadthe house looks like helium. it is faded with cold as its body, thickets of slatted wood painted palely. shutters are closed eyelids, unbearable lightness to the miserly scene before them.these streets are cobbled and winter-bleached, colours in hibernation save for three bodies of varying paleness lying slatternly in its centre.bones compounded, salted twigs in white shades bent and broken; there is no blood, just an overwhelming taste of death.who's that? a bloodless face murmurs from its position on the axis of the recumbent spine.think his name's johnny, a nearby body whispers.it's not, the broken limbs in question croaks.the wind calls for a hush. feet shuffle in stumbling waves, the way they would at a wake, before the judgemental face of the open casket.are they all dead? a crisp voice calls.the bodies on the cold road cringe at the sharpness of the sound. a bird rustles the newspapers just fallen from the basket.a black boot taps a girl's shattere
a real breakupi am going to be sad when you see me.this meansi want you to take my vulnerabilityfrom my lipsand tell me how it tastes;find the salt of my tearsfrom my faceand feel them on your tongue;let my rawnessbecome more rawby your unshaven lip-i want you to kiss my sadnessaway.
7.I ate your absence for dinner.
02.08.14For the past year you have all known me as Echolalic-Ellie or, as we got to know each other, just Ellie. But after a year, on the eve of the publication of my very first book, I have a confession to make.When I created this account I chose to adopt a pseudonym in an attempt to remain anonymous while maintaining my personality. It was also, in all honesty, an attempt to shed old prejudices against my name and start fresh.Over the last year I have thought about telling you all but the time never felt right-- and the longer I waited, the more I fell in love with this username and the freedom it offered me.I have grown into Ellie for a year now and while I can quite honestly say that I have loved both her and who I am when I am her, it's time to let her go. So from today I am no longer Ellie. I am Kirsty Lee-- writer, dreamer, liver of a messy life, bibliophile, and I don't need to hide any more.
july 14th (1:58 am)add a hundred milesfor every yearbetween usfind the daywhen I can saythat's your best smilemaybe time's just a compass(and an arrow's accomplice)and all it's accomplishedis pointingthe wayfor a while
pipe dream.dreams:I’ve always wanted a boyfriendI could watch porn withand drink straight vodka withuntil we’re too drunk to knowwho took whoto bed.I’ve always wanted a boyfriendI could ridewithout feeling embarrassedthat there’s a freckle on my breast;a boyfriend who could make me fall in lovewith his eyelasheswhen they’re wet with tears,with his breakdowns and daydreamsand every honest, vulnerable little thing.I’ve always wanted a boyfriendwho could make me believe in Godbecause miracles were realand I didn’t need evolution anymoreI didn’t need to believethat things were destinedto change –that I didn't want them to change.dreams:(I just wanted it to be perfect.)truth:You called me heroinbecause you were addicted.“You ruined my life,” you’d say,drinking straight out the bottle.You never drank with me,so I always knew it was youwho was too drunkto get my je
.at night, something madclimbs into bed with me andi go to war with myself -words i do not want sit on the tipof my tongue, so i bite the wholething off - crimson droplets fallfrom the sky, and i start bleedingrain - dead babies, their heartbeatsslipping through the cracks in myfloorboards - kettles abandoningpots and then finding that neithercan function properly - white sheets,pillowcases, walls and white faces -a rabid cat clawing at the inside ofmy temple, let me out - krill in thebellies of whales, their hearts likeempty lockets - suffocating in thesilver lining - secrets giggling likechildren in my mind, a game of hideand seek i don't think i want to win -a lamb frolicks around the body of alion and i reap something i nevereven sowed in the first place(you idiot, you idiot, what have you done)
confessionalthey say sad girls change their hair colorand forgive their monsters.i change my moralsand become one.
Depression.To be depressed isto carry every unwashed thingin your life in yourarms.The dishes youcouldn't clean pileup with your innards,jostling for spaceamongst the lungs you'vesmoked black and theheart you've lovedthin.Your unwashed sheetshang around your shoulders,gathering dead skin cells andcatching hair you habituallytear from your skull, anervous twitch you neverquite shook.You wake up one morningand find that your hands arestill stained with dirtfrom that time you buriedyour lover in the backyard,wanting to let gobut discovering that lettinggo feels a lot likegiving up andyou're not ready forthat yet,but you will be.
In The RoomLook around. Memorize everything you can that is green.Now close your eyes.Tell me what in the room was blue.What did I say on the way to Starbucks?Someone said your name, but wasn't talking about you.I imagine that made you feel lonelier.We'd just gotten money and I was already spending it on Bliss.We walked home. Dodged puddles. The bag darkened in my hand. You barely talked since we left.We sat down. I gave you money. You stashed it. You sat down. You barely talked since we left... Quiet. Quiet... Bliss on the table before us. I imagined a man beating his wife. I picked up the pen. This pen. This notebook. I started writing. You started crying. You moved to the other room. I finished a sentence before following you. I finished this before comforting you...Neither of us touched Bliss.
i am tired of being told i will be okaysee,that's the thingsweetheart,all anyone evertells you is thatit's going to be'okay.'(you are telling methat you are leaving.)'okay.'they don't tellyou what to do withthe pressure inyour chest onthe dark days,or how touncurl your fistsfrom your hairor your nailsfrom your skin.'okay.'(you are telling methat you don't know ifyou are coming back.)'okay.'maybe i don't want'okay.'maybe i'm tired ofonly ever being'okay'.(i am building wallsagain and you are pryingmy fingers from my hair.)i want more than this,i deserve a word so full ofhope and safety that itweighs my tongue downwith flowers.give me a mouth fullof flowers and remove 'okay'from your vocabulary.i need more than this.
you have been warned.i fall in love frommy head to my feet, and itake no prisoners.