ivory ellis.

vienna

tell me I walk too fast

tell me that stars are for science

tell me I'm no green-eyed child with piano keys under my nail beds and poems under every heavy breath.

tell me teenaged girls don't major in political science

tell me I'm not allowed to write my own dialogue in their margins and

tell me that I don't know because two weeks in south america won't make up for two years.

tell me "you are what you eat" while you, you struggle to choke down your own advice

tell me to take my time, though you know as well as I do that when you're 19

vienna waits for no one.

tell me I'm an inconvenience.

3:34 PM
3 Comments

it was only high school poetry.
it was only you with your august eyes and us with our tuesday love.

we had gold in our eyes and lead on our papers
but we were far too brave to write in pencil.

we had gold on our palms and lead on our fingers
but we washed our hands every sunday.

we had black on our jeans and white on our faces
because we were far too poetic to admit it.

admit it.

it was only high school poetry.

3:45 PM
5 Comments

Flight 175

My dad was stranded in China and then Australia for a few days.

No flights coming into the US.

My mom was ironing and crying and the television was far too loud.

He missed my 5th birthday,

and I refused to open presents until he was home.

At least he came home.

2:52 PM
2 Comments

and next.

I didn't read enough books when I was 18.

But I emptied more than my share of gas tanks.

I wanted to be good at everything, because when I was 17 I was.

I liked white shirts with collars and jeans with holes but I never liked my skin.

My best friends only spoke to me on Mondays,

I painted high school across their screens and in return they gave me words about next August.

I wrote a lot in my little black book. It sounds cliché but I worry about forgetting. I worry about someday-children being 18 and not knowing whether or not it's okay to love on Tuesdays and how necessary it is to have a friend willing to hate people by proxy. These sort of things are terribly important. 17 I was determined. 18 I was present. 19 (thus far) has a lot of homework and not a lot of empty minutes and she only likes running at night and casual eyes. She still doesn't understand the moon but 19 has a ride to Colorado so it'll be okay. It'll be okay because I'm not 20.

It'll be okay because I have a little grey book now.

12:16 AM
3 Comments

there's a last time for everything

I always knew who her favorite child was,

but that was almost okay because I knew who his was, too.

I fought like a lawyer and I never won, I always drove too fast but so did she.

He liked the windows cracked and the little lamp on.

We danced to "Sweetest Thing", his feet wearing through the carpet and mine on top of his, so I grew up convinced I got cheated out of the brown eyes in the lyrics.

He watched his fingers trace the leather more than the television, and her patience wore through too fast for the figures on the screen.

Never brought her roses, always tulips.

I came home far too late once, and she was waiting up. Green eyes, calloused fingers gripping the sheets. He told me "you become the average of the five people you spend the most time with".

I walked away.

She said "good things, bad things, happy things, sad things" and I never grew out of telling her.

My friends call her on Christmas and Mother's Day (still).

He was giddy the day he bought me hiking boots, and I broke them in the next morning.

Because I had so many things to prove to him.

He calls me from China to say goodnight.

She holds my hand from the other side of the mattress, both of us on our knees.

And I am so sorry.

I am so sorry I walked away.

And I love you.

9:08 PM
2 Comments

smoke

it's 2 am,
and I wish I was sorry.

but some loves wear leather jackets and ride without helmets
and some loves sit in the corner, too polite to tell you how pretty you are when you smell like smoke.

some loves are too polite to tell you when you're going up in smoke.

it's 2:18 am,
and I wish I was sorry.

but some girls know the sequels are never quite as satisfying
and some girls would rather write blindly on and on than finish the story.

some girls wear leather jackets and ride without helmets.

it's 9 am,
and I wish I was sorry.

but you wear my hand woven with your own
and you know full well that I can't stay the night.