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the floor, when I’m panicked,
especially the soul sunk deep into shadows cast across the threshold,
and secrets are splashed into the ears of anyone without much restraint.
an open book.
embarrassments are splayed across the pages,
stories open to anyone who will listen,
and I have no shame.
Except for one thing.
I desperately want something new. And I know exactly what— who —that is.
And I’m curious, but I have no right to be.
A confession
my mind still is buried very
softly, in a powdered haze of
sweetness, coated in a sheet of dust-
Memories still remain, I’m not
decaying, yet the feeling’s always
staying, that perhaps “forward”
Was too far to go.
Jan 14 · 172
you might be too hasty
Christine Ely Jan 14
I bite down ******* butterscotch
and wonder
absently
if that irony taste is salty-sugar
or if I cut flesh in my haste.
Jan 12 · 130
the art of
Christine Ely Jan 12
Candle wax
and solemn acts
our peacefulness perturbs them.
Jan 5 · 247
it don’t ease
He looked so much like
that which I was trying to
replace
but something whispered
softly to my morals
hidden behind a peaceful face-
“You will have
more than one dream”.
“Don’t force it
it won’t ease any quiet suffering.”
Dec 2019 · 94
breaking it off
Christine Ely Dec 2019
He seemed to come at me
with a fork and a knife
so I cried over the phone
and we haven’t talked since.
Dec 2019 · 1.3k
I wanted you so bad
Christine Ely Dec 2019
that I shut my eyes to have you.
Dec 2019 · 61
Rage
Christine Ely Dec 2019
Why am I not content with what I do
at this moment?
Claret, just take a minute, the
harsh blush of the world will fade.
But what does she do in the meantime
how do you move this along..
All shall be good in the morning
How do I cope, when the night's so long?
Dec 2019 · 136
we're seasonally affected
Christine Ely Dec 2019
Winter makes me always cold,
can’t see God in nature unfolding
The sun would be my companion
instead my faith goes phantoming
I want internal strength and grit
instead with growth and fear I’m fitted.
My character dull, worn like a knife
and I’ve no ideas in its righting.
Dec 2019 · 75
primrose path
Christine Ely Dec 2019
I wanted so for something, tried to speak
I've words but yet their nuance needs refine.

There's something within grasp to give me life:
the food of flesh, or something more divine.

Lend me your ear, or give your hand to me
Is pleasure company or ecstasy...

Will we stay bound in mindless subtlety?
Is sin desire, or is that justified?
Dec 2019 · 85
Poor Ophelia
Christine Ely Dec 2019
She has more to give away
than he does.
And yet the blame rains down on her,
a piercing sleet of indirection and deception.
Neither knew the outcome.
It's difficult to say how they got here.
"-phil" : the Greek root meaning love. Perhaps
'O, love,' is all she is to him.
What a shame.
Dec 2019 · 79
today
Christine Ely Dec 2019
I went about life without thinking, today.
It's been a while since every footfall hasn't felt
heavy as lead.
Dec 2019 · 142
gape is an ugly word
Christine Ely Dec 2019
Mouths
burn like lights
and taste of awe
       intimacy palpable in
              every word
and gesture.

No, mouths are a middle grey
on terrain of slate and stone
never attracting attention
       until you need it
           and when it's needed,

it's diluted hope.
Nov 2019 · 226
“A“
Christine Ely Nov 2019
I can feel them dispersing
and leaving me in the middle.
My hands are shaking.
Nov 2019 · 175
Hey b*tch
Christine Ely Nov 2019
awe is mine at seeing
Your fearless way of being
You act, and write, creating
A loud testament to authenticity.
And it’s stories,
ones upon reading evoke some feeling
And I admire your character even more.
You are a character, a pagan with a penchant for early 2000s music,
who is content on her own.
You make the days pass in sunshine
(though all insist that you’re darkly inclined)
and you make us howl with laughter
in public while people stare.
Nov 2019 · 127
Logophilia
Christine Ely Nov 2019
Words glow in the dark
and burn on my tongue
They run under my fingertips
and whisper above my head
sweep past at the edge of my vision
they eat time like you wouldn’t believe-
and they roil around inside my body
and they burst forth, bared bright on the screen,
drift past when the clouds are out
In the white noise they drone now
like heavily perfumed notes in my head
That I won’t get out; but I don’t need that.
Nov 2019 · 150
Europe, 1656
Christine Ely Nov 2019
A little boy
appeared before my door
in a bird mask with a hooked beak
and soulless eyes.
The heavy black cape
brought me back to a time
where I’m dead by now.
The rash that bubbles up
under my skin when I am stressed
looks like mild sunburn compared to
the puckered and rippling purple sores
covering a body.
In another life, was I staring up into a face
That promises death?
And I gave the boy some candies,
grateful that I was not alive during the time
when I would have given the plague doctor
my soul.
Christine Ely Oct 2019
I feel betrayed by the quiet moments;
they used to be my saving grace
the time I’d use to steel myself
for what comes next.
Today the quiet moments
are turning on a dime-
they’re fuel to continue driving
or they’re fuel to the flames.
Doesn’t help that the thought
of quiet conversation
makes me discretely nauseous
(they meant it as a promise
of relief!)

I’m floating in the quiet moments,
awash in time’s vast swell
aching bones a prize of attempt
a wordless, reasonless ache
that I wear tucked away inside my breast pocket,
in the marrow of my very being,
and tucked deep in the recesses of my mind.
Creativity, sure-
but useless pain is the easiest to write about.
...and the most difficult to present without it sounding incredibly overdramatic.
Oct 2019 · 128
nostalgia gets me again
Christine Ely Oct 2019
We cannot cease continuing on.
The waves of banal day-to-day
will just keep rolling on,
The strength that wants advancement
would need us extra strong,
The strength we have is used in haste
a-rushing ‘round the bend
Each day goes on, destroying what’s
irreparable to mend.

And damage to the likes of that
appear without regard,
It’s not events that we can help;
We tumble down the yard
In what I had remembered-
with the autumn of the day-
Was leaves and you and you and me
and feeling some kind of way.

Cease to engage, or breathe, or see:
a melting bland existence.
A road with boundless challenge finds
a sport in welcome distance.
I push away the past because
I missed the way it kissed us
And swaddled us in sunshine days;
I miss the past, but I miss you more.
reworking a poem from eight years ago
Sep 2019 · 327
Shame worn like jewelry
Christine Ely Sep 2019
It was a good color she afforded me,
and a warmth spreading
like a cool champagne-
And I was flushed and pretty
with no makeup on.
And you were on my mind
as soon as she was gone
(was he, was he, was. he?).

It was a strange picture
I’d imagined thee,
and a strange emptiness
in what I would see-
And you were hot and sweaty
and the lights were off
Maybe I’m on your mind even
when I am gone
(may I, may I ask?).

It was a sensation
unlike what I would see;
we’re breathing hard and fast
our holdbacks limiting-
a kind of sweet tension,
unexpectedly,
and how your hands are places
I had hoped they would be
(and details, they evade me.)

I felt no shame.
To God I pray-
will the light of day
make me feel worse about what I’d do?
Sep 2019 · 89
She
Christine Ely Sep 2019
She
And She was like the color
of a dress I'd always liked.
A rumbling roiling rusty red
I'm not supposed to wear.
Too similar to myself, She is,
you need to seek another
it's not enough to love someone
as dearly as a brother.

I think She's somehow mystical
and I love Her when She's strange
yet I must resent the way that She
won't fit in day-to-day.
There are so many perusals
and samples I could take
She's not the object of my lust
and yet I want a taste.
It's the person that I'm pining for,
the girl beneath Her skin
but the way She is is seen outwards
She's glowing to the brim.
inspired by "The Miseducation of Cameron Post" by emily m danforth
Christine Ely Sep 2019
And we coped in different ways.
She made herself sadder, because it was something she knew.
I ran away from emotion, and hoped desperately for “out of sight, out of mind”.
I spent my time writing, and struggling to find a hopeful line for the end of a poem.
She read sad stories, and they gave her a kind of peace.
We were both familiarly acquainted with a ball of dread in your chest.
And the feeling of being used up if around people for too long.
And habits that were hard to break but somehow made it better.
And we spoke about it and took comfort in the conversation.
I wondered if we were made for more than that.
to a good friend of mine, who knows the way it is.
Christine Ely Sep 2019
than you do.

It’s brazen and well-understood
I feel like me but manic;
Our doing things that just before
had made me want to panic.

It’s fun, it’s harmless, we pass the time;
I wonder if there’s merit still
when “God says” it’s a crime.

And afterward, when conflict roils
and doubt fills to the brim
Conscience is left in clutches which
entail both sobs and grins.

A painful sort of burgeoning
a growth that you can’t see
There’s nothing I can do to solve
I lose both ways, yet I lose free.
Sep 2019 · 183
A raspberry cracks
Christine Ely Sep 2019
fresh between your teeth
clean and clear like a little bit of
rage
or blood
or both
Crisp are the larvae that have found their way there.
Sep 2019 · 898
remains
Christine Ely Sep 2019
Feathers won't remain when the bird is gone
Nor adornment worn when the nights get long
and the moon is pale, and the lights are loud
and the crowds are strong and the city proud

Yet lyrics remain when the notes are gone
and your legacy after rites are rung
and your spirit soars, far off out of view
but we saw it here when your words were new.

— The End —