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Elinor Apr 2
My mother unravels her ball of yarn.
Her fingers; wrinkled and sallow
tug between the threads of negativity
until she finds a strand thick enough
to weave me into.
She is familiar with how it feels to hold me,
so it takes mere seconds.
And she begins to knit.
A web of negative thoughts,
spiralled patterns of negative action.
I'm trapped behind a blanket of unpleasantries that you knitted for me
and it's heavy
and it hurts to hold
and it's beginning to suffocate.
Who'd have known it would be my mother's own handiwork
that collapsed my lungs.
Her craft knots itself around me
and I'm shackled.
The heart she gave me begins to slow.
The organs she grew for me are failing.
The breaths that she waited nine months for are weakening.
I shrivel, like a newborn again.
Like HER newborn again.
Maybe, like this, she will want me once more.
does she realise?
Elinor Dec 2018
Being with you encapsulates that feeling
of trying to walk with pins and needles in your feet,
knowing that it's utterly preposterous to think
that you could fall,
but your legs stumbling aimlessly suggest otherwise.
Elinor Dec 2018
I hate what I'm writing
what if my brain is ******* me over
what if finally it's learnt from the others and packed it'd bags on me
what if my brain joins with the forces much greater than us
that I talk about
and together they plot their treason.
My thoughts are loaded gunpowder and my body
comprised of brick and cement
is the parliament building.
Maybe this poem is me
catching the rebels redhanded.
Maybe it's too late.
What if this is it,
the demise of my inner government,
the seats given to the opposition,
the monarchy going up in flames
(it certainly feels like burning)
I beg,
have me hung drawn and quartered
and feed my limbs to the birds.
And then,
from deep within the innards of a birds *****,
my last request is to
at the very least
make my severed head look pretty
I'm going through a thing
  Dec 2018 Elinor
grumpy thumb
Beyond the passion of colour
the wind is crawling over trees
clawing at loose clothing
and things
not tethered or secure.
Beyond empathic words uttered
it sings hollow
and then a full
settling its breath
to a sigh as it dies
beyond the texture it brings.
With nothing to mark
its existance except thee.
Elinor Dec 2018
I birth a litter of verse
and you're the runt of my
gritty, ****** poems,
and for that deed alone, I'm sorry
+ everything else ive done
Elinor Dec 2018
i truly hope that your skeleton festers beside mine
and our dirt clogged fingertips mould together
even after we lose the ability to grip.
wouldn't it be nice to rot with you.
decay with me
  Aug 2018 Elinor
Colors mix in the vainest of ways, in the strangest of states.

When it's a sunset to consider, red yellow blue shine soft, exchanging compliments. If they sit side by side, pure, you get a flag. If we ask a turtle, or a fish, or a frog, yellow is the land, blue is the wet, and red we'd rather forget. But if a bird shares his view, well, blue is how to fly, how to wash, and how to feed.

What does that mean?

Pastels swirl and dance and laugh. They lift hearts and tickle heads. They don't care what's in your hair, it's only fair to give joy a chair. It's a world of wonder through their eyes. Let us explore and dance and try.

If we're feeling bold, mix in some bright orange, wild green, rich plum. Talk and share and relish in the present tick of the clock, before the paint dries and we start again.

When we're curious, change the palette to warm tones with touches of gold. Add some earth to the mix, browns and tans to keep us grounded. Canary to guide us to courage, honey to give us a hold. You are every shade of yellow, all at once, never cold.

Can I tell you a secret?

There is wonder in the deep hues. Magic in the woods. The night sky is brilliant if you think to look, look up, with purple swirls and silver words. Mystery fills the lavenders and the periwinkles and the crystal cyans and whimsical teals. There is uncertainty in the depth. The ocean waves are fierce, hard to control, the dreams free and lucid, soul impossible to tie down, to define, to mold. There is extraordinary wisdom, new ways to see in the twilight, perspectives and shapes invisible in the day, yet it's impossible to understand. Is that what scared you away? For I am the blue, the cornflower petals far from the path, the space and the sky when the sun goes down, the sapphire glints floating far from the known, from your land.

See, when I asked you to stay, and you promised me time, I thought it was in my shade, but perhaps it was yours, not mine. Do you mind? Being stuck, dry in the fear of it all? Yes. You can stay in the hues you know all too well. Maybe ask amber for a dance, take orange on a walk, have coffee with cream, snuggle close to mustard, hold on to bronze's warmth. Don't mix too carelessly, don't conflict too harshly. Stay safe. Stay yellow.

What if we turned the wheel? There is curiosity in your blood, I can feel it. Like watercolor, waiting for the canvas to accept its gift. You are eager to skip into another palette; you are ready to see another world. Let's feel all the hues, use every shade, dance with the primaries, one two step, one two. Mix up the tone with their creations, until we invent new pigments, until we run out of names for all our formulations. Let us travel the rainbow. Let me show you my view.

I know. You know. You never know. You don't know what you'll get. Painting with the rain instead of an arranged set can lead to a storm, nothing but grey, nothing but dark, but at least there's no regret.

Yes, colors mix in the vainest of ways, the strangest of states.

And perhaps yellow and blue don't have any more skies to paint.
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