Éloa

Category: Poetry

  • continuum

    I have made a fool of myself. I have whispered things that make the gods blush, I have recounted the memories on your skin, only for them to become mine. I have traced palms, and lips, and tongue, and have spoken forbidden words.  Fingers latched, and legs wrapped, head dizzy.  I have become imbued with…

  • relapse

    What was it that changed, I wonder.  Was it my laugh, the way I stopped speaking soon after. The way I realized that life was  not all what it was meant to be.  It was the questions, the lack of answers, the how’s that changed to why.  It was the misconstrued lies that kept me…

  • mania

    At what point does love turn into a possession. Not so simple as an obsession, fixation. It’s a yes that turns into manipulation. The coating of your words are not sweet, they are venom laced and pinpricked, thorns embedded on your tongue. I’d much rather something cloying- I’d much rather nothing at all.

  • making a mess of me

    It was born blood red in the shape of a placenta that never took form,   but carefully cultivated, it was, for the exclusive purpose of becoming a vessel.   Pearl shaped and white, an incubator. It was warm, it was soddened.  You wanted a thing with no value? We’ll give it to you in tenfold. We’ll…

  • sunshine state

    I keep telling myself- don’t think don’t think because if I do, I start remembering the shape of her face, how she laughed. I could hear her smile through the receiver of my phone. The color of her hair like crushed pomegranates; she would ask me- should I go back to this hue? I couldn’t…

  • embers

    The air is gold, dripping gold with petals full of suffocation.  It is the tendrils of sunflowers, the buds caked inside of centrioles, ashes piling up to form catalysts. Our aura is a wretched one

  • suffocation

    There’s a type of suffocation in those rays, clouded and matted and burning up soil, hellfire licking ash into my throat. It’s disgusting. I crave for it, my lungs are full of it.

  • soliloquy

    I am constantly influenced by the thought of you missing me. One week or eighteen minutes ago. Do you wonder what I am doing? Are your thoughts full of me even though you constantly deny me? I am full of it, bursting at the seams, wondering if you are thinking of me. It is a…

  • poet

    It is a terrible thing, being a poet. I find myself being in place of the dead, the cheater, the nectar and its lover. My soul is not one, but an inter-dimensional shape that is constantly changing forms. I am all at once a man and a woman. I have no gender. I am a…

  • Apollo’s Lyre

    You come in sevens and tens leaving   me on fours, all accounted for and attuned  Hieroglyphic fingers, and that string   is a yolk stretching my limbs on crossbars  The space in between is my heaven  laurels and wreaths, and you, my god 

  • capturing Venus

    She only comes alive when spring is near.   When light drips Aurelian, the air looking of primrose. It makes one think of rolling waters, bronzed buds; dampened moonbeams sculpted on torsos, her planted mounds atop my flesh. She badgered me with peach-stricken kisses, claret curls of her tongue. Smothering me until I was blue and…

  • cut

    A slick and clean nick of the skin, horrified brown eyes.   She is hurting for you, but you relish in that red. Cold water sizzling on tormented flesh   A flap of dilapidated prints melded with iron. One quick stroke of the ragged metal was all it took   All it took for you…

  • rack and the screw

    I, myself, forgot I even existed.  I have attached meaningless things to my name, filled my home   with unwanted trinkets, neglected memories. But I have not forgotten you.   Those sunken eyes. I’d have killed myself trying to see you again, in that sluiced town   which held nothing but murky waters. The name is one I’d become familiar…

  • but colorless. Colorless

    I avoid mirrors at all costs. I cannot stand the sight of her, the way she looks. Those ghastly hips and foul teeth, sunken lids with irises the color of contaminated mold. She writhes and speaks such nonsensical things, I do not understand her. She does not understand her. A twenty five year old placenta,…

  • two cycles of Hades

    You wither under these blue skies, as if anything more coruscating than that black beacon of death will hurt you. I admire you because of it; how your coating seems infinitely polished when icicles are writhing, waiting to impale your flesh. That sweet kiss of rime nestling in your roots, halting crimson orbs in their…