ivory ellis.: December 2014

morning/mourning

I forgot about the sun.

I forgot about 2013 and rhymes on napkins and I forgot about sleeping with my face to the wall.

And I forgot about soldiers and how we couldn't have a real Christmas tree in Texas because it might light on fire and I forgot about a textbook that taught me about hope and Indians.

There were piano keys and fifteens.

Then they told me that fireworks are only for Independence Day and ink was never meant for skin. And it made me think of the day my uncle read us a book about the little mermaid finding a prince to be her best friend and I said "what about love" and then the car felt like a cubicle for the entire stretch of I-15.

But my little sister still broke and I still wrote about telescopes and my knees hit the floor more than they were supposed to, but it wasn't always that way.

And I remembered 9am.

4:32 PM
7 Comments

girls & strings & shoulders

This is for the girls scribbling chemistry notes in the margins.

The ones who outgrew attaching last names in the third grade.

The ones looking for a ticket out.

A ticket east.

This is for you,

Because I can't write to myself.

This is for the girls who hide their seams.

The ones who run on the dust just to avoid the asphalt and the eyes.

This is for those who speak only in pen,

Fingers in pockets,

Lips pressed against themselves,

Making promises for September,

Only so they don't have to worry themselves about December.

This is for the girls without painted nails

And a string on their wrists

And clumsy tongues.

This is for the girls, eighteen.

Eighteen with untested shoulders.

This is for the girls shaking the dust,

And clearing their throats,

Like they're afraid of sleeping away the sentences.

And that string has been on my left wrist since June.

reagan curtis.

11:36 PM
13 Comments

fingertips.

I saw the lights line up last night.

Not the stars,

Just the street lamps.

I saw the hands on the asphalt,

And the skin,

And the sheets.

And it was real.

And I remembered other real things.

Self-help books and

Cop cars and

Trying to force an appreciation for country music.

I remembered swearing we could hear Indians while we sat on the little roof of the little house on the little mountain and I remember debating whether or not we would slip off the edge if we kissed up there.