emmaelyse - Hello Poetry

It lives against my throat like a shard of glass, Held in your hand always. No I don’t think that you’re a monster. It was not always your hand cutting my breathing short, But you look like him with the lights off. There is never a good time to talk about the monsters that still hang Over my shoulder, But they’re smaller now. They don’t bite anymore.

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May 26, 2018

May 26, 2018 at 9:14 AM UTC

emmaelyse

untitled

It lives against my throat like a shard of glass, Held in your hand always. No I don’t think that you’re a monster. It was not always your hand cutting my breathing short, But you look like him with the lights off. There is never a good time to talk about the monsters that still hang Over my shoulder, But they’re smaller now. They don’t bite anymore.

9

You remind me that I am good. Even when I am a million miles away, Hovering above this body I live in, You carry in a breeze A freshness that blows out the cobwebs In a soft way so I don’t feel the tearing of sticky string from the parts of my head clothed in shadow. Thank you. I can breathe again.

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May 4, 2018

May 4, 2018 at 10:59 PM UTC

emmaelyse

An Ode to Open Windows and Flickering Candles

You remind me that I am good. Even when I am a million miles away, Hovering above this body I live in, You carry in a breeze A freshness that blows out the cobwebs In a soft way so I don’t feel the tearing of sticky string from the parts of my head clothed in shadow. Thank you. I can breathe again.

9

A thumb pulls back on a lighter, fire flies up, eager to grab, to please, to warm, to Ignite the tip of my cigarette, eating up the paper at the end as I **** in a breath, a pause, a moment of tension as the world Waits For me to exhale And when I blow out plumes for the night sky to devour, I send with them all of the past parts of me that have lived in this world for too long. An exorcism of the past, an offering to the night: Please do not haunt me any longer.

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May 2, 2018

May 2, 2018 at 10:40 AM UTC

emmaelyse

i don't smoke but if i did, this is what it'd look like:

A thumb pulls back on a lighter, fire flies up, eager to grab, to please, to warm, to Ignite the tip of my cigarette, eating up the paper at the end as I **** in a breath, a pause, a moment of tension as the world Waits For me to exhale And when I blow out plumes for the night sky to devour, I send with them all of the past parts of me that have lived in this world for too long. An exorcism of the past, an offering to the night: Please do not haunt me any longer.

8

And still my aunt speaks to her of roses and the weather Of “Can’t you believe it, it’s October and it’s so hot! Look, it’s good for the roses, see how big they’ve gotten.” And my mother holds her hand, Which holds inside of it ninety-two years, Fifty of which she has given to my mother, The last of which she is spending in this fishbowl world where her Hands hold on to loose thread, grab at hair falling in her face, adjust the Glasses sliding down her nose Always moving so slow, like through water. My mom reaches to move the hair from my grandmother’s face And I see myself forty years in the future, sitting in my mother’s Place after my grandmother is long gone, Tucking stray strands behind her ear, Having the same nonconversations, And I grab her hand now, and between us is fifty years, nineteen of Which were given to me, And my grandmother cannot speak, but we still speak to her of the Roses.

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May 2, 2018

May 2, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC

emmaelyse

My Grandmother Cannot Speak

And still my aunt speaks to her of roses and the weather Of “Can’t you believe it, it’s October and it’s so hot! Look, it’s good for the roses, see how big they’ve gotten.” And my mother holds her hand, Which holds inside of it ninety-two years, Fifty of which she has given to my mother, The last of which she is spending in this fishbowl world where her Hands hold on to loose thread, grab at hair falling in her face, adjust the Glasses sliding down her nose Always moving so slow, like through water. My mom reaches to move the hair from my grandmother’s face And I see myself forty years in the future, sitting in my mother’s Place after my grandmother is long gone, Tucking stray strands behind her ear, Having the same nonconversations, And I grab her hand now, and between us is fifty years, nineteen of Which were given to me, And my grandmother cannot speak, but we still speak to her of the Roses.

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