I Love You

“Shit,”

you say.

“I practically just said it,”

You frantically change

The radio station,

Searching for something

To wash over us

And eradicate the moment,

“All you need is love-“

Blares from the speakers.

Your hands fumble

For another pre-set.

“You’ll LOVE

Our hot deals-!”

Your fingers scurry nervously

To the next station,

“You love, love, love,

When you know I-“

Your fingertip leaps

With such force

You miss your pre-set
Altogether,

The radio is off.

“Damn,”

you say.

“I just can’t catch a break,”

You look at me,

A little defeated,

A little helpless,

Eyes turning down at the corners.

But there’s an assured smile

In there somewhere.

(The confidence of knowing

What you
Cannot yet articulate audibly.)

“You can withhold it,”

I say.

“For as long as you like,”

You look at me strangely,

As I look at the road,

As if I might call you

Indian giver

If you do not relinquish

Everything

Now that you have given me

A taste.

“It is yours,”

I tell you.

I am hoping one day

It might

Be mine, too.

Dear Me, A Year Ago Today.

There will come a time

When you cannot remember

The tune

Of that one

Sufjan Stevens song.

I know you know the one

Right now it’s bouncing in your brain

It’s ringing in your head

And you’re cursing

Your vivid memory

There will come a day

When you cannot conjure

The scent of her sheets in the morning

Or the name of her one cat

And one dog.

You will forget which shirt of hers

She left with you.

You will forget which brand

She smoked.

Both she,

And the person you were alongside her,

Will be a distant memory.

You will forget

The pasta she made for you

And the movies she begged

You watch.

And that is good

And natural

And necessary

You will not forget

What you learned from her.

But you will heal,

And you may smile

When someday

They say her name

And it will feel like an affirmation,

And not, as today,

An assault.

There will come a time

When you will

Confidently belong

To yourself once more,

Do not doubt

The pain or

Process.

2012

By All Means, Wake Me.

If ever you find yourself in my bed,
I hope I have not fallen asleep without you.

(However, if I have-
By all means,
Wake me.)

If ever you are lying silently
In even the slightest
Discomfort
Or sadness
Or confusion,
Beside me,
And my REM trance,
I hope you will not hesitate to reach
A hesitant hand toward me,
And interrupt any dream
Of mine.

(As you,
Yourself,
Are a dream
Far greater,)

I hope you may feel the inexplicable comfort
With me
That may intimate
To you
So assuredly,
“Wake her,”

And you will feel
As if you should listen.

(My breath will rise
And fall.
My breath will rise
And fall.
You will wake me
And I will rise
Each summer, winter,
Spring and fall.)

You will know that I will wake,
And I will hold you,
Or I will listen,
Or I will boil hot water,
And crack the spine of a book-

Or I-
I will simply and presently occupy the space
Beside you.

(Your breath will rise
And fall.
Your breath will rise
And fall.
I can only hope
My open arms
Will make me
worth the fall.)

I hope you know that I will do so,
Each and every
Night,

(I would like to love you,
Tirelessly.)

I will do so without dreary tiredness,
Without overly excessive concern,
Without an expression that reads,
“I would rather be sleeping.”

(As there is nothing I would rather do
Than trace the eyeliner
Flaking from your face
And look into your sleepy,
Half-lidded eyes.)

I will do so,
So that you may do so- without guilt,
Without hesitation,
Without embarrassment.

By all means,
Wake me.

(My breath will rise
And fall.
My breath will rise
And fall.
You will wake me
And I will rise-
In love, so swiftly,
Will I fall.)

What Might Have Been

I inhale

Broken promises.

The memory of you

Aches in my bones.

They lay alone,

And yet still affected

By having once been
One with yours.

I consume

Wasted potential.

The dust of you

Films my brain.

Every nerve

Inhibited

With the burden

Of my
"It might have been,"

I blink

Unsaid words.

The sight of you

Sinks my heart.

Buries it deep,

Constructs a new wall,
Tall as the tower
Of Babel.

From here
To heaven,
I crack

Your voice

Into my knuckles.

From here
To hell,
I trace

The pads of

Your fingers

Along my hands.

I exhale

broken promises.

2011

Never Trust a Haiku: Never Let Me Go

Our days were numbered,

Hailsham was our holding cell,

A life full of lies.

Childhood creations
Were a soul deposit box,

Though we were clueless.

Silly art classes

Would prove our humanity;

We were just like you.

And the tape would play

In a white hospital room,

Struggling with the thought,

The sun rose and set

As Tommy withered away,

Searching for meaning.

I kept on hoping

Maybe we could have a life-

If we were in love.

I was committed,

My purpose was a dead-end

We tried, for life’s sake.

I cared and cared,

Donation after donation,

Then it became clear-

I’m nothing like you-

Nothing for Madam to say-

She’ll blanche and cower,

Cry because she knows-

Please, baby, baby, baby,

Never let me go.

2013

A Tree in Winter

Oh let me be

A tree in winter,

That I may

Gracefully

Let go

Of that which

Was not meant

For me.

Oh let me be

A tree in winter

That I may

Have a faith

That ensures

You will find
Your way home

To me.

Everything

Will be

Crisp,

Clean,

In the spring,

I will rebuild.

And as always,

My life will stand
Extravagant and

Igniting

In the fall.

Just you wait,

Faithful roots,

Just you wait.

2013

“I used to have this dream all the time,” he said, as he tugged her gently by their interlaced fingers.

There was a beat of silence as she swished a broken phrase around in her mouth. Finally she found an acceptable prompt.

“What was it about?” she asked. Her voice was some other woman's entirely.

“No," He said, and she furrowed her brow at his unexpected rejection, "I mean this." He answered, his back to her, "I used to dream about this,”

“About having dinner together?” her tone bordered on dubious. When there was no answer, she offered an alternative to fill the oppressive silence, "About having me here?"

“No- I mean, yeah." He scratched his head nervously with his free hand, "Not quite,”  His eyes scaled the staircase before him. His feet followed his gaze and her feet followed still, “In my dream," He began, "I was always leading you by the hand," The tension in her shoulders began to dissipate, "Up these stairs,”

She was intrigued, but still unsure. She could not decipher why exactly he felt the need to relate the anecdote.

“I would always be walking up to the bedroom- to my" He corrected himself, "Bedroom- with you in my wake," Her confusion only grew, "With your hand in mine.”

They had reached the upstairs hallway and began toward the door to his bedroom.

“Then what?”

“Then we reach the door, and you go inside, and-“

“And?” she responded to his momentary hesitation.

“And I suppose a part of me went inside with you.”

Another painstaking moment of smothering silence pervaded the space between them. This time, he looked straight at her.

“A part of you?” She said, trying to hide her desperation to understand.

“Well, you know how in your dreams," His words clamored over one another like children, "Sometimes you see everything through your own eyes, and other times you’re sort of," He seemed to search for the words, although they were simple, "Watching yourself?”

“Sure,”

“Well, I’m always myself until that point,” He wants to say 'this point.' He refrains, “And then the door opens, and I know that you and I go inside," They stand together, unmoved, outside of his white wooden door, "but I guess its my perspective that changes. Suddenly I’m outside of my body, watching as the two of you- the two of us,” he catches himself, “Go inside.” He breathes out, wishing he’d never begun, “And then I’m left staring at the door again, and I never know what happens inside. I never get to know,”

The absence of sound is some monstrous thing. She wonders how the absence of something can be just as pressing and just as palpable as its entrance. She wonders how words left unsaid can be so much more substantial, more fleshy, than those that are stated without a quiver of the lip or the drumming of a heart.

“Tonight,” her free hand reaches for the doorknob, “Tonight is not like your dreams,” she improvises, unwilling to allow her apprehensions to pervade her speech.

Not tonight.

No, not tonight.

Tonight is the night.

"Tonight is the night," She turns the nob slowly, practically caressing it beneath her palm, "Tonight, you step inside." She squeezes his hand tighter, "Tonight, you get to know,"

His expression is nearly blank with surprise. She does not speak like this. Is she not herself? Or has she finally conjured the courage to speak as she wishes?

"Tonight will be a new kind of dream,"

She swings the door open and steps inside, her back to the room and her brilliant smile to him, as she leads him by the hand.

He steps in after her. He smiles back.

With his own free hand, he closes the door softly behind them.

2010

Short and Sweet and to the Point.

Your hands were little
but that did not
reflect
how much I needed
to hold them.

One slipped
into mine
and two separate
cold hands
turned warm and wakeful,
instantly.

Those hands adjust
your glasses;
They fiddle with
my hair,

They sift and surf
through chilly water,
and pull rocks
from the receding sand

Those hands trembled
next to mine,
our skin glued
at hip, knee, and shoulder,
And all in between,
and down to toes.

Suddenly
the cold ran off
into the night
and left me with ever-emerging stars.

uneclipsed by
inundations back home.
They gave me something
I could not find
anywhere else.

2012

"Love is Impossible Before Legality."

To be in love

Requires no certain

Age,

No other pre-requisite

Than this-

You must know yourself.

And yes, the younger you are

The more you believe

You know yourself,

That your intrinsic everything

Is old hat.

But as you grow older,

You will become

Doubtful,

Doubtful until the day

When you discover

You do not know

Yourself at all.

It sounds daunting,

But I entreat you

Not to be afraid.

This,

This is the turning point.

This is the climax of your life.

And it has nothing to do

With numbers or years

Or dates and times,

Nothing to do with the

Voices that repeat,

“You are not old enough,

You are not yet wise enough,

Your voice is unimportant

Today.”

It is to do with you,

Whoever you are,

In whichever day and way
You find yourself.

Suddenly,

You will find

An illuminating something

And eventually,

You will find that irrecproducable

Self-

But only when you realize

You must create that self.

And when you begin

To create someone

You like,

You are so uninhibitedly
Free.

You will know love,

And you will know strength.

You may know destruction-

But through it,

You will know reconstruction-

Redesigning, reimagining,

Recompense.

Please be patient,

For when you feel you

Know nothing

About this world,

You will find

It will finally

Come to your feet.

2013

Before You Say I Love You

Before you say I love you,

You must learn to say it

Without those three words.

I am learning.

And one day,

I shall have the courage

To say the sweet,

True thing.

I will tell you that

I love you.

On a day like every other,

But my heart will be so full for you

You and your eyes so full of promise,

And you will see

All that The Pacific

Prevents.

You will know

How true it is,

As although this may be

The first time my weighted words

Meet your ears

It will not be the first time

You hear my

I Love You

As you taught me long ago

How to say so without words.

2013

Unwillingly Yours

You emerged from the depths,

Entangled in invisible infestations,

Labeled for my mind and for my heart,

Respectively.

The incredulity of your pretense
Enchanted and inhibited my nerves,

Dulling my process of thought,
As your feet dragged wells

through the sand
toward me.

My pulse reached for you
Only to beg my
Sorry sympathetic soul
To feel and find sugar
In the salty sand.

My foolish tendancies thrive
d
On what little you fed them.

You spent too much time
Far too close,
Your individual scent 
Mingled, unsolicited,
With my own,

You traced cold fingers
Down my one cheek
Freezing me into
A helpless stillness,
Your greetings
Always abrupt 
And disconcerting.
Always seeping with some
I don’t know what.

My skin prickles

From the touch of a perfumed,

Lovely, sure,
But artificial, hand.

Flights of nervous fright

Fill my head like some sick symphony,

Fast and running,

Staccato and Stubborn,
Reaching and Seeping,
Spreading, Defeating;
Encompassing my mind-
Lightheaded but breathing
Making it impossible,

Illogical even,

To think.
My cheeks and my brain
Flushed frantic 
And pink. 

You've transfered me your nerves
You said,
"What's mine is yours,"
Your unforgiving presence 
Eating away what is left
Of the evening.

As I stood unmoved,
Like Ice,
So solid and steady
You screamed at me
Please
To be moved.

Unprepared and distraught,
I found discomfort in the closeness,

Discomfort in the comfort

You tried so desperately
To impose.

We were too distant from the world,

As my knees rattled,

And I formed my first real opinion

Of this life.
But I could not take into account
How jaded,
And distressing and corrupt,
Your influence would be.
I could not see that your
Oppression was not endurable
In the name of empathy,

I wrote the assertion,
And end-all
Be-all
Of those self-impowering
Opinions.
As you undoubtedly

Reformed your opinion

Of me.

Living passively
Was my deepest
And most relentless
Hamartia.

How could I predict
the kind of pain

You could inflict 
In word and deed,
In the simple name of your 
Tenacious and self-indulgent 
Love


How long will that pain
Follow me,
Encumbering the blazing spirit
Of which I like
To feign possession?

I liked to think no longer.

I liked to think the pain
If so constant,
Could feel small
In the face
Of moral integrity.

How childish of me.

How naive. 

An empty head
Could never 
keep me
From the gaping hole

In my chest. 
Filled only with the emptiness
Of empty words
Of empty "I love you"s

The nervous song still sings,

Slowly numbing 

My agitated thought,


I find myself

Woken shaking
Drenched in
Oceanic goose-bumps
My own hair plastered
To my cheeks

I found myself
Woken wounded
In your arms,

By my own immaturity.

But today, they reject me.

You reject my weakness
And detest my doubt.

You debase me
For allowing you to 
Shake
Myself out of me

You debase
An empty shell.

In your anger,
In your fear,
You lowered me

Into a vat

Of bubbling, black

Ignorance.

I've tried
To revel in it,
To embrace the
Ever-penetrating
Velvet dark in front
Of eyes wide open.

I overlook,
Inscribe and forget.
Encompassed
In your arms,
I lose.

You steal me
and I forget myself.

2012

Elaska's Great Perhaps

If I wrote a book about my life to date, I would title it My Great Perhaps. An allusion to my favorite Coming-of-Age novel, Looking for Alaska, this title references the “Great Perhaps” which lies in the possibilities provided through every new experience. Essentially, The Great Perhaps is that wonderful thing that might be, if only one finds the courage to take a chance.

At every instance following my discovery of the idea, I have relentlessly sought my own Great Perhaps. I filled my days with exertive participation in life, and in it I have found such profundity. I’ve found such passion and insight in seeking opportunities through which I can experience and understand the rare and miraculous moments that pervade human existence. Basically, I have recently spent my free time feeling alive, and it has been the most rewarding pursuit of my young life.

My life story contains suffering, as does everyone else’s, but I know with certainty that such events do not make me a sad story. Rather, my story is a quest. I seek passion, meaning, understanding, and experience. Above all, I go to seek my Great Perhaps.

2012

I wonder why

Every day of my life

Is not spent

Sitting and

Staring

At you.

Will you speak

So freely

And feel your

Heart pound

Like a child’s

As he runs and jumps

Through his field

Of careless dandelions?

And tries to catch

The setting sun?

Cradle it

Within

Open Arms?

When he first 

Discovers

That elusive experience

Of being

Open and true

And alive?

Will you let me in?

Will you let me feel

That heartbeat

Through the pulse

Racing down into

Your fingers

As you relate

Every feeling that

For so long

Caused you such

Intense fear?

Some days

We may walk

And talk

Rather than sit

And stare;

To me,

All that matters

Is that you

Are here.

To me,

All that matters

Is that you feel

Careless

As the dandelion field,

Noble

As the sun.

All that matters

To me

Is that you feel

Alive

Like the young boy

And open,

Like his arms.

2012

Home

You’re still traipsing up the stairs,

Still giggling in my kitchen,
Your lips still linger in the doorway,
As your blush continues
To color my heart.

They’d have never called us loves
But they’d probably call us fools

To leave a hopeless home behind

In hopes of building one anew,

I doubt I could have lived
With your last burning impression
A stolid, stifled glance,
I could not endure a world
After your short-lived adoration,

How is it that your love could
Make me feel more
Like me?

How is it that your love could
Make me feel more
Than me?

Fate be fickle.

Fate ain’t kind.

Fate doth tickle

Down your spine.

"Home is underrated,"
I’d say before I knew,

Before I knew the feeling


Of being home

With you.

"I was here, this is what I thought, this is what I perceived. This is my signature, this is my name."

Every book ever printed has one thing in common: it is the product of a mind that could only fabricate such a work after having lived the author’s particular life. This is not to say that all authors write about personal experience, but suffice it to say that each book is influenced by its author, and each author, by personal experience.

An author is like a father, settling his son upon bended knee, saying, “This is the world as I know and understand it, and this is how it has made me the man I am today, this is what it has taught me. Now, allow me to share it with you.”

Essentially, a narrative is a transcendent voice. The experiences that shape any writer, although often disguised through the voices of fictitious characters, are revealed through literature, and in recording the deepest impressions of human consciousness, books become indelible photographs, capturing a moment, a person: an individualistic voice. Essentially, books are photographs that, miraculously, never fade.

Every book ever printed in the English language has one thing in common: it is comprised of infinitely differing combinations of the same 26 letters. I have found, through exploring and experimenting with those letters, that there is so much to uncover about the world, and ultimately, that no one will experience it quite like I do. No two experiences or exposures are the same, and in that I have found the imperativeness of pursuing my creative voice.

Ultimately, not only is it my passion, but also my responsibility, to say, “I was here, this is what I thought, this is what I perceived. This is my signature, Ellie Mitchell is my name.”

2012