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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
roar
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
Samantha
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.
Elinor Jul 2018
To the two boys who think I owe them something.
My heart doesn't belong to either of you,
and your spindly fingers clenching it
don't look enough like ribbon
to fool me into thinking that
my love is a gift to you.
To the two of you,
so willing to give me
your monthly allowances of text messages
yet not your loyalty.
For thinking that an "honest" apology
fixes me having to question why
just me was never good enough
for either of you.
You were both greedy,
you always wanted more.
Now run free and fill your stomach with all the flavours that will burn your taste buds and scorch your tongue.
To both of you for being willing enough to open my box with a key that I never gave you,
rifle through my thoughts and feelings,
and not even open your ears to them,
leaving the lid off
and the contents strewn across your floor.
For offering to help me pick them back up again,
but only because my "small, little arms" are not strong enough to carry my own weight that I've carried for
fifteen years on my own.
Here's to both of you for putting me down about being small.
That is NOT my fault.
I have a mighty big cathedral for a heart and a generous brain
and that's all within 5"2.
It doesn't make you any bigger than me
(metaphorically).
Your few feet advantage doesn't give you
the power above me,
even if you can see the roots of my hair in more detail
than you would ever care to observe
the fault lines of my cracked smile.
Boys are being taught that
to love me
is to fix me,
that I am some kind of messy enigma,
a project, a goal.
I'm just a girl with a family, a girl with a head, with a spiders web of veins and a lifetime of lessons that I'm opening my arms and my heart to.
You mistake yourself for a lesson,
when I'm fully qualified to teach myself.

You diagnose yourselves
as "depressed".
Mental illness is not an accessory,
nor a quirk to make you seem more vulnerable to me.
Don't brandish it in the air,
it is not a weapon against me.
It doesn't make you adorable,
or some kind of cuddly bear boy.
Everything that's
"killing you"
is just as toxic to me.
You set my skin into blue flames
because I won't give myself to you.
No,
no,
no.
I'm tangled in my rejection,
and it thickens.
I can't be with you out of pity.
My guilt, raging deep within my bowels,
marching violently through my organs,
exploding into a supernova of
thinking that love and guilt are almost the same thing.
"I'll do anything",
I don't want anything from you.
"I'll write you a poem because I know how much you love that."
I also love being respected but neither of you ever gave me that.
My craft is not a tool of trickery,
and your words not a trance.
"I'm not like him".
But you still act like my skin is a carpet to your home,
and you walk across it with muddy boots.

You think you're a blanket to keep me warm,
but you ended up suffocating me.
To the boys who think I owe you them something,
go home.
all my poems have been long lately,
but I have a lot to say,
so I'm not sorry.
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