Eleanor Wears Teeth.
A poem about a Tuesday morning and an orange butterfly.
Trigger warnings: this short references religious trauma and alludes to depression.
The last time I flew on a plane, I was seventeen years old. I was so distrustful of the elasticity of my own skin that I commanded the power of God for the first time in three years. I am not on a plane now; I am making eye contact with Eleanor, the orange butterfly sitting on the bridge. This is my usual dream, and we are up to the bit where Eleanor is growing human teeth and purring a plea that keeps me wired in. Of course, she is only looking out for me. Yesterday I forgave Eleanor for that; tonight, I might thank her. Oh. I am caught up again –
When I was fourteen, I laid down with Jesus. I took my scorching hot fingers and branded sin all down my stomach and into my pants. I pulled back when I realised that I was too wound up to unwind, and pulled a golden chain back with me. That chain kept my fingers busy un-suffocating myself for the rest of the year. Somehow it didn’t burn as much then as it does now. As of late, my rage has been demanding an explanation and remembering too many. Emily mumbles about loving me. There are very few beautiful things about a Tuesday morning.
There is no tug of war to me climbing out of bed. I want to climb back into the cocoon that I exploded out of, only to be fizzled away by the light. Emily is only halfway out of sleep, and there is no crime to that! I remind myself that there is no love lost by not being there to scream it. I pour myself a hot shower, and something burns brightly for the third time this morning. I slip down the sink as I brush my teeth.
I met Emily at a concert. I am, in many ways, like a moth: I saw shiny colours and needed to be lit up. So I subconsciously swam towards her. Her neon dug me into her grave and had me searching for a halo five hours later – I would’ve crawled all the way inside of her and buried myself so deep that she would have mistaken me for her own heart. The first time we kissed, Emily shivered, and I saw her laugh run back from my lips and into her eye.
I make my way downstairs to make breakfast. Eggs are sunny-side-up until they are undercooked and then wobbled back into the pan and then just vaguely eggs. Toast is toast.