elise.writer

There are three
trees in the meadow.
One is short and
wide, coarse and
old. One is quiet in
lichen, tall and
fair. One is sprightly and
smooth, still a bit
green. The old one's
branches gray, and she

I.
And I'm slouching in the dark,
Googling Ways To Cure Heartbreak, and
I'm clawing off my skin, eyes
Burning into that one little sentence from you, over
And over again until my body turns to

i haven't written in a while.
if my life were a painting, it would be abstract and vague,
a mess of indecipherable lines and splotches, and
i'm afraid that if i let words flow, i'll forget metaphors ever existed, 

I can't do this anymore.
Molasses presses down my throat, tasting blue.
What I wouldn't give
To lift these rusty shackles
And cry to the fading evening of
Everything I live for as whole and true.
Some genetic authorities of mine

I.
Do you ever feel like
For every step forward, it's two back?
Self-betrayal tastes sour and parched
On my tongue, my values stamped out like a flame.
The faded yellow parchment never crossed my path,

When I was younger, my cheeks were chubby
and my hair was strewn into thick brown snarls.
When I was younger, my freckles were imbalanced
and thrown on haphazardly over a sheen of pale skin.