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What has life made of me?
Where has life taken me?

This body has never been mine, nor will this mind ever be.

There is a terrific sadness in every time
I look in the mirror and pretend to smile.

Dear Adam,
I have missed the spring and I am coming to you soon
The eyes that flicker, the stories behind the eyelids
The heart that ***** in the air
Like a flightless bird that dreams to fly.
Make sure you open up those heavy arms of yours
Make of my thin body your prisoner
Forever
See me for the second time,
Look at me as if it was the first time.

Adam, the ground has never been mine to walk upon
This Earth is selfish, she wants us all
But I am weary, just like you.
Everywhere I look, I find wrinkles
Old objects full of dust
Young people full of lust
Golden hearts full of rust.

Adam, I have been reeking of desolation
Since the day I died
Right there on grass that has never been greener
Under a sun that has never shone brighter
Since I died
Of longing
I have been reeking of desperation
If it wasn't for the books you left me,
If it wasn't for this letter today
If it wasn't for the hope of finding you again
I would have long turned into a portrait
Copied off of a portrait of a portrait
Of a portrait someone painted off the back of their mind
Intelligible and faint.

Adam, the lines on my palms are fading
Drip by drip
The water in me is adding up
And drowning what life has left of me
Poor little soul, good for nothing but the sadness

Adam, I wish I was sad like you
But I am not sad
I am bored,
Like a writer that never learned to write
A painter without paints
A mermaid on land
I am bored like the zoo.

I am coming to you soon.
But I know you're not there.

Goodbye summer and everything that's as clear
I will miss you my dear.


-- Watercolour
#1
He tells me:
" ***** yourself with a needle,
   it will have the same effect"


As if I am trying to harm myself.
He does not understand
this does not hurt me,
at least not physically.

It has become a joke now
  - but I'm not laughing.
It isnt funny,
it isnt a joke.
His ignorance sears into me,
he thinks I have forgotten
I have not.
this is a poem about a comment someone made about my trichotillomania.
Love is a burning cigarette
That makes ashes
Out of the pieces
Of me and
The pieces of you.


--Eleanor Rigby
We make up somewhere to belong
And graves to disappear in.

And right when we think we're free.
We become new born trees.


--Eleanor Rigby
 Dec 2016 poetryLover
Onoma
Do  leaves  reincarnate
from  the  same
petiole  they  fell  from*?
LSD
Watery hands
Dripping from my own
Before the mirror.
Juggling with the unseen
Parts of me.

Portraits of the dearest ones
Long dead and gone
They're zooming out
I am zoning out.


--Eleanor Rigby
The outside is blue
And shaped like a bowl
Perhaps a tank
Perhaps the air I am breathing
Is water
I float in space
No, I swim

I am not a human being
I am a fish in a tank.


--Eleanor Rigby
 Nov 2016 poetryLover
Sarah Steck
Trapped in a body
That isn't mine
I don't recognize
Myself, anymore
Long hair- hate it
Make up- dread it
But still I dress up
Go along with the act
I can't tell anyone
Or my life will go
To shreds
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