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"A"
Christine Ely Nov 30
"A"
I can feel them dispersing
and leaving me in the middle.
My hands are shaking.
Christine Ely Sep 18
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.
Christine Ely Sep 22
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.
You suggested you stay over at my house.
Habit is magnetic, and lack is the same.
You had never stayed over before.

I’m always asking of you.
And you only ask of me when you have nothing better to do.
Here I am, listening to what you recommend.
Reading what you like.
Sitting by you in class when you want it.
And it’s leaving a mark on my soul.

You speak with me,
But only when my turmoil is so great that it’s like a drama, salacious and salty with unshared stories,
One must know what happens next.

And you’re beautiful, and that catches me,
Caught in the snares of awe and empathy.
And misery welcomes company,
and we’ve each enough misery to warrant one another’s company for a million years.

You like to play with me,
dangling a glimpse of affection on a string.
And I wish I didn’t need it.
But I want it because it feels like a balm to my despondency.
Make me feel something.
But even my sleeping mind does not delude me;
When I know We will not happen.

I seek not to change the way We are, somehow.
Don’t ask me why.
I could not answer.
Christine Ely Oct 19
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.
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 Nov 27
but they're having fun with it
bottles hold a sort of thrall
and they're tossing back, no sips
It's funny seeing how they hang
and grip and stumble, slurring
All I do is look around,
flirt a bit, and nurse the hurting.
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.
Christine Ely Nov 16
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.
Christine Ely Sep 21
Won't it sting to know that fears, when passed,
may come back with emboldening resolve?
Times passed in deadened state and weakened heart,
but also deadened were the nerves of fright.
I didn't argue strongly for return
of trepidation, dread, dismay;
I only wanted back the gentle breeze
of quaint beatitude, opposed to dull.
The pills return to me ability to laugh,
wholeheartedly, instead of holding back;
But with the laughter enters cowering disease
the likes of which I'd seen when days were worse.
And yet to choose between the dim and joyless days,
or feeling fraught with fear, I choose to feel.
It’s despondency.
When I was young
I bounded into spaces filled
with dark as black as mid-night
Arms held out like white canes
but without the care;
clumsily feeling out my way.
Christine Ely Oct 23
Two months in,
she realized that this guy was not
tossing her any more than she could handle.
And, though she had been living in a fog
for months, capacity was in her nature,
A built-in armour of trust and hard, hard work.
work still works when you realize you’ve done it before, and can do it again
Christine Ely Sep 28
It was a time and duly one that’s lost
It’s here until it’s not and not the same
And somehow it was better the last time
Than it is now that we are all struggling.
I wanted dearly for that era left behind
I wanted dearly for potential missed
Perhaps it could have been, in some way, more
Or maybe middle ground is for the best.
But still what’s left feels like refuse dealt me
By circumstances too disguised to care
Romantic are the stories told of them
And yet mine still take on a bitter taste.
Life through these eyes should be “it all”; but bland
Is what I feel across and times again.
Perhaps it’s better that the past is left where it is.

My attempt at Shakespearean iambic pentameter.
Christine Ely Sep 22
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.
Christine Ely Nov 13
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.
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
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.
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?
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?
Red
Christine Ely Nov 30
Red
I read of reds and something in me
lapped up the symbol of audacity,
a sight for sore eyes, some passion enflamed
It whispered that red is something I could be.

I wear red like courage, like strength from the devil
He's mocked and I'm shocked that I've little the temper
Athena, Aphrodite, reputation precedes me
I'm hungry for info on the traits that elude me.

It may be a choice, to be red as blood
and to act as a fire does, fiery and destructive
Red's prized in its rubies,
or was before today took that value away from us.
"Then another sign appeared in the sky; it was a huge red dragon, with seven heads and ten horns, and on its heads were seven diadems." -Revelation 12:3

Don't know what that says about us, but it says something.
Christine Ely Sep 16
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.
Today there seems to be naught above 'ok'
I'm fine enough
til you tell I'm not just joking.
The days seem long,
but at least it's not hunger
for love, and purpose,
and something to do.

Today I live
complacent, for the most part
it's not fear, plain,
in the tunnels of my inmost heart.
And empty comes
in inaction, vague distraction,
not sobbing
and running
and desperately searching.

So what to do
when time's inconsistent
and rheumy blues
are as bad as it gets?
There's none to solve
but how will it better
conflict involves
every fiber of me no matter what I may do.
Christine Ely Oct 23
It continues its damage,
poised to carve out its own agenda
in the flesh of those whom our Big Book deems incorrect.
Our central mission
again, betrayed by tunnel vision
aims at the heart of any outside the heterodoxy,
headed straight for those who aren’t.

Wouldn’t you think, with such an understanding of Christ, you would know that we’re meant to live?
There is more than that ‘one vision‘;
There is the common good,
and you’re not
their final chance
for salvation.
1 John 4:7-8
Christine Ely Sep 29
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?
She
Christine Ely Sep 26
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
A touch, a sound of little laughter-
and conflict starts to simmer.
The way one stands apart from them
and somehow, she’s the sinner.
She’s home by nine for little time
exists to venture outward.
A thrashing sleep awaits her and she’d thought sleep would bring comfort.

They pass the time in little ways
that reek of **** and spirits.
And if she was to ever ask
‘you wouldn’t want to hear it’.
So how she instead loses time
in bed and with no company,
it hits home hard when implied that
she won’t know how to cut loose.

It’s true, she’s sad, but not in how
you choose to look down on her-
So next time, when they judge so quick
Indignation will burn hotter.
I look for someone who will laugh with me,
and pass the time in which I flail, idly
a head laid gently on soft lap
round hands cupped smoothly 'round my heart;
bright lips that smile, full of thought, intrigue
and hands on waists, and skin smooth as summer
I want the change with all I do possess
a change of hope, not punished recompense,
it's like a rainbow of experience
yet "live in color" is not what I be.
Instead the fog descends and so my faith
in that things will change until it's joy again.
I wonder whether Now deludes myself
it wants a love but Now is not my friend.
Christine Ely Sep 19
I dreamt a girl with ruby lips who smiled
As soon as ruby lips met mine;
contrast this opposite my own fair time
with him
I’d rather she be here. But pieces of
decision come hidden under frail silk
and I remain in bed instead of up
and choosing (sh*t)
as life demands.
Today I feel I want it all-
tomorrow I’ll need nothing.
And surrendering at this point
feels much harder than fighting.
I’ll continue with his lips on my skin
but still
I want girls, girls, and someone new to love.
I was following the part
that's written out for me
with close-clipped words
and time waiting
And though it should be safe
I do not feel secure
What is it that I yet live for?
It’s true, I wanted a break
and God sent me a chance
I reached, tentatively,
and it crumbled at my touch.
He broke it off so quiet,
a bandaid ripped, no force,
but here I am exhausted
without his voice as a sense of reprieve.
He treated me so kindly
I approached him with such shame
He never showed he loved me
And it made me want to run.
I dreamt a nightmare feeling
that he accused me of betrayal-
because I chose her over him, right?
And I told him, no, that is
NEVER going to HAPPEN.
But still my motto stands clearly
When conflicted over two, it’s likely
neither.
And today I will focus on my health
and throw romance to the gutter.
Christine Ely Sep 16
I'm filled with hope for
the girl in things I've read.

She looks on, brightly,
not knowing what she'll see.

I look back, sadly,
at all I had to leave.

She wallows, senseless,
not knowing her condition.

She searches, desperate,
not sure that one will listen.

Now I live things, slowly,
but continue writing fast.

And lay in
silence.
It mustn’t last.
Christine Ely Sep 18
I could feel the fever breaking.
Surroundings they now matched the tone
Of the novel I was making.
If rays of sun spoke for depress
the cold would mean rock-bottom.
Neurosis crawled out of the nest
of habit I had taught them.
Soon I’d be itched raw,
slow to bleed,
and slow to ask for help;
an island of self-maintenance
would soon be known and felt.
How promptly my fragile peacefulness
had fallen, cracked, and broken!
The black moods had bubbled up;
and with them, rumination a token.
I went about life without thinking, today.
It's been a while since every footfall hasn't felt
heavy as lead.
Christine Ely Sep 20
time it seems significant
and action seems divine,
but we are cogs in a large machine
yet it won't mimic a grand design-
the only thing that matters
is me, and you, and them
and the day that I obtained you
and the hopeful things you've said.
I can't guarantee I'll remember them
in a day, a month, a year
What I will know for long after it's passed
is your company, and hers, and his
I don't know what I'm here for
and my time is but subsistence;
but hope that just for one or two
                              my presence meant a difference.
st. vincent is the patron of charity- a subject that I think continues to be the only thing that truly matters when everything gets jumbled. it's what ties us together.
is a beautiful thing
In the way that peace rhymes
with my suffering;
       and the way hours roll
              crawling minutes on
       and the way dozens fly
       They are suddenly gone-

Time drips blurrily now,
from its respective place,
the dripping meant to be wrong
and Time was an easing space.
       Now the gray clings on me
              like moss springing up slow
       Solemn? Wholesome? Corrupt?
       clutching tightly, it's troublesome pulled-

Lack of change always hurts,
but it's fresh tedious now.
Though my head aches and throbs
it's familiar anyhow.
       muscles, tight, are the same
              and it's hard to relax;
       nerves manifest themselves,
       and in no way are they welcome company.
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.

— The End —