Maple

The bottom of the maple tree 

suited my purposes, so I 

dug down with my bare hands 

until I uncovered the roots. 

I took the tin box filled to the

brim with you, and stuck it 

between those mighty veins. 

The dried blushing roses, 

the letters and the poems, 

and even your marbled heart

arranged between the tissues

that dried all the tears you 

gave me, buried in the ground. 

And there my love can grow, 

warped in the roots of that big 

maple tree, rather than inside of 

a heart that can no longer 

sustain life. The only evidence 

left behind is the black dirt 

on my hands from covering 

it up. 

You no longer deserve

the cries of my heart. 

Shrapnel

Cradled by fists
rather than palms,
wide open to hold
my little red heart,
your love only a tool
used to silence a crying child
used at the right moments,
used, just like me.

Fishing wire and tackle
litter my memory of you.
Kodak memories
shoved into a dismal childhood
making a minefield
out of my head,
knowing that at any moment
my innocence could become shrapnel.

I excuse you,
rationalize for you,
stay silent for you,
let your actions speak for you,
and you ignore me,
forget that you know me,
stop from loving me,
and, like a coward, blame me.

If you never touch me again,
it'll be too soon.

Two

Dear Mr. Blue,

I am aware of you
in a way you may not understand.
I hide between library stacks,
I run to empty hallways,
trying to lose you.
Or at least the feeling of you.

In a week you created me,
with a reality you carefully orchestrated,
only to pull the hypothetical plug
without warning, reason, or rhyme.
I scream "injustice!" with a tired voice,
and you sit in your chair and chuckle.

Abomination, I say.
It's the only thing I can say. . .

Yours,

Eleanor.

Strung

You play your game

from the other side of the wire

pushing every button, 

tying every heart-string into knots. 

Like a scheme you've crafted so carefully

you lure me back into the snares

knowing I'm not strong enough to deny you, 

or smart enough to let  you go. 

You leave me shamed, 

to nurse a heart that has betrayed me

once again. You show no remorse

as you look at me with eyes that seem so safe. 

We both know this won't be the last time. . . 

Force-Fed

The operating table is cold,

as my head is pulled back, 

my jaw wired open, 

ready for your next move. 

You numb me of every feeling, 

so my emotions are rendered useless, 

and you begin your daunting task. 

One by one you shove the words, 

deeper down my throat, 

force-feeding the things I never said, 

until they come spilling out, 

flowing out, 

crawling out. 

And you continue despite your better judgement, 

and despite my pleading eyes, 

until you are convinced of innocence, 

and I am left with guilt that isn't mine. 

I hope you're satisfied,

because I'm not. 

The Curtain Puller

I can't say that I've figured it out yet.
I wish I could ease your guilt, but I can't lie
You said these weeks would heal,
But I have yet to feel that knife leave my spine,
Holding on to every wasted emotion I have.
I take my place behind the curtain,
While you take center stage,
And as graceful as I'd like to be,
I feel no jealousy, just loss.
Never, will I be that star you're looking for,
Though I thought maybe this time I could shine. . .
You see my eyes averted,
You see my identity, bare and uncovered,
But it's not enough.
It's just not enough.
You see everything,
But sometimes I just wish you'd see me as beautiful.