Eliza Lane

My name's Eliza. My FAQ page has more to offer than this.

[bunpunk-deactivated20210228]

1. Most days, I am the dog refusing to make eye contact after tearing apart your Adidas. 2. I care for a lot of people who don’t care for me. Alternatively, there are a lot of people who care for me and I am always leaving them behind. 3. The last person I kissed stopped texting me three months ago but I still think about them sometimes when I need help falling asleep. 4. Is it possible to be addicted to intimacy and still feel the pull to avoid it? 5. I’ll take days to reply to an email but always find the time to check Instagram over twenty times a day. 6. There will never be clear boundaries set between myself and the people I want to love me back.

Truths I’ve Been Ashamed to Tell // Taylor Pavolillo (via bunpunk)

[elizalane-blog]

forgive me, but i’ve started counting down the days until you leave again. it’s a bad habit. so are you.

Interlude — Eliza Lane (via elizalane)

[elizalane-blog]

forgive me, but i’ve started counting down the days until you leave again. it’s a bad habit. so are you.

Interlude — Eliza Lane

[infernodisco]

Visit Original Link

[elizalane-blog]

how much do i need to change so that there is no trace of you left here? i think it's too late now.  i think you've tattooed yourself to my femur and i'm too poor to pay for the removal.  will it always be like this?  the names of dead lovers engraved into my skeleton?  will i always see you in my teeth? my bones?

“i don’t have enough marrow for this” — Eliza Lane

[elizalane-blog]

I’m scared you’ll swallow me whole, so I exhaust all my resources. Evacuate the city, and gridlock the highways. Rip the bones from my spine and the heart from its cavity. Good luck eating someone who’s already eaten themselves alive.

“In the Aftermath” — Eliza Lane

[elizalane-blog]

I write these poems because I want you to see them. I am still just a child on the playground, hurting you over and over again to get your attention.

“An Open Apology” — Eliza Lane

[elizalane-blog]

Day 15 post breakup and I think I should delete our pictures. The one of you sleeping on the couch, the one of us laughing by the fountain, the one of us being unbearably gay together. I can’t just delete the photos of us— I have to delete the ones where I was happy because of you, too. I have to erase the screenshots I was saving to send to you because I know they’ll make you laugh, but I can’t. I just fucking can’t. I have an entire collection of your art and I still look at it every day and wonder how you made it, wonder, if an artist doesn’t make art about you do they really love you? I guess I know the answer to that now. I guess I’ve always known.

Excerpt from “Letters to the Artist” — Eliza Lane (via elizalane)

[books-n-quotes]

Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known.

Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters (via poems-and-words)

[elizalane-blog]

I still have dreams of raising our child. I still wake up in a cold sweat, afraid that we didn’t clean the apartment in time for your mother’s biweekly visit. Sometimes I dream that we are both starving artists, or that we own a bakery in Seattle, or that I am a doctor and you are the better Salvidor Dali. In every dream, I kiss your tired hands and sing you to sleep. In every dream, I wake up and you’re gone. In every dream, I have this feeling that something bad is going to happen. I’m horrified to find out that it’s me, that I’m the bad thing, that I probably did this to myself. I think the worst part about this is that there are so many things I promised to give to you. Is that you don’t want these things. Is that I have enough rage to burn this whole island down. Is that I miss you. In the last four years, I’ve dreamt of every life I could’ve had with you, every universe, every possibility.   I can’t believe I’m not supposed to die with you. I wanted to die with you.

It’s been four months // Excerpt from “Letters to the Artist” — Eliza Lane

[averno-averno]

I loved her, and sometimes I imagined she loved me too.

[tristamateer]

My love is a pair of scissors I keep begging you not to run with.

Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)

[ramonameisel]

My body is a crime scene a chalk outline in dirty streets. You left me motionless, like a living corpse. Wrapped in yellow police line, camera flashes painting my gaunt skin bony white. And all I can wonder is: how quiet it is to be dead.

Task VII, City | r.m (via ibuzoowrites)

[tristamateer]

IN THIS LIFE we talk a lot on the phone about meeting halfway between San Fransisco and Baltimore. IN ANOTHER LIFE we shack up in a hotel room on the Kansas/Nebraska border, spend three entire days with the curtains drawn and the lights off and your mouth on my mouth. We drink and sleep and fuck until we are both sore. I can’t think of anything more important than the taste of you. It almost doesn’t matter that this is Kansas. It almost doesn’t matter that we are holed up in some hotel room like people on the run. It almost doesn’t matter that it is only temporary. IN THIS LIFE we both have dreams about airports and in mine, I am always running towards you; and in yours, you are always waiting. IN ANOTHER LIFE we get an airport scene. Brief, and technically outside, but still an airport scene. I am on a return trip from Australia and instead of having a layover at SFO before heading back to BWI, I just stay in California. I collect my baggage from customs and skip the last leg of my trip home. You pick me up at the arrivals area. You wear that red, plaid scarf. It feels right, being in your passenger seat. It reminds me of being on the phone with you, all those long calls you’d make from the road. And we are so hesitant to touch each other. Worried about breaking that bubble that has existed for so long. I don’t know if I want your hand in my hand or your fingers in my mouth. It is so hard to figure out where to start. IN THIS LIFE you move to London for work. We stay up nights talking about how it can’t end like this, how the goal of a long distance relationship isn’t adding more distance. I book a ticket to come see you. You stand me up in a coffee shop. You say it’s too hard. You won’t tell me what is too hard. IN ANOTHER LIFE we sit across from each other in a Costa in London. And I know, I know, there are so many small coffee shops and cute cafes in London but I don’t know my way around that well and I pick something easy. You have coffee. I have chai tea. We spend a lot of time fiddling awkwardly with our cups. Sugar packets. Napkins. Anything to not talk. It is hard to sit there across from you after six years and not know the way this conversation is going to go. I want to climb across the table and bury my face in your neck. I settle for small talk. How’s the job? How’s the commute? How’s the flat? It is stiff at first and I can’t stop touching my hair. I want to be perfect. I want to be the way you’ve built me up to be in your head. When you call me Swiss Miss, I just look at you and start laughing. IN THIS LIFE when you find out that you’re sick, you wait for a long time to tell me. You wait too long. We waste so much time. We spend too many days apart. I don’t tell you that I love you enough. I tell you a lot, but not enough. You are trying to do the right thing when you cut me out. You are trying to cause me as little pain as possible. You are sparing me long nights spent at the hospital and months of crying and worry. You say it will be easier this way but it is not easier. IN ANOTHER LIFE I wake up in your bed. It’s early. You are trying to get up without waking me. You smile apologetically and tell me to go back to sleep. I beg you to stay in bed with me. There’s something that just feels so good about knowing you’re near me. Something safe. Something comforting. You lay back down, let me put my head on your chest. Neither of us fall back asleep. IN ANOTHER LIFE we argue over the grocery list and your hips are always in close proximity to my hips. IN ANOTHER LIFE you don’t take my choice away from me.

“IN THIS LIFE/IN ANOTHER LIFE” Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)

[tristamateer]

Conversations about her always start the same way. Someone asks: “What does your tattoo mean?” And I say, “I loved somebody too much once.” They shake their head. Like I don’t know what I’m talking about. Like I’m one of those parents with selective hearing. They shake their head and point. “No, not that one. The one on your foot.” I say, “Every part of me means the same thing.”

Trista Mateer // excerpts #2  (via tristamateer)

[wnq-writers]

He thought, “This girl is willing to clip her wings to be with me. I have to let her go.”

shelfofmemories (via wnq-writers)

[elizalane-blog]

Maybe we’ll get back together. Maybe you’ll realize I’m the only person who will let you put everything but me first. Maybe you’ll call me, two in the morning, drunk, and say you can’t do this without out me and I’ll ask what time it is, but it won’t matter, because I’ll know that I love you in every way, drunk included. Maybe I’ll realize that you were the worst thing that ever happened to me. Maybe I’ll understand our natural toxicity. Maybe I’ll see that if I’m willing to die for you, I shouldn’t be with you. Maybe I’ll constantly remind myself of all the ways you fucked me over. Maybe I'll move on. Maybe we’ll be friends, but, I heard that the only reasons you become friends with the one you loved is because you’re still in love with them, or you never were. I loved you. So what does that say about me? About us?

I view the first two weeks after a breakup as the maybe period // Excerpt from “Letters to the Artist”— Eliza Lane