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Forgive Me Not

@elliotsplayhouse

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elliotsplayhouse
Step one- Fall asleep on your seventeenth birthday smelling like smoke and your grandma's perfume.
Step two- Wake up in a hospital bed. Struggle against the wires connected to your body. Scream for someone because there is a tube down your throat and you can't feel your legs.
Step three- It was a fire. Yesterday wasn't your seventeenth birthday. Come to realize it hasn't been your seventeenh birthday for quite some time and while your body has aged you haven't.
Step Four- Lie to her. Hold her hand and say you love her. That you remember what your last name is and what her favorite color is. She loves you you can see it in the way her eyes sadden when she looks at you because she knows. You almost wish you loved her back but she's 3 years too early and you're 3 years too late.
Step Five- Wonder if this is how sleeping beauty felt when she woke up. Scared and confused desperately trying to find a foothold even if it's a prince charming that she can't remember. Wonder how much longer you can bear the weight of forgetting who you are. Wonder when your happy ending will come when it's been 2 years since you woke up in that hospital bed and prince charming left you because you couldn't remember her name.

Time Traveling For Dummies

#spilled ink#spilled thoughts#spilled words#poem#poetry#prose#excerpt from a book i'll never write#writers#spilled poetry#writerscreed#forget#long writing#illustrans
elliotsplayhouse
ibuzoo
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aithenai
“If you are a monster, stand up. If you are a monster, a trickster, a fiend, If you’ve built a steam-powered wishing machine If you have a secret, a dark past, a scheme, If you kidnap maidens or dabble in dreams Come stand by me. If you have been broken, stand up. If you have been broken, abandoned, alone If you have been starving, a creature of bone If you live in a tower, a dungeon, a throne If you weep for wanting, to be held, to be known, Come stand by me. If you are a savage, stand up. If you are a witch, a dark queen, a black knight, If you are a mummer, a pixie, a sprite, If you are a pirate, a tomcat, a wright, If you swear by the moon and you fight the hard fight, Come stand by me. If you are a devil, stand up. If you are a villain, a madman, a beast, If you are a strowler, a prowler, a priest, If you are a dragon come sit at our feast, For we all have stripes, and we all have horns, We all have scales, tails, manes, claws and thorns And here in the dark is where new worlds are born. Come stand by me.”

— A Monstrous Manifesto, by Catherynne M. Valente  (via lantzov)

elliotsplayhouse
To 5 Years Old: I read somewhere that who you were as a child is the closet thing you can get to your true self. I don't know if that's true but I've heard stories about you 5 Years Old. A boy broke out two of your teeth and gave you a black eye but the next time you saw him you told him he was forgiven. 5 Years Old if you are who I really am I don't know where those parts of me have gone. They're missing like your two front teeth and their absence is just as noticeable. To 12 Years Old: You didn't want that boy to kiss you. You tell yourself that you wanted it that you like the 4 year age gap and how his face is too rough. 12 Years Old, we both know you don't. You play the memory over and over in your head trying to convince yourself that it doesn't disgust you. Silence is not consent and a kiss is just as bad as broken fingers. It's ok that you didn't like him. You will never like a him. I'm sorry it took me so long to figure that out. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. To 14 Years Old: Our mother was our first heartbreak and I know you're scared of that 4 letter word but it's not a killer. I read somewhere once that a monster is only not a monster if you love it. I thought you'd like that. I know right now you feel dangerous like a song that used to be popular but the lyrics are messed up. Boom, Clap the sound of my body crashing through a metal gate. 14 Years Old, you aren't dangerous. You're just a girl with cracked leather skin who has a fear of heights. Let that girl in your civics class hold you. To 16 Years Old 2 Months Ago: She doesn't love you. You don't know that yet but in 1 hour and 30 minutes you will. You will let her cry on your shoulder because she is your moon and when something like that comes crashing down all you can do is hold it until it crumbles through your fingers. I know it hurts. It still does and maybe it always will but did you know Pluto and Charon rotate around each other? She needs you as much as you need her. Tell her you love her for the first and last time. Now, forgive her for not being able to say it back.

Here lies who I used to be- A eulogy to a girl still living

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elliotsplayhouse
t-e-poetry
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t-e-poetry
We used to talk over the radio, all late-night and song after song.  Then I left. Everything between us  has been white noise ever since.  I’ve let go of people before,  but here I am, still coming back to your static,  wondering if you play songs anymore,  telling myself it doesn’t matter,  that I don’t have the right to know.

JNIL 513 AM (t.e.)

elliotsplayhouse
Run your fingers down my spin and I’ll tell you of the time I believed heroes didn’t wear capes but cut off jean shorts and shirts with bleach stains. Press your forehead against mine and I’ll tell you of the time I trusted the world implicitly. I’ll tell you that my eyes never left the sky and I didn’t slow down, not even once, because there was too much life to live and not enough time. Kiss my lips and I’ll tell you about how clumsiness is in my genes. That falling too easily has torn apart so many people in my family it was bound to get me too. Curl yourself into the gentleness of my frame and I’ll tell you scars are proof that you’ve existed. I’ll tell you that when it comes to people reward will always outweigh the risk and if the day comes when all you are is scar tissue and memories I hope that the proof you and I existed in the same space never fades away.

My body is riddled with scars and I ironically call it body language.

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elliotsplayhouse
I believe in a lot of things. I believe everything is connected by invisible strings and while time is an illusion if I just wait for one more second something I lost might come back to me. I believe that time travel is a possibility but not in the way of machines and crazy scientists but in the way a coma patient wakes up and discovers 20 years have gone by while they were asleep. I believe in the multiverse theory and that in some different timeline I'm everything I should have become. I believe it's the small things that can break a person and sometimes not even the big things can fix them. I believe that death is similar to getting socks for your birthday; necessary but not appreciated. I believe that love is simultaneously the best and the worst thing that can happen to a human being and that if life is as short as I think it is desperation can be just as beautiful.
#spilled ink#spilled poetry#spilled words#spilled thoughts#poet#poem#prose#poetry#illustrans#believe#i believe#writerscreed#writing#writers
elliotsplayhouse
I wish I was different. I wish I understood how 'give' fit into a sentence and better yet that borrow was not a synonym. I spent so long feeling empty I tattooed 'take' onto my fingertips and took and took and took until there was not enough room on one skin to tally my spoils of war. Most of all, I wish you had not fallen for my tricks because no matter how much you wanted me to be I am not Robin Hood, I do not take for others. You told me I smelled like melancholy and lost dreams and I almost said you smelled like naivety and false hopes. I'm sorry no one warned you of people like me who have chasms for hearts. I'm sorry you thought I was different. Believe me, for you, I wanted to be.

All Is Fair In Love And War, Darling.

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elliotsplayhouse
A psychopath walks into a bar and this sounds like a poorly timed joke you'd tell to your buddies while they waited eagerly for the punch line except this time there is none. By none you mean there was no joke to begin with nor buddies instead there is only you and the lady on the barstool to your right. So, if a psychopath walked into this bar was it you or the lady and how many lies can you whisper in her ear until you knick yourself on the edge of her tongue? You can't remember how you got here only that her Cheshire grin reminded you of reflections bounced off of steel. She whispers, "What does guilt feel like?" Her voice feels like copper sliding down your throat and you probably should've told her a psychopath walked into this bar but it wasn't her.
#spilled words#spilled thoughts#spilled ink#psychopath#long poem#poet#poem#prose#poetry#writerscreed#writerscreedpsychopath#excerpt from a book i'll never write#excerpts#illustrans
elliotsplayhouse
Before you met her you were a disaster with two legs and a name. You had forgotten what it meant to be alive and the only thing that kept you going was the times when you remembered. You'd jump out of moving trains, start bar fights, add new notches on your bedpost like you were a collector all so you could get a taste of what being human felt like. When you met her it was as if your whole world had come into focus and for the first time in your life your heartbeat didn't feel like it was beating to a monotonous drum. She was a friend of a friend and it took you 23 tries to finally get her name and 13 more to get her number. You knew from the moment you saw her she was special and no matter how hard you tried you couldn't get her out of your head. You decided the best course of action was to add her name to your bedpost because maybe if you had her once she would lose whatever it was that made her special. You were wrong. How could she not be special if her eyes sucked you in like black holes and her fingers fit perfectly in between yours? She was good, too good for you, so you walked away because out of all the wrongs you have committed you did not deserve a right. You were never superstitious but that night as you walked away from her apartment you wished on the first star you saw that she would never forgive you for what you had done.
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elliotsplayhouse
Bruises litter a body like a constellation of broken dreams and holding on a little too tightly Scars form mountains and trenches carved by past mistakes that may or may not have been worth the imperfection How can we claim to have skin as thick as leather when we are pathetically soft easily falling prey to the wear and tear of time with hearts that are even softer However, nothing is more beautiful than the human body which is so delicate but fools itself into believing it is as tough as stone

Maybe it's because we know leather can crack too

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elliotsplayhouse
The first gift I got you was stolen from a used book store because it was your birthday and no one else had got you a gift. I knew you had already read it because the week before you showed me all of your favorite things that were in your room and the item you loved the most was a book you had borrowed from the library. I stole you a copy anyways so that when you returned it to the library you still had the book. In all of my time of living I have never felt so alive as I did the night you told me your favorite book was about two people falling in love and that you had a secret rock collection. In hindsight, it’s ridiculous I felt alive because of a bunch rocks but I did and I wanted to return the favor so I stole you a book. By the way you smiled when you opened your present I thought I was the romancer of the century. We were both young then and neither of us knew what we were doing but years later I know you still have that book. In fact, I know where you keep it too, right by your rock collection. It was the first gift of many that I got you and I’m not even sure if you know I stole it but if you do thanks for not saying anything.

I’m glad I got to be your Robin Hood

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elliotsplayhouse
The first time we danced together I was a nervous wreck. You had texted me the night before about how horrible your ex-boyfriend was at slow dancing and I told you that I was a better dancer than him. Which was a total lie, I had never danced before in my entire life and I spent the entire night slow dancing with my brother’s teddy bear when you called my bluff. I was a nervous wreck and why wouldn’t I be? I was in love with you and God forbid my feet slipped up because I needed to impress you. I think I did alright up until the point when we both realized we were slow dancing outside of our high school to no music in front of over a hundred curious gazes. We laughed so hard we had to pull away but when I looked back at you all I wanted to do in that moment was kiss you. I didn’t but a few years later on the roof of your childhood home you did and thank God because I would have never worked up the courage to finally kiss you. I rarely slow dance anymore, it just isn’t the same when my arms are filled with air instead of you. Sometimes, I think I can still feel your arms around my neck but when I close my eyes I taste salt on my lips instead of you and I have to pull away because you aren’t here anymore. I wish it was me instead of you but it isn’t and all I can do is slow dance with only the sound of me missing you to guide my footsteps.
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elliotsplayhouse
Everyone always told me I was different with you, that I was sweet and soft. I didn't believe them at first, in fact I whole heartedly denied it, but I started noticing little difference in myself when I was around you. I would smooth out my rough edges so I wouldn't hurt you and when you asked for something I'd give it to you even if it was all I had. Even though I have chronic nightmares I wouldn't get mad at you when you woke me up just to tuck yourself into the space between my arms. I allowed myself to be vulnerable around you when I wasn't even vulnerable around myself and this is really just a long winded way of saying that I love you. I love you so much I'll never let you know how I feel because I can't seem to be able to be selfish when it comes to you. So I'll continue to be different around you and maybe one day you'll notice but until then I hope you keep waking me up from my nightmares just so you can fall asleep in my arms.

To my exception, you taught me how to love

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elliotsplayhouse
It’s 3:24 and you’re in a hotel room at Motel 6. You haven’t bothered to get under the covers but you did lose articles of clothing on your way there. Your shirt can be found in the house of a man whose name you don’t know but you’ll call him Benjamin because that’s what he gave you in return, your pants on the highway where they slipped off of your thin frame, and your shoes, you don’t know where you lost those just that it was a long time ago. So here you are in a Motel 6 laying on top of covers that scratch at your skin but you can’t bring yourself to care anymore and why should you? Nothing matters not love, not you, and certainly not scratchy covers, everything fades away anyways. You’ve been gone for 3 weeks, squatting in empty houses and taking up space in the hotel rooms that you manage to break into with the only bobby pin you have in your possession. Really though, you’ve been gone much longer than three weeks. You’ve been gone for years and as you stare up at the ceiling you know that the person you used to be would be disappointed in who you are now but you can’t even remember her name or who she was and for the first time in months you cry. Just like your clothes you’ve left pieces of yourself scattered in places that you used to know until there was nothing left, until you no longer had a name or the feelings that came with it, until you were just the shell of a person on top of sheets that are too scratchy with bones that are as fragile as your damaged heart.
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