Eliana

Eliana Dec 2013

mark

The mark of his
presence is
branded
across my existence.

I see him
in the long, thin frames of teenage boys,
in the gentle winter sun,
in the color green.

I hear him
in the heavy ***** of combat boots
     and the near-silent steps of bare feet on stone,
in sharp laughter
     and wry voices,
in the quiet rustle of leaves
     nearly drowned out by the howling wind.

I smell him
in petrichor,
in the bitter-salt tang of clean sweat,
in citrus-scented soap.

I feel him
in the rain that leaves stinging kisses on my cheeks as I run,
in the brutally playful clash of limb on limb,
in the touch of human skin.

I taste him
in the aftertaste of "I love you"
     long after it has left my mouth
in the sharp, metallic flavor of adrenaline,
in mint tea with too much sugar.

I mark
his presence as
it floods
into my consciousness
every sense saturated.
But these
marks of him
do not have
the power to bring him
back.

His ubiquitous absence
is unnoticed by the
winter sun, the
leaves, the
rain,
yet
it makes
a marked difference
to me.

Now
the winter sun is
     blinding,
soft footfalls pound
     at my ears,
laughter is
     a knife.
I flinch away from
     the touch of skin.
I choke
     on saying "I love you" and
the scent of oranges.

Because people don't leave when they die.
Or maybe they try to, but you won't let them go.

Eliana Dec 2013

Stop

Stop.
Stop letting me go
Stop helping me leave
Stop making this easy for me, this
     should not be simple
Stop hurting yourself just
     because I asked

Stop.
Stop thinking of me
Stop imagining my agony
Stop trying to climb over the gate, I
     am just trying to spare you pain
Stop caring about me, right now I
     want to stop wanting to be with you but I
          can't help reciprocating when you love me this much
Stop calling my name out, into
     empty rooms, you think I will not hear you but I
          am so attuned to your voice that I hear it speak in my ears
               even when you are not here
               even when you have not actually said anything
               even when the words are not from you, they
                    are just another weapon my brain turns against itself
Stop saying that I am asking you to twist the knife
Stop twisting the knife

Stop.
Stop turning away
Stop drawing back
Stop being okay without me around, you
     are supposed to miss me, please
          say you miss me
Stop leaving me here inside these walls, I
     am being torn apart and if you
          are not here I will die without seeing you again
Stop being deaf to my stifled screams, I
     am far too committed to hiding this from you, when I
          said I did not want you to see this I meant it but now I
               just don't want to be alone, don't leave me alone

Stop.
Stop listening when I tell you
     to stop what you are doing. You
          are more sane than I am, you
               should make your own decisions, they
                    will always be better than mine, you
                         are right.

I think this one should be read aloud.

Eliana Dec 2013

to my friends

You want to know who I am?
Are you sure?
Are you sure you're not just asking the question to make me ask it of myself?
If you are, allow me to inform you - I already have.
If my answer scares you - good. Run like hell.

Who am I? I am insane.
Crazy, mad, lunatic
Frenzied, demented, deranged
Psychotic
Psychopathic

I am the best liar you will ever meet.
You will not observe my madness.

I was not always this way.
I have been broken into these jagged shards of reason,
disconnected from each other and reality.

I have felt human bones break under my hands, and I liked it.
I have felt human bones break under my hands, and now
that feeling is etched permanently in my brain by the nightmares.

Though I seek my refuge in silence and darkness,
I cannot sleep without screaming.
I am a creature of the night,
though night is the harbinger of my agony.

I am made of contradictions.
My identity shifts from second to second,
dancing to a frantic beat only I can hear.

I am incapable of controlling my own mind
so I have built a wall around it.
You are not allowed inside,
for there lies my macabre domain.
Dangerous
Deadly

My every action is a double-ended knife
piercing me as I stab another.

My only desire is to cause no more pain.
In this I will fail. I have failed. I am failing right now.
My failure slices into my flesh and that of any who approaches.

I wish I could prevent you from approaching.
I wish I wanted to.
But I am too weak to win this battle with myself.

I am insane.
I climb as high as I possibly can
before I prepare to launch myself from that height.
I do this because falling is my only chance of flying
until I hit the bottom and escape into oblivion.
Do not look for me.
I am already going to jump.
Do you want me to pull you down with me?

Written December 9, 2013.

Eliana Dec 2013

Envy (of her weeping)

I watch her crying from across the room.
Impassive.
The glances I occasionally cast in her direction
appear idly curious, perhaps slightly superior.
No better is expected of me.
I barely know her, and I already have
a well-earned reputation
of indifference.

My every action in this scene is a lie.

My glances across the room
are stolen, furtive things.
My eyes are half-lidded
not in derision
but in an attempt
to hide the intense glare
burning in them.

The tears overflow from her eyes
over small nothings,
spilling down her cheeks, and
I am jealous.
I crave that form of release.
I long to get up and beg her
I need that, give me
your tears because
my tear ducts
have shriveled up and
died
by now.

My posture slumped against the wall
masks the tension pulling at my frame.
I am only looking away
in an effort not to stare openly
for fear of shame.

I do not fear shame in her eyes.
I fear it in his.

His voice
speaks softly in my ear
reminding me of who I once was.
He points out
her weakness
his contempt for it
his contempt for me
for not sharing his opinion.

So I will not betray my fascination
to him. His absence
is the reason for my envy
of her weeping,
but then
so is his presence.

**He does not exist.
His voice whispers from beyond death and
I am going mad.

Written December 11, 2013

Eliana Dec 2013

New Metaphors

It's not that
my heart
has been ripped
from my chest
leaving
a gaping hole.
My heart
remains
inside my ribcage
necrotic
gangrenous
rotten
infection spreading.

When I say
I run
until
my feet bleed
I am lying.
In truth
I continue running
long after mere blood
as every inch of skin
is scraped off the soles
then the flesh
until
I am running
on my bare bones
and my unceasing footfalls
grind them to dust.

I describe
the way I cut
into my skin
without mentioning
that I ran
out of space
on that surface
long ago.
Now my knives
dig deeper
severing tendons
and muscles
and when those are done
I start tearing
pieces
out of my flesh
so I resemble
a half-eaten
carcass.

The word "bleeding"
does not describe
the torrent
that pours from me
like ink from a broken pen
no
like water exploding
from a crack in a pipe
no
like a floodgate
opening
letting all the liquid out and leaving behind
a muddy landscape that eventually dries
becoming scored with spiderweb cracks.

It's not that
my bones
are breaking.
None of them
are whole
anymore
what's breaking now
are the pieces
smaller and smaller
they are sharp, tiny shards
piercing my dead heart
falling from my soleless feet, a trail behind me as I run
slicing into me from the inside as I assist them from without
swept along by the red flood
to lodge in my mind.

Written December 14, 2013

Eliana Dec 2013

paper cut

Your words
are a knife that slides
through my skin
sharp enough to be smooth
but for a slight stickiness as I
am pressing too hard.

You know me well.
    (the flesh the blade has passed through looks momentarily untouched)
Too well.
    (i notice the faint groove, like the trail left on a paper by a pen with no ink)
We have used
identical metaphors.
    (the furrow is suddenly dotted with beads of scarlet)
If you know this
I have failed.
    (the trail fills with blood, a red line threatening to spill over)

Not yet.
You do not know
    everything.
You have forgotten
    that I am
a liar.

You write of victory.
    (the knife continues its journey under the guidance of my hand)
You write of battle.
     (stinging pain finally seeps into my consciousness)
You make a chrysalis
of my coffin.
    (the line is no more as blood escapes to bathe my skin in red)
You foretell my emergence
marred by fading bruises.
    (knife forsaken, my fingers tug at the path I have carved, forcing it wider)

I was lying
    when I told you
    that at our reunion I
    would fling open the gate
    and run to you.
I will be lying
    prone when you find me
    beside the gate I made
    of my will, now corroded
    to let you in.
Too late.
I am all but dead.

Written December 10, 2013
Revised December 16, 2013

in response to:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/december-60/

Eliana Dec 2013

Snow

I can't feel my feet.
Snow crunches under
my inadequate shoes and
melts into my socks.
I tread lightly.
My steps are quick,
my near-invisible footprints
fading swiftly behind me.

I walk quickly, though I
have no particular destination
in mind.
I do not seek refuge
from the icy white specks
swirling around me.
The cold was biting,
once,
but it must have stolen
its fangs from a spider
for its venom
numbs me.

This strange white world
is bereft of sensation, and I
have no desire to leave it.
When I depart
for places walled in and
warm
my feet will burn me
as they thaw.
I have no desire
to face that pain
just as I have finally begun
to cease feeling
my old, ever-present
ache.
When I remove
the garments that chafe
the rents and rips
I have torn
into my skin I
will once more wear
my wounds
as a badge of shame.

As I traverse this place of
icily blunted edges,
I gain knowledge I
have often sought.
I know what I want.

I want to take off my coat,
to pull my shirt over my head and
kick off my soaked shoes.
I want to slide my slacks
over my hips and
down my legs.
And when I have removed
the layers of fabric that stung
as they scraped against
my much abused skin,
I want to run naked
through the snow,
my bare feet sinking
into its softness, flakes
blown against my battered body.
I want to fall,
to tumble across the frozen ground and
let the cold sink
its soothing fangs into all the wounds,
all the holes in my flesh and
the tears in my skin.

Once it is done,
I will lie there
with all the warmth
slowly ****** from me,
life bleeding
from my skin
the way it dripped,
red,
from my cuts, and
I will be peaceful,
at last.

Written December 12, 2013