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Ellie Belanger May 2023
You told me that your name was wrong;
Who am I to disagree?
I know the sound and feel of it,
and it fails to capture you.
That's not surprising though,
I feel the same about my own.
When we're given titles at birth,
it's only inevitable that we outgrow them.
Ellie Belanger May 2023
You will lay yourself into me like so much brickwork,
building and sealing each hard-fired thought and feeling,
stapling old wounds shut with smiles and glittering eyes,
your lips stealing into mine, welcome thieves.
I would like to resist you,
to turn my shoulder and laugh; not cruelly,
but with self-assurance that this is all just play.
But when you place your hand against my face and pull me close,
and I feel the warmth of you against the warmth of me,
the truth of it all spills across my soul,
leaving bright stains of gold that shimmer in the new day's dawn.
Yes, all things new. Yes, all things old.
Yes, all things you and I.
Ellie Belanger Nov 2019
At the corner, waiting to turn.
His hand in my hand
but I’m still looking for
distracted by the dream fading.
I need to wake up,
I know.
But it feels so nice
when you visit me
sleeping curled tight in my covers,
and have grand and tragic
adventures on my behalf
as we chit-chat in the slumbering dark.
Oh! The tug is tugging
his hand is pulling
it’s time to turn.
I can’t help but to look both ways
for your cool asphalt shadow.
Ellie Belanger Aug 2019
What speaks to you?
The tongue varies - but tastes,
Tastes, my dear,
They change slowly.

Is it the touch of warm skin?
The sashay of cascading hair
and the pleasant popping
Of undone buttons?
Mortal desires
Have mortal consequences,
My dear.

Is it assurance in your wealth?
Do you long to never worry
About the poverty that oppresses?
You can have much but never
Have it all,
My dear.

Would that these words
Could speak to you
And cause a shift
Deep within your soul
If such a thing exists,
My dear.

But my tongue is twisted.
So it goes,
My dear.
Ellie Belanger Aug 2018
you are like
being a child, waking up
from a dreamless slumber,
suddenly awake
warm beneath the soft comforter
your grandmother sewed for your brother
the one faded almost to threads,
so white and gently patterned in the eight am sun
and fall has come
and the air is clear and dry and cold
but the sunlight is warm
so you cast off the comfort of the comforter
you holler silently down wooden hallways
you scatter loosely down broken gravel pathways
and out into and endless grass
up to the waist, with purple and golden flowers
all covered in wet night dew
and you sing the song of the soul
that is
the chilly tickle of water droplets running down your legs
and the slight scratch of the blades of grass across your ankles
and legs.
The song of morning
and of bright sunlight
and of fresh air and rebirth,
a song of things passing on
and new things beginning to

you are like the small minutes
of infinite and beautiful and
humble freedom
that makes us all human again.
Ellie Belanger Aug 2018
This end marks the beginning
Just another page written
Edited into a new story
A continuation
But in a different language
In a place yet unseen
So that all the tears cried
Out of fond farewell
Can be the ink
Of this new chapter
Ellie Belanger Aug 2018
I am lonely.

I am lonely.

I am lonely.

But shhhhhh

Don’t tell anyone
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