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Eulalie Oct 2013
You were the enterprise of my frontier,
expanding wide, new sliding glass doors in front of my eyes like the grand opening to the gates of an
uncharted section of heaven,
Our friendship affected me more than
I have ever managed to convey,
I felt like after groping around in a dark clutter of disorientation, I touched your hand and you held mine in yours for a most enriching, painfully fleeting while,
And every slicing moment dissolved ever-faster the present into the past; time was not the lingering pleasant man with face nose-deep into that rosebush
but he was that scurrying monkey suit hurdling brashly through conceptual space as if always in a rush.
Like clockwork the moment your hand gave mine that enticing squeeze--that little implied promise of adorational reciprocity and affirmation--it just as suddenly loosed its grip altogether and dropped away.
You were the most profound "What If" I'll never gain the self-preservation and willpower to forget, and in my most dire moments of no sense of direction,
my weak coddling infant of an ego will cling to that most desirous notion of romantic ambiguity,
And for that, I shan't ever truly let go of my idea of what could have been,
under alternative circumstances and more suitable factors on both parties' parts,
because I still trust that the girl I was at sixteen new
what it was she was feeling
when she basked in the wealth produced in her admiration of you.
You were the first real name scribbled on the metaphysical list of my fancies,
And I can't manage to forget so.
This is the first time in a while I've written of you. Two years and three boys later, I can still let you conquer my head.
Eulalie Jan 2014
I wasn't supposed to be your passing fancy—
Your pretty little doting thing
who heels to your every beck and call
and reels and daydreams obsessively—
I wasn’t supposed to succumb to romanticizing notions
at all;
I wasn’t meant to fall
in love with a stranger who’s impossible to love
because you’re way the **** over there
living a life while I’m in the corner of my room sketching out your
holy doves—
Tell me: how is this fair?
That I can’t have you and hold you and have you hold me
I can’t tell if you’ve actually grown distant
or bored or indifferent or
have this secret building desire to just sign off
and flee—
I’m always pining away for you,
I hope you’d see
That my heart has always been yours
And it’s breaking in your hands,
You didn't tell me you loved me today.
Eulalie Mar 2014
From over five thousand to less than five: I feel like it’s safe to say that the physical distance has officially been closed, though I’m laughing at the irony that is my life, for so much has changed since I first dreamt of this moment, and I’m wondering if any other kind of closeness would ever possibly ensue (though very much ambiguous, I’m thinking no).

So much is different, and I’m only musing, entertained by how circumstance has been presented, how much of myself has been altered, how estranged I feel that I’ve taken myself so far for the sake of pursuing an idea.

I’m giddy at not knowing, enthralled by delicious obscurity, fused with throes of adrenaline at mere contemplation of potential reconciliation, though unperturbed wholeheartedly by the threat of rejection, because my heart is no longer in your hands.

It belongs to myself again; I scooped it up from off the floor after you let it go, and I’m empowered by the independence instilled within my own soul. I will not break my own heart.

But we are no longer five thousand miles apart—less than five, even, and five months ago that self that loved you so profoundly and desperately deserves some kind of closure, and this new, strong self I’ve constructed has enough conviction and determination to coddle the old one if things go awry. But this travel, since circumstance has changed so greatly lately, is no longer about you.

You are not my sun, nor my moon—merely a constellation that, were I to get distracted, I can lose sight of easily, can confuse your luminescent patterns with the chaotic translation of stars around you.

If you send me away, shove a ******* at my face, I’ll melt the cold chip with self-love and graciously enthrall myself with the enchantment of travel. Whatever the outcome, I can’t lose.
This isn't as clever as I could have made it, but I'm stuck on prose.
Eulalie Oct 2013
The swings of my mood over you are far more interchangeable than I'd ever care to let you know.
I let myself believe that I'd fallen out of love with you, once,
and ******* that was a brutal ten hours that I'll never be able to take back
because now that I let my head entertain itself with the idea that you may very well break my heart
one day,
my first instinct is to blink back the tears and guard
the poor, pathetic, helpless weakling that is my
truest self--
to guard that infantile child behind
a titanium wall of stoicism;
metallic sleeves shielding the heart draped beneath them as they shine with the cool, pragmatic demeanor of a straight-faced soldier staring into the gaping pit of obscurity
because love is, granted, a magical concept,
but it simultaneously happens to equivocate to something perfectly horrifying,
and the frailty of my withering heart is, day-in and day-out, under constant scrutiny,
for I would rather not
have to mend
the torn up pieces left behind by your indifference.
Loving you scares me more than I'd ever care to let you know.
Yeah, yeah, this one's about a boy, too. But too much has happened with my heart and I have so much to express. I am sorry.
Eulalie Nov 2013
the worst thing you can be

is in love.
as am I
Eulalie Oct 2013
My nights are starless
And the moon isn't as bright
Unless I've got you

It kills me to leave
But the moon always returns
Never doubt our love
I wrote this and you wrote that and yours is so beautifully apt and you're just very very impressive.
Eulalie Feb 2014
What you were will never happen again.

I really want to ******* *****.
Eulalie Nov 2013
I've been trying to write something of substance for quite some time now,
trying to collect fresh thoughts from newer moments of you
and rearrange them into phrases that would gift me a new remarkable piece of the puzzle that is the immeasurable complexity of your soul.
I've been trying to bottle up this obtrusive, demanding feeling of utter awe that comes when you and I climb into our honesty and wear it to bed, side-by-side.
I've been trying to backtrack slightly, wishing so desperately (though stoically!) for the return of those painfully dire professions of unadulterated romance, reminiscing in the saturation of your love letters and how the color red is breathed into me time after time to remind me how powerfully you've shifted the balance of my life.
I love you, I love you, by god, do I love you.
My fears are still the same, though, Darling, and I feel that with the redness of passion shall also come a redness of a quality that pertains to homicidal gore,
for you have, still, that scalpel in your hands,
and my heart blooms every moment of my life, not for its love of me, but for the hope that it may one day bloom for the last time cradled in your blood-soaked palms.
I've been trying to say anything else for a week but nothing will break from the gates and give me a solid night's sleep anymore.
I can't tell you how mad you've actually made me.
Though I do dare to hope that I've evoked similar sentiments in you.
I've made my peace with it, I feel.
Eulalie Oct 2013
I'm sorry you're sad
(There's a bluebird in your heart)
But he's in mine, too
Haiku's, man...
Eulalie Feb 2014
Dearest Mr. Blue
You're far away now, Love, but
My heart waits for you.
Eulalie Nov 2013
There is someone out there, someone who loves you eternally and unconditionally and affectionately, and he is sleeping across the sea, dreaming his sheets draped over two, you tuck inside his chest and feel hearts beating,
the both of you.
And you sigh and so does he and you can touch the pleats of the moon's skirt and she was right and so was he: what ever was there to doubt about?
Eulalie Jan 2014
I’m awake—
Home alone at four in the mourning,
Sad and suffocating, seething with this broken, desperate feeling—
I’m wondering where this dying animal came from
And when it is that I might start breathing
I am in the ocean, which is beautiful,
But my working lungs lurch and bend,
I thought that my reserves of oxygen
Were safe with you, dear friend,
But you’ve gone and left me alone again…

This time for good,
So my body struggles for the surface,
Recycling used up breaths,
Never missing you, dear friend, any less,
Any less,
But mad at you for feeling like leaving,
Stealing my air, and then later feeding
Me full of impersonal pragmatics—
Stealing from my heart this rose-colored, washed out meaning
About whether you’d ever
Told me a single romantic truth—

Everything special and dear,
As I’d grown to fear,
Was over and done and your heart is no longer near
To mine.
You said it has died,
But I guess I missed the funeral.

I feel so used up and stagnant and empty.
This pain, it can’t be around;
I’m trying to swim to the surface, but
The current is shoving me down;
You left me alone in the dark and the cold and I’m afraid I’m not strong enough—
I’m afraid that I may drown.
Is this what a breakup feels like?
Eulalie Oct 2013
My nails dig
into the skin on my arms
when I let myself think over what you've become to me:
your eyes are the needles I stick everywhere into my veins,
viciously, selfishly, fiendishly,
begging you look me over, once, twice, thousands of times in all the unused, neglected spaces.
I yearn to inject everything, anything you have the grace and generosity to grant unto me--
to shoot up and float away--
so that as your love pulses through my bloodstream and dilates my pupils I can revel in the explosion of sensation and sentiment that has too long lain dormant in the chambers of my heart.
Your voice puts shivers down my spinal column, drawing with the softest touch a line from its base
to the baby hairs at my neck,
It churns the contents of my abdomen slowly,
the intense heat
in a motion like the currents within the core of the Earth:
liquid heat rising,
cooling, falling, heating,
rising again--
a cycle by which ignites a white-hot fire from the depth of my being by which no other soul has managed to awaken before yours.
I'm so
terribly, helplessly, uncontrollably
addicted to you, my Darling.
You've become quite the drug to my ever-craving palate of desires,
and to go too long a time without that appeasement, the undeniably luxurious romantic gratification by which you so masterfully exude
for me
is to refuse the dregs their drugs
and I cannot fall into withdrawal again.
My nails dig
into the skin 'round my head
tearing out hair
because I've gone mad over you.
This one wrote itself, really. I went into this with an idea that has somehow transformed of its own accord. Unexpected. Serendipitous? Precipitous for sure.
Eulalie Jan 2014
You’re not sorry,
So stop saying so.

There’s no gravity to your
Emptied apology;
I’m tired of dreaming
Of ambiguity and opportunity.

This poem is a eulogy:
Sending off the desperation
Fueling me
To let go of your cold heart
That’s been just using me
To stoke the dying embers
Starved from emotional seclusion—

I’m trying so very hard not
To let myself live with the delusion
That you and me
Could ever be
Other than some LDR fling—

And those months (one through five)
Weren’t even real,
Because neither are we.
This love, was it ever alive?

At least I’m not.
After all, I’m just a thought
That you’re hoping your heart has forgot—
A figment from chaotic space
That you’re forcing yourself to eradicate,
Go ahead; take the eraser to my smiling face…

You’re not sorry,
We both know it isn’t true:

*“Cause with every ‘I love you’ I’m now getting over you”
Volatile to the maximum.
Eulalie Oct 2013
I'm too romantic?
because all I needed was
something from your heart
It's enough to take to bed with me for the night, and for that, I thank you
Eulalie Jun 2014
A Tale of Two Cities, Marie Antoinette, Les Misérables,
Populaire and Jacqueline Boyer—
Van Gogh and Monet and all things the Louvre—
Louise Labé and Louis Aragon,
Camus, Voltaire, Baudelaire…
I’ve been breathing in pieces of France,
Eating baguettes,
Dreaming of their kisses,
Committing the curl of their words to memory,
To maybe find out just why they say the French love better.
Maybe if I’ve established the impartiality to the Eiffel tower and the familiarity of romantic cheek-and-cheek-kiss greets,
I will grin under the Parisian Moon, whispering with some curls of my own:
Je suis heureux.
Eulalie Nov 2013
Something I read of you tonight,
Some sweet tapestry of gentle words interwoven with my name,
Resonated particularly deliberate and intentional in the
Hollow beneath my chest and
Something tells me that you can read my mind as easily as
I can fall in love with yours.
I’m sorry if you felt my own detachment
(About time! That was my intention, Love)
And I’m sorry if it hurt you
But to be able to read or hear or feel the simple declaration: “I care”
To me
From you
Is all I’ve ever asked for.
I am crying now, only casually, because I found the messages
In your poem and it is as if all the reservations I experience
In distant moments of doubt and uncertainty are unfairly
(Conveniently, though, for the sake of both of our souls)
Washed away at the last possible minute and romance is revived anew.
You’ve no possible inkling as to what tonight’s professions have done for me
All over again.
Or perhaps you do, as I suspect.
I needed those words, for I was running out of remarkable gifts
To take with me to bed at the end of the night,
And those words have set me for at least the upcoming week
With a comfort I’ve no name for.
I’m telling you right now, Darling,
I pray the muses of Cupid from the heavens
Constantly sing to you
The soreness in my heart from all these secrets I’ve been bottling.
I pray they buzz around your head and
At the edge of your dreams so that you wake up with a want
To find your way into my heart again.
I love you infinitely and irrevocably and ceaselessly—
My sentiments have become tangible and definite and irreversible because of
Something I read of you tonight.
Either you troll these poems or you're clairvoyant. Either way, you made me a happy lover tonight.
Eulalie Oct 2013
I'm keeping Secrets
and ******* around on Love
We aren't exclusive
I can't help myself
Eulalie Nov 2013


My heart was the punchline.
Eulalie Jan 2014
Some days are easier than others,
Some days I forget,
Some days I’m numbed and way too ******,
Even alone,
To feel those pangs of regret.
And some days aren’t even days,
But small intervals of merciful distraction
Amongst the somber haze of blue—
It’s only but a fraction of the solace I want,
Of the love that we shared,
All the affection I gave to you—
Though I know you still care,
Since you haven’t cut me out entirely,
And neither I with you;
I’m hoping that you’re still hoping,
And I’m wishing that I can prove it—
That one day, I’ll belong to you.
Eulalie Jan 2014
I listened to your latest rap, and
how terrible I feel for loving it so much.
How terrible it is that the only raps in which I am the muse are of broken hearts and tragedy.
How terrible it is that I think this may be more beautiful than what I had with you this time last month.
You said you were getting over me though, and
I’m struggling to grip onto reality, for my hope is blinding
me too dramatically and my heart wants so desperately
to not believe you.
I can’t afford to let you go,
not to my core,
for fear of letting my feelings harden anymore,
over this.
We’re both volatile, but what we’ve shared was
You are real.
And I feel that you’d told me otherwise,
fed me some scrambling apologetic lies,
over the sake of granting each other freedom—
pseudo-altruistic *******, trust me, love, I didn’t need ‘em.
I didn’t ask that you’d set me free,
merely that you be with me;
it’s just you I need.
But I will wait, because neither of us has really said
and I don’t doubt that those parting words will die
before they ever reach one another, and after waiting,
I will try,
But until then,
at least I’ve made you feel something.
At least you’ve made me feel something, and
how terrible I feel for loving it so much.
In denial? Perhaps. Hopeful? Infinitely.
Eulalie Oct 2013
A lot of things in my life go missing
I lose phones
I do a lot of missing, too
I miss brothers
Fashion trends
I should have known that I'm to be doing a lot more missing
Since you came around
I'm very glad I sought you out, nonetheless,
And now, it seems,
Every moment spent without you
Still has everything to do with you
Your absence constantly plagues the forefront of my mind like some
Sick craving that I've let walk into my home and cuddle next to me on the sofa
At night I'm spooning with reruns of our conversations
Pausing and rewinding the parts that put that swooping feeling back into my stomach
Like it did when you said
You think you could love me, too
And I know, Darling,
That we're supposed to be carrying on:
******* the marrow out of life
Fulfilling our days with excitement and adventure
But I've realized that there's no living anything
Lest you're part of my everything
And at weak moments like this
When I'm doing more than my fair share of missing
I'm also kind of hoping
That when I'm not with you
You're still missing me, too
I write a lot when no body talks to me.
Eulalie Oct 2013
I'm no good with speech
I didn't mean to get weird
Love just terrifies
If you're reading these I'm really upset with you.
Eulalie Sep 2013
I can't say this out loud.
I think I could love you.
The unintentional effrontery of the previous declaration is perhaps a bit too early for your heart to absorb.
Or perhaps mine.
But if your face continues to express the nature of your soul and your words continue to set fire to my good sense,
And if you continue to tell me stories that force my love,
And halt my breath,
Fate doth compel my mind to say it out loud
And insanity perhaps hath found
A foothold in the nook of my heart.
I think I could love you.
I told him.
Eulalie Nov 2013
I hate to do this--
I gave you my heart last time,
but I need it back.
Sorry not sorry.
Eulalie Feb 2014
I keep trying to convince myself that I’ve mustered enough strength to stand up, take a breath, and move the **** on with my life,
content and resolute in knowing that you can’t be a part of it any longer;
I keep trying to convince myself that it was all a bad
(and exquisitely decadent)
dream, that none of it actually happened, that you were precisely those last terrible words, and nothing else;
I keep trying to convince myself that I never loved you,
that I do not still love you…
And yet all the while I can’t muster enough strength to stand up at all;
I balance and wobble on shaky stilts for a brief bit of time, sure, distract myself with “living my life” and “letting you go” and
finding peace amongst the heartbreak, but I am too clumsy to keep abreast for long—
the end of my shoes clip and snag onto memories of sweet nothings, and
I fall all over again as if it were for the first time;
I fall and hit the ground with a smitten, dazed smack of my head to the pavement,
and at first I’m numbed with pleasantries, with the tender memories and harmonies that used to put me to sleep with a smile so stupid it wouldn’t wipe away,
but then the stars clear
and I’m trying to bite back the smarting with fallacies over my decidedly pragmatic indifference, and in my not-yet-pained stupor,
I can almost breathe a mechanical sigh—
can almost get swallowed up by sheer lack of sensation—
and extract a salvation out of my own emotional etherization and find satisfaction amongst the numbness…
I can almost move on if I don’t feel at all…
But I don’t have any reserves of Novocain or morphine, and after I’ve fallen,
the pain always returns.
I keep trying to convince myself that what you told me was true,
that you weren’t ever real,
that you weren’t ever real,
but that contemplation is destroyed the minute it enters the recesses of my darkened cognizance, and I can never revere over a single ******* moment of my day without
something of you
making its unsolicited entrance;
you were always real.
I don’t know;
I just want something positive to come of us, still;
I still hope all the while we are silent; I still yearn all the while we stay distant—
you still are the victim of my fantasies all the while within my head I lament,
praying that I’ll find contentment,
and that for a small while you are only just taking rent
elsewhere, and will soon miss me enough to say that leaving me is never
what you meant of it…
Call me excessively self-indulgent and masochistic for all the
emotional ballistics and disconsolate pyrotechnics
but I’m convinced that the last five months can be validated with a
simple romantic fix of all of this:
for you and I were too explosive not to make sense;
there’s too much that’s been felt,
too much harboring under my doting starry-eyed belt,
too much over which you’ve made me melt.
All I’m asking for is your help.
I surely didn’t imagine you,
I didn’t imagine that warmth that so affectionately looms,
didn’t imagine the luminescence of the moon,
didn’t imagine the connection between us two…
I suppose what it is that I’ve been trying to say, what all along I’ve attempted to convey,
is that I miss you:
Please come back to me, Mr. Blue…
I really ******* miss you.
This is more of a prose, but it wreaks of intensity and desperation and pathetic honesty. Eh.
Eulalie Oct 2013
It's rather unfair of you, you know,
Evoking such profound sentiments from my flighty soul as if you can just waltz into the lion's den, chair in hand, and whip at the air in the rather unlikely hopes that the lioness in me bends.
Only that I do.
It's rather unfair of you, you know,
That you can charm your way through my barriers like you have, and tell me things that rip the rest of the world away, leaving you and I on a cloud waltzing slowly through your quiet, scientific romancing
And then pull away at a moment's notice because you're the one holding the whip, and I'm left alone in a dark cave with my thoughts reverberating back at me against the cold stone, with you likely under the presumption that I miss you.
Only that I do.
I've found too severe a necessity for the moments traded in the little world we've fashioned for each other. Your voice resonates like a song from my past, a familiar tune I've forgotten the words to, and yet I am sure that I've listened to it many times before. It melts in my veins like a sickly-sweet resin, thickens my blood into honey, and heats my cheeks with an excitement I've never known.
I don't know why it is that I must love you,
Only that I do.
I feel like you'll think this one is silly
Eulalie Sep 2013
I'm not going to write about you in my journal
Because unfortunately I feel that that form of confession tends to backfire dramatically and leave me jinxed.
It's like those ink-stained secrets wrapped up in leather counteract the decadent visions I drift to sleep with at night
And so,
I'm not going to write about you in my journal
You see, I care about the concept of you far too deeply to chance our lingering moments on teenage whimsical compulsions to gush in secrecy
About the way your words shifted my anchored soul,
About the flooding in my heart when you bared yours,
About the mass amounts of internal riots
(The butterflies doth protest)
Of your pragmatic, flirtatious adequacy
Nay, mastery.
I'm not going to write about you in my journal
For fear of risking those moments of substance:
Soul-bearing times where I wanted nothing more than to jump eight hours ahead so that I could see the undigitized blue of your eyes and feel the ends of my nerves explode off my skin like the Fourth of July.
How is it
That physical proximity has nothing to do with the closeness we seem to share?
I feel
by some unexplainable piece of mind to insist and hope and wish that
Like you once told me under volumes of conversation,
We are connected.
I don't want to waste any of this enigmatic familiarity and sudden interdependency
On matters of my own private indulgence
And for this,
I'm not going to write about you in my journal
For you say that you are Atheist
But I know that you meant it when you told me
Your soul knows mine.
It came from the heart. My obsessive, infatuated heart.
Eulalie Oct 2013
Floating beneath the brilliance of the full moon, I'm shooing away the wispy dark tendrils of sleep, swatting at the lazy tired gnats who are as directionless as I am.
I scrub away the hints of sand from the corners of my eyes and yawn wide enough so to dispel the collection of retiring bats who've claimed sanctuary in the cavern of my ribs.
I've without a purpose other than to carry on with my meager, passive existence in this dark limbo of twilight.
"Go to sleep silly"
As if you sensed from five thousand miles my nocturnal habituation of lethargic solitude,
As if it pierced the air like the dull green blinking at the end of the dock over on East Egg, calling out to you like a tiny beacon of distant opportunity--a lighthouse in the tremulous sea nights of--yes--your own affections and desires emanating back to you.
And all at once, I feel an eternity of connection tethering me back to my plot of soil, somehow not as empty and cold as it felt before.
Because you somehow knew, and that somehow makes my meanderings less of a thing to dwell with, for somehow someone somewhere cares if my soul is restless.
So I'll probably end up going to sleep.
After all, I'll find you again in my dreams.
It's a bit shapeless, but I'm in the throes of sleep as I type, so we're going to just deal with it.
Eulalie Nov 2013
I'm wondering when you're going to finally open the door

so you can read the
eviction notice

I taped on the other side of it.
Eulalie Jun 2014
The fact that I got under your skin may in correlation mean that you still may be under mine.

A stalemate that will perhaps dissipate in time.

I'm already over it.
Eulalie Jan 2014
He's like sunlight
and whenever I think of him under the cover of the night
my eyes have to squint because
in my heart it gets so bright—
so much so the love's impossible to
because it all feels so right
and why fight it
when I can just ride it,
S'not like I mind it
or attempt to hide it;
the romantic in me is promptly ignited
and all the sensual candles are lighted,
forming a trail to my heart, you're guided—
I'm so madly in love that even when
I lay alone
at home
my mind always roams
to the sun rays that always'd shone
just how far up the wings from my heart—
having let myself flown—
He's like sunlight
and even at night
my room grows so bright
that I can't even sleep,
but I've no reason to weep
for I'd rather stay awake
and think of all the love there is to take
and cultivate—
His rays've kept me warm,
our love, unconditional, albeit occasionally forlorn.
I wrote this on a good day. Good days will come again.
Eulalie Feb 2014
Kristin says that you’re a ****.

At two in the morning I took a drive by myself to The Middle Of Nowhere, Surprise, Arizona, and I’m just sitting in the dark, gazing into the flat black sky. The moon is dulled, hazy, and blurred by the casted smear of clouds, like my current opinion of you. I don’t know what it is that I should feel anymore. I haven’t cried in an extensive stretch of my life, which in real time is actually only a couple of days, but last week feels like a year ago to me.

It’s so quiet in my heart.

There’s no traces of hurt that I can muster enough delving to detect within myself, but I know that if I went back home and fell asleep in my room, I would wake up drenched in sweat under the covers, simultaneously shivering and overheated and silently overwhelmed, daunted by the absence of your love.

But right now, sitting in my car, curing like a taciturn husk of a person in the reticence of the night, I can almost mistake this detachment for serenity. The night wraps me in a blanket infinitely more comfortable than the ones on my bed, and nothing is out here to tie you back to my memory.

I don’t know what it is that I think of you, anymore.

Kristin says that you’re a ****, and maybe that’s true. But there was someone else there, too—there was someone of particular interest that I can almost remember, someone that had me feeling deeply every single “I love you”. But it’s been a year in my time, and I’ve forgotten. It doesn’t feel like you had ever been mine, and right now, sitting in my dark car, everything is completely, entirely, serenely fine.

I can’t see the moon anymore.
Eulalie Oct 2013
My biggest fear is that everyone will eventually discover how positively unremarkable the soul beneath this husk of a person always was,
To shy away from the cringing passersby as they gawp mercilessly at the offending blemish of my existence.
I'm trying to learn how to like myself, but it's a pathological, preexisting condition to be able to identify all of the things wrong with me simultaneously as an individual and as (un)contributing member to society.
I don't mean to be so cruel, for I know in my heart that self-love is paramount to intelligent, peaceful, pleasant enlightenment,
It's merely that I sense some ubiquitously negative energy whenever I make the attempt to muster up some sort of internal kindness.
No, it gets wasted on all the strangers and non-strangers in my socially habituating dwelling.
I'll share with them the stars from the sky and the very constellations from their hearts and make them feel positively dynamic and optimistic and they'll walk away from me with a cushy spot for hope in their pockets.
And I'll retreat to the shelter on my back, drained as if the flow of my mind were poured out in a colander, leaving the pulpy, distastefully rude thoughts that remained to wreak havoc on my crippled self-esteem.
I'm so sorry that my kindliness is some lewd pantomime of genuine altruism.
I'm sorry if I destroyed the ethereal, impossible image of who you fashioned me into.
I was always afraid that this would happen.
I decided to try some alternate honesty with myself. I don't know how I feel.
Eulalie Oct 2013
It's all been soiled like some overused sponge stinking of mildew and the precise antithesis of the cleanliness it was meant to produce.
It took but a second for my overly-romanticized secret affair to be shoved into the bottom of the garbage disposal and minced over and over by the thunderous roar and bite in the throat of the sink, and good ******* lord I felt every grind and tear slicing up my entrails and leaving me gutted and panicked on the kitchen floor.
This is why he, and every other precious charm sparkling in the trove of my heart belong locked away in a safe and hence buried at the deepest trench that can thus even only be located by the swiftest of explorers.
I should have known you to surpass qualifications in navigating the turbulence (there be none for you, probably, anyway) and disarray that is the ever-winding contour of halls and trap-doors within the chambers of my heart.
You're too sly to just float along the surface to the tempo of my shallow praises in that scarlet inner tube and work on your tan from the UV Rays emanating from the warmth of my I am happy smiles,
No, you're unsatisfied lest you've overturned every lingering mystery and lighted the sad, empty shadows that I had humbly darkened so to preserve the pathetic weaknesses and guilty pleasures that I hide inside them.
I'm sad that you think that with that necessary darkness comes malice, because I've never had an honest evil wish for even the scaliest of serpents.
But now you know that for yourself, and you knowing is the same as five billion men and women hearing and seeing and discovering at last the very unremarkable and demeaning secrets of my heart.
I'm going to try to be okay with this, so all the while please,
if you can manage,
try to be okay with me and my "lie".
I'm lucky enough for you to love me anyway, Dearest Salty.
Eulalie Nov 2013
The power went out in my house for the first time tonight.
It took only but a moment for everything to run loose from my hold and to leave me empty handed and
It was as sudden and unpleasantly startling as the moment I realized I’d
fallen in love with you
and now these vaulted ceilings and smart, leather couches have fallen
to the same darkness that shrouds my breaking heart.
I think you’re really selfish.
But so am I,
and as I hide in the blackness with the amber haze of
casting those flickering shadows of
twisted, dancing demons on the walls I am hearing their exaggerated whispers hastening me to resent you for it.
They intoxicate my head about how you’re probably being
more selfish than me.
For god sakes you sent me a short story
laden and sodden and dripping
with all of these beautiful similes and thoughts and they were
Not only were they not written for me, but for some
replacement muse
who has beautiful green eyes (are not mine, any longer?) and a beautiful smile (have I stopped grinning at you? I wonder now how it is I lost your love.)
that conquered your heart and blasted past my deafening, mundane
You say you love me
You say you wish you’d say it more
You say you love me so much.
But the demons scoff at you—they’re telling me you’re lying.
O the lies! Liar! Clever devil, that one! Don’t believe those sweet things! they admonish with a brutality that entices me to scream out loud at you,
to shout and yell and kick and scream out loud because
how dare you do this to me?
Why love me at all
When your muse beckons with her beautiful, superior, faultlessness and tempts and tantalizes and
replaces me?
You say you love me so much.
And I, you, Darling.
But it’s too dark in my house and it’s too dark in my head and it’s too dark in my heart
And you have a new muse.
I'm going to try to move on. Slowly but surely. This was such a fleeting splendor.
Eulalie Oct 2013
This is me, giving you your space.
I know you didn't ask me to.

But I can feel you pulling at the thread that connects your tin can to mine.
I can feel the tension--here it twang audibly--as my grip and yours tighten over the parts of us
That we've exchanged like love letters and sweet nothings
(Which for the record I secretly hope were more like sweet somethings).
This serendipitous intimacy that I've grown so psychologically dependent on putrefies under the priorities we've got to uphold
Like maintaining our social lives
And finding a chance to unplug
And remembering who we want to be when we aren't eighteen
For the sake of treading water in the infinite flow of todays and tomorrows...
It weighs on me wide and heavy like the five thousand miles of land and sea that stretch between us.
And I know that you're not distant because I did something
Or didn't do something.
But the fact of the matter is that you are distant.

So I'm giving you your space
Whether you notice or not
And maybe if I get lucky
You'll find your way back to me.
I don't know man. This poem's stupid now that I'm looking at it.
Eulalie Oct 2013
I’m quite disappointed in myself,
because all I ever have to show for my supposed beloved writings can be chalked up to a pile of sugar-coated, overly-analyzed, exaggerated, (quite pathetically so!) melodramatic infatuation from a stupid girl who casts a boy as her sun in her ever-revolving solar system of sentiments.
It really is quite pathetic,
because I am a deep, competent, sentient human being with opinions and revelations and insights on volumes of topics because I always seek out knowledge and I always attempt to dig deeper into the story than a mere brush against the surface.
And all you ever get to know of this deep, competent, sentient human being with opinions and revelations and insights is that she wants to feel the love from someone other than her platonic fistful of friendships at every measurable instant of her existence.
I contemplate the pursuit of happiness. Life after death. The reasons people must always justify themselves for doing what they want. Aliens. Occular dominance. The breeding rituals of sea slugs.
And all that I actually get down onto the pages is how the curve of his smirk sends me swooning seven years into the future.
But ******, I have something to say
Yet would you know that by peering into my journals? Read up on one of my latest poems—go on ahead.
It’s still about a boy.
They all are.
I'm going to make edits on this guy. He's just more of my venting with intent on passing as actual poetry. I don't care.
Eulalie Oct 2013
How is it
that I all too frequently find myself
poring over contemplations and fantasies to conjure my passion for you into writing,
that I have an entire section of poems, memoirs, and undelivered letters addressed
to you, for you, of you,
that I hurl myself into the vast, ever-encompassing depth of my loyal infatuation in the name of upholding and preserving
that special love
we discovered inside one another,
that I would gladly spend another nine (plus) hours hiding in my room if it meant I could reserve exclusively that time for you,
and you haven't even written that song for me like you promised?
The haikus are nice, my lovely,
but all too brief and it isn't even like you spend much time on those measly seventeen syllables of cheese anyway;
you don't make me feel significant enough and I'm just
pining quietly for you
while standing in the shadow casted by my affectionate regards of who you are and who I wish I could
dedicate my life to.
I may be just being too bold, too brash, too needy... But it isn't like I haven't tried to distract myself
from this eager, burning drive
to spend every conscious (or otherwise) moment wishing myself to be transported into the safe house that is your arms and chest and heartbeat...
I try.
Still, as I write to you, I am trying.
But my heart forbids I forget lest it tries to rip itself up again, and I'm not strong enough to call its masochistic, suicidal bluff.
All of this fluffed and heart-shaped confetti,
all of this gift-wrapped, glittery dedication,
all of this sugar-coated and caramel-dipped sentiment...
All of this, all of this, all of this,
and still
You haven't even written that song for me like you promised.
You don't deserve the pedestal I set you on. Not right now, anyway.
Eulalie Mar 2014
I feel as though I'd felt so many feels on these latent, impassioned, sentimental feelings that I reached a breaking point of feeling bad feelings and now after all of that feeling, I've lost the ability to feel about it anymore, in any kind of regard. I'm numbed to the mere thought of you.

And that's a new feeling.
Every little thing is gonna be all right
Eulalie Oct 2013
I've tried to forget
That I love you (I can't)
Ah, these crimes of the heart!
This was me, going nuts. I have reached a block.
Eulalie Oct 2013
I have half-written confessions about you
And all of them are simultaneously as weak and gauche as the struggling flight of a butterfly with half its wings ripped off.
I have no coordination when it comes to dancing, Darling, and it's probably becoming more and more prevalent as you catch me tripping around my declarations
Because I am filled with so much self-doubt, but I can't help it that this new piece of my life has me second-guessing the placement of my feet and the rhythm I'm swaying to.
And with you being so honest from the dawn of our affair, it's made me guilty for doubting anything at all.
But I can't help it that you're a natural dancer and I'm just a mess.
I felt that the strength in my emotions were something to be ashamed of and in turn I've put them on display
A lewd circus performance to weigh the mass of my words and predict the approximate level they could wriggle down beneath your skin
Because I can deal with the stern looks and careless scoffs from sporadic digital strangers,
It's just that you aren't one and that means your opinion counts most of all.
I want to dazzle you with crazy dance moves like the Charlie Brown or Jitterbug or even twerk a couple of times because I can't impress with my mastering of the Hokey Pokey and the Cha Cha Slide
But I digress;
It just seems that all I can talk about when you're not around is how swell it'd be if you were.
And making our sweet dancing anything but comprised of candlelight and champagne and red roses just insults the beautiful parts of myself I want to so desperately share with you.
I'm no poet, dude,
And I've got no graces in dance,
But I'll rearrange the constellations in the sky to help better express myself if it meant figuring out how I managed to fall in love
With you
If you're patient, I'll learn to dance well enough. Give me time.
Eulalie Oct 2013
Love is said to be a battlefield,
And if that is so,

We have found ourselves at a stalemate, Darling.
I'm going to wait for you to talk to me, first. I won't cave this time. I just can't afford to.
Eulalie Jan 2014
There is something intrinsically enchanting about traveling—
Meeting small destinies,
Feeling the flow of life sweep you along—
It’s not all about running away,
Or where you end up,
Or how fast you go—
Rather, it’s about the actual act of
Moving Forward.
You sit in the car, or on the plane, or in the back of someone’s pickup, and you can see the landscape undergo its natural metamorphosis again and again
Into unique multifaceted checkpoints down the list of
Things To Experience:
People to laugh with,
Hands to hold,
Memories to make…
I look out into the alternating horizon and see
‘Opportunity’ spelled out in the clouds.
I look out and can see all the reasons why I should just
Take to the wind,
Flit and float across vast spaces of life—
Set free my spirit of all societal burden for the sake of introspective sentience and honest self-discovery—
I get the appeal;
I have tasted from the goblet that decadent ambrosia,
That flavor by which coats and balms my self-criticizing soul—
Soothing away all the hack marks,
The pocks and nicks and dents that blemish and tarnish the delicate skin protecting my psyche—
I am healed by travel,
By taking life seriously as that journey by which to merely ‘enjoy the ride’,
By making a literal journey out of life,
(Via journeying.)
Ah, even as I drive onward,
Even as I am propelled ever forward along the Devil’s Backbone, and Montezuma’s Castle, chasing the setting sun,
I am already thirsting for more
Road trippin' is so much ******* fun. Watch out world, here I come.
Eulalie Oct 2013
I've gone about my day only truly half-present, as with every conversation, regardless of with whom, I force myself to promote my image of simple bliss and to keep your name at bay, and only have managed to hold it on just the inside of my lips. It still presses on, like a flooding at the ***** that in time shall burst forth anyway.
I feel that, as our recent moments together linger deliberately in the recesses of my head, if I left my mouth unguarded for even a brief time your name would dance off my tongue like the sweetest confession declared in those screened-up boxes at catholic church and then all of the world would know of the sinful treasure I'm hoarding inside my heart.
And it would perhaps be but a whisper, but it'd feel like I've shouted it for hours from the hilltop at the end of my street, calling attention to everyone I've  never known and screaming the sudden proverbial anomaly of my new found love in you with shameless, reckless abandon.
If I could reach into myself I'd find a restless sea of unsorted emotion thrashing about, trying to capsize my poor, prevailing heart as it chugs along like a dazed animal treading water; I'm turning over the thorough avidity in how affectionately we ask to turn out each other's pockets and uncover each lingering quirk and flavor of one another.
I carry along, holding myself not quite as tall as Cloud Nine sits but just enough to breathe in the scent of the rainbows, and it's all because I know that if I stopped living my day for just a moment, I'd recall the fortune I've found in you, and that alone fills me up like I've just put in fifty dollars at the gas station.

What's made you so special?
I'm really sorry if this one isn't cute or clever or anything lovable but my heart is beating very audibly and my head is running too quickly and my fingers are tripping over every key and this is not an ideal time to be writing but O I simply must!
Eulalie Nov 2013
Leave it to him to go and uproot the gradually established
with a mere declaration of inclination, (ah, these new sensations)
that was everything I thought I knew about *** and my anticipated participation in it.
I was confident and comfortable, I admit it,
to settling warm and boring in the list of 'never been *****'.
Never adorning to the glory of the morning
where pillows and sheets are shared
with spoonings and sweet nothings and laughter, and oh, how I
to finally share with him places inside myself I've never dared
let come to light before—this sensation entirely new and rare
and candidly honest.
To be fair, it isn't easy for me to express, and oh how I would
to the best way to attain truth and satisfaction, for it's a rickety bridge to cross when I've claimed
I can't experience ****** attraction.
But my darling whatever it is you've awakened demands I take action
because I am listening to the hum of desire
and with it feel the roasting of my ***** in that brand new fire
like the Renaissance and a brightening sky at dawn.
It's withdrawn, but symbolic and poised, like the flight of a dove.
After all, isn't there a reason they call it
Making Love?
All other romantic pursuits forgone,
You’ve thus far managed to do the unthinkable; you turn me on
and I can feel the lust searing from the inside,
while I'm hearing your revering and circumstance prevents me to
that this hedonistic dream I'm fearing has been nearing me
in an ambush that began with September thirteen—
an exciting, hazardous route
down a path of love and a cornucopia of potential yet to be seen.
I love you not as a passing season or a fleeting
I love you terribly and without practical reason;
your name glued to my heart with toxic adhesion; a world without you now proves pretty
And the *** part—

Life is intimate and if I'm going to be, too, it'll be with him.
Trying to convince you how honest I've really been, my Darling.
Eulalie Sep 2013
I think you know that
And I think you like it

I certainly do
I'm totally wiggin' because he has access to all of these and I don't want to seem nutty and obsessive and oh god. IF YOU'RE READING THESE I APOLOGIZE.

— The End —