Elly

Elliot! He/They. 18. Just a little poet trying his best :)

[rozzyblogs]

Dear Mum (by me)

‘I wanted black. You wanted a daughter’

[daffodilgraveyard]

,,, recently found out the poems I’ve been writing my one friend definitely fall under the category of “romance poetry” and not “omg you’re so cool and I care abt you so much!!” poetry

…

ohhhhhhh I’m so screwed

[daffodilgraveyard]

UPDATE we’re both interested in eachother!!!

[maybe-itsforthebest]

- j (x)

[daffodilgraveyard]

My blanket has begun to smell like you.

I think it to myself the same way one would utter a diagnosis.

Like a family member pronounced dead.

My blanket has begun to smell like you,

and I know the end is near.

My greatest comfort’s been found in resting my head

against the rough surface of this old Winnie the Pooh blanket,

cheek against Tigger, nose pressed into

a stain left long ago by spilt coffee.

The smell has been my safest place.

A corner where a stray string wraps around

my ring finger like a Halloween

spider decoration. There is comfort in knowing

that while this house is unsafe, and cold,

home is a faded blanket an aunt I no longer talk to made

just before I was born.

I stayed with that aunt for some time, and the smell shifted with it- became something

sweeter and dustier

left in basements.

Smell of wood and clean air and cats fur.

I press my nose into the surface

searching for it,

home. Home. Home.

Home is lost with knives in counters and screams of angry men.

Home is pronounced house in a month.

Safety changes with it.

Safety has become yearning for safety,

yearning for safety has become accepting tragic ends,

Home is sitting somewhere fifteen minutes away, but I can smell it here.

My blanket has begun to smell like home again.

I cannot mourn again.

I take deep breaths, and imagine I am

seven. I just got home from school,

the blanket is large enough to be a cape.

I ask mom to tie it around my shoulders, and

giggle when she tells me to go away.

I tie it around my own.

Dinner is cooking in the oven. Grandma plays

cards and tries to teach me how to play, asks

me to dance, and

twirls me in her arms with

hands that know I am fragile.

My blanket has begun to smell like you.

[daffodilgraveyard]

,,, recently found out the poems I’ve been writing my one friend definitely fall under the category of “romance poetry” and not “omg you’re so cool and I care abt you so much!!” poetry

…

ohhhhhhh I’m so screwed

[daffodilgraveyard]

Sometimes when I look through my old journals I find poetry I absolutely WASNT expecting and just stare vaguely horrified at it like. “Oh! Okay! Thanks for that, middleschool Elly! Yeah-“

[daffodilgraveyard]

There are fireworks outside.

My skin is cold, and I can feel the

amber vibrations on my flesh,

there’s a lighter in my hand.

I am drunk.

I have never been more afraid.

I am outside, and I am afraid

of fireworks, of being taken advantage of,

of being drunk,

I am afraid.

I am only afraid,

truly afraid,

when I hear the fireworks.

When I feel the fireworks.

When the fireworks are dancing

Thud, bombs in my eardrums, beer in my hand,

His hands linger on my shoulders and I breath smoke and glycerin and

I am outside, and the fireworks are going off.

I am at the house,

and I am inside the bathroom,

I am thudding thudding exploding against the mirror and I am afraid.

I am both inside and out,

in and here and out and there

There are flashing lights and nicotine in

My teeth,

My hands are dusted with ash and alcohol,

I am drunk and I am lighting fireworks,

I am afraid. So afraid.

I want to wake up.

I need to wake up.

The sky is red.

[waitingforthesunrise]

Just realized that the reason I love making friends on tumblr is because it’s exactly how you make friends on the playground as a six year old. No, I don’t know their name but they love mermaids too and built this awesome sand castle. No, I don’t know their age but their imaginary cheetah is friends with mine. You like this show? You like this character?? You can sing the theme song really loud??? Here is a flower crown. Here is a juice box. You can share my time and I might never see you again but part of you stays in my soul forever. In my mind we’re still on the swing set and the sky is blue and nothing will ever be wrong again.

[daffodilgraveyard]

Sometimes I can taste it. Something sweet on the edge of my tongue,

something vividly there and yet not there.

I pretend with aching teeth, on occasion, to eat.

To consume something so out of reach.

Theres butter and cashews on my tongue, brown sauce and rice coating my throat,

my mouth is empty.

I swallow around a dry throat.

To want so much my entire being aches makes me feel inhuman,

animalistic.

There is something just within reach, yet my claws and teeth cannot wrench it free.

[daffodilgraveyard]

I want to experience what being a child was again.

The feeling of delightfully drowning,

unaware of the water filling my lungs.

The bliss of dripping gold out of every pore,

steak for dinner. Hunger is temporary,

surviving it was strength.

There is steak and potatoes on a pretty white plate, flowers blossoming around the edge. The glass in my hand is perfectly chilled.

My bones ache, but I am full of love and warmth.

I was made of porcelain and forced to become stone, but

darling marble still looks just as beautiful

with leather heels dancing upon its glistening

surface. Show me how to watch my body evolve into something unbreakable against my will.

Teach me how to become gold once more, teach my bones how to crumble in a way that is beautiful.

Melt me, make me pretty and whole and mold me into something perfectly wearable.

My father had earned that right.

The sky looks bright when my eyes are hazy with tears. Like diamonds, like a pool of endless

blue, darling blue.

I was always told I looked prettier in pink, as gold fits it far better. Rose gold. Red and yellow. Dainty and adorned.

My throat feels bare of hand and lace, of collars and diamonds.

I want to feel full.

[daffodilgraveyard]

My parents won’t be there to watch me graduate.

A thought that passes my mind occasionally,

one that's hard to simply let pass by.

My parents won’t be sitting in the bleachers.

They won’t be miles within the stands

and I will stand on a stage facing tens

of thousands

of faces I don't recognize, hoping

to spot

His dumb bald head

Her piss-poor dyed hair

A lanky angsty Teenage Boy.

My friends won’t see me live to graduate.

A fate I’ve decided years ago,

re-decided a year ago

over a plate of not-birthday-cake

and steaming-acid tears

on christmas morning.

My parents did not remember my16th birthday,

Myfriends did not remember my 14th, 15th, 16th

My friends did not remember my eye colour,

Favourite colour, hobbies, birthday, happy christmas

christmas christmas christmas christmas christmas

I will not stand on a stage.

I am not your christmas tree.

[daffodilgraveyard]

The breeze through the kitchen feels both

cool and warm,

the smell of dampened grass trickling in

from a window I didn't know was cracked.

There's a certain unnamed dread in the way

approaching summer feels. The grass is greener,

trees blossoming into pink and white,

my boyfriend bought me a pear.

I've read poems before about splitting

oranges in half between thumbs, helping friends

never learn to peel them themselves.

There's a certain comfort in being needed,

being sustaining,

it's just an orange.

I think of this as the paring knife

scratches the bare surface of my thumb,

skin falling off the juicy meat of the fruit.

It's unripe. I'd tried teaching him

how to find a ripe one,

I'd found where

the breeze is rolling in,

it's merely fruit.

The kitchen is clean, and juice

trickles to the counter, leaving behind a

mess of skin.

I will cut this, knowing he

doesn't like pears.

The window is open, and I am cold.

Rain trickles through the open screen-window,

pitters against the floor in a wet puddle,

I leave it be.

A door slams shut, then open,

another window left ajar,

or perhaps a petty spirit,

Pay it no mind.

Open, shut. BANG.

My hands re sticky, coated in peeled

pear skin, juice,

my tea must be running cold,

I lick the juice off my hands

Open, BANG, shut. Hold.

It's a broken, damned melody

breeze blowing the curtains

Open, rumble, BANG

The pear is hard between my molars.

I oversteeped my tea, overtstayed

BANG, open,

time, shut, BANG

theres an old sketchbook

weathered with time in

rumble shut

the room, windows wide,

facing wind

The house is empty and the

curtains twirl with a haunting grace,

the air smells wet of grass.

I close the kitchen window.

[daffodilgraveyard]

I want a box of pizza delivered to my funeral.

Not that I haven't thought about it before,

I have,

It's simply a matter of writing it down.

At my funeral, there will be pizza.

There will be me, and there will be

twenty mourning fools, and

there will be four boxes of cheese pizza.

Grief is best eaten away, swallowed like a

hard pill, dry bread, tough meat,

Four large cheese pizzas and five two-litres of soda.

I don't care what flavour, but I think anything

that washes down the metallic twinge of

ibuprofen, allergy medication, nyquil, dayquil,

Three shots of coffee liqueur, one shot of unknown.

I want the pizza guy to be confused.

He's holding the box, staring at an

open casket.

Me.

He, of course, realizes whats happening.

He shuts the lid of my casket,

hoists the bag atop it.

He reads out the total.

The pizza boy leaves, leaving

Four cheese pizzas. Five two-litres.

Grief is best eaten away,

so make a dinner table of my dying breathes.

[daffodilgraveyard]

There isn’t really much time, so I’m gonna post a bunch of poems. Hope someone likes em ^^

[thealphapigeon]

Just ate an entire pear that was so good and so juicy i started gnawing on it with both hands like an animal and the face my supervisor made when he passed by my desk while I was absolutely consumed by my pear fueled bacchanal was Something i have never seen someone look so tired and also so upset and also also so envious

[daffodilgraveyard]

Kindling.

I think I was born in fire.

Not the hardened, sparkling

crackling with energy type.

The type that is sore,

that aches when you touch it,

I was born into blisters and cracked skin

and fear

But I was born into a warmth that can’t rival anything else, now

I was born into a heat so strong, the whispers of candles and campfire and hearths barely feel like anything.

While being born into a bonfire is agonizing, you get used to it

But it does feel strange, seeing everyone else so unscarred, no burn marks,

No dark scars, pale lines,

Just freckled blush, smiles, grin.

When the others get burnt, I see apology

I see kindness, I see tenderness

When I’m burnt, it means nothing but scorn

A sour in someone’s mouth, an apology spat across the table,

An apology I’ll scrape up and take with me despite its fruitlessness

I think I was born into fire, because I was always meant to be

nothing more

than kindling.

[daffodilgraveyard]

I have spent so long

Convincing myself I do not hate you.

I simply hate the way she treats me,

Because of you.

But I now believe it is both.

There’s a commonality between me and

a screaming cat in the basement, and it’s that

We are only used when it is convenient,

Loved when it is convenient,

You will pull me from my cage and hold me and

Ask to be held for a moment before shoving

Whiskers and tail and snout back into a

Chicken wire fenced-in hell

I think I hate you,

Because you drain my kindness

You strangle my ability to stay kind,

You coddle it and cut its throat with your

Hands meant to belittle me.

You are loathing incarnate.