79

of the love and lack thereof
I’ve cried over and ached upon
I can’t seem to will myself
to go back and wipe up those tears
erase those scars-in-the-making;
because everyday since,
poetry has melted off my skin
and onto pages and pages and pages.

 

 

A year and half since my launch on October 1, 2017, I hope you enjoy this refreshed look to the blog. I started this blog with no intention of where it is today–and I’m taking this 18-month mark to declare that it isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
Thank you for your support on this whirlwind.

Love,
ELLE

77

There is only the ocean;
waves, tide, surf
are simply parts
of the whole.

I used to build sandcastles
close enough to seashore
that they’d wash away, clean
before I got attached.

I manufactured moats
drawbridges and gates
spiral towers to hide treasures
keeping intruders at bay.

I never did need knights
as much as I told myself I did
I was a fine protector
a kind ruler over myself

but you were like gills
and I breathed new air
the salt of the sea
the grit of the sand

and I decided I’d move
my sandcastle away
from that rising tide
and invite you in, too.

75

daydream about things you love
when you’re sad
surround your soul with the things that make you tick
a running tally of mementos

even the smallest of seconds passing
your favourite blanket
the next episode queued
a tucked-away coffee shop
new personal best

keep these memories close to you
because life can be so cruel
and you’ll be cold without a coat
be comforted by these soft moments
and seek them out
wherever you can.

74

standing out on the back porch
looking out on the suburban sprawl I
called home my whole childhood,
imagining all the quiet moments of
what I swore I wouldn’t miss:
cookie dough and street hockey
and whispering on the landline

I imagine all the time that has passed
years and years and years
stacked like pancakes my father
used to burn on the stove.
time came and went,
the stove was replaced, gone
and my sweet tooth, gone
and suddenly I was gone, too

I hear a voice call me back inside
to come back to bed
I see the sidewalk split in two
from all I remember and all I wish I wouldn’t forget
and for a split second,
I smell the sickly sweet of pancakes
and realize
memories are never kind, they
remind you of what you left behind.

73

elle
like a stream of consciousness
in one frosted, december breath
wrapped in a bow
christmas lights, tangled

I’ve never used that name
except only as a writer, I
pen those four letters like poetry
I’m a writer, I say
I’m a whole person using half
my name to truly show
my real self

elle
like one fluid motion
no need to even pick up the pen
because who I am
inked in these lined papers
is as close to me as
I have ever been

72

Chandelier expectations:
dozens of bodies have
entered and left my life
and each of them, I think
takes a piece of me
on the way out.

I find myself diagnosing
symptoms they didn’t know
I felt inclined to cure.

I carve out my martyrdom
I settle at the top of my high horse
and resent their apathy when
they don’t want my
unsolicited service.

Imagine my surprise as I see their rejection
piling up, single use cutlery
my good intentions
(yet maligned purpose)
end up being wasteful
and wasted.