elm-o

[elm-o]

'Teeth Scare Me'

My teeth chomp and chew and spew obscenities,

Often i fear my lips will be bitten off from the inside out,

Holes in my chin and upper lip, lips hanging on by bits of skin as i scream in agony,

Teeth are a scary thing.

My jaw locks and loads and forces itself closed as i grip the sides of my chin begging for it to end,

My teeth clenched so hard, im scared they'll explode

I wake up with a sideways jaw,

Remembering the days where i feared id swallow my tongue,

Now im scared of bitting it off,

Teeth are a scary thing

I slide my tounge on the sharp edges in an attempt to slit it and sit with my modern fears,

With tough teeth sharper than sheers, im still unable to cut through

Marks have been made though, i often trace the bite marks left inside of my lip and the very tip of my tounge from the nights i woke up biting it,

The stark pain enough to convince me i severed it,

Teeth are a scary thing

My baby won a puncture wound on her spine after a night of  fighting tooth and nail,

Her teeth all snapped from battle,

When anxious or tense or in moments of ecstasy my teeth will start to rattle,

My food will fall from my mouth and my jaw will lock in a failed attempt at eating,

Even if the tension is fleeting i can hear the cracking of my jaw as i open and close,

Teeth are a scary thing

At times my teeth feel mushy and rotten,

Like theyd forgotten their placement in my gums,

I suck my teeth and fear they'll be vacuumed into my throat, sharply sliding down,

They feel brittle and i fear a fall or punch or crash will be enough to astound the nerves in my mouth as i look in the lost and found for the shattered pieces of calcium,

Teeth are a scary thing

I fidget with the alignment of my jaw, never quite getting it right,

It seems each tooth has grown sitting wrong as i slide my teeth to the song of scraping enamel,

Fearful of biting into something hard in a soft dish, because one little pebble will be the last of it,

An imaginary rock that'll never be found,

Teeth are a scary thing

I fear kissing the mouth of another,

Tounges and saliva coated teeth transfer each other's disease,

And in a way, such sleeze is almost romantic,

Yet still im afraid of the germs we could release

Teeth are a scary thing

[elm-o]

'The O Word'

Your face is a tempting instrument drawing me towards osculation

My hands are an instrument of occulation, hiding my infatuation from view

Im absolutely star struck by you, a process called occultation

As my heart beats rapidly, you send me into a state of occlusion

Your eyes behind the screen act like the eyes on the wings of butterflies, hypnotic and unreal. Oculation.

With nothing else to believe in, you send me into a state of occultism. Analyzing your every word.

Im in a state where this feeling is ossified.

Your occlusive voice rings through my occipital at all hours, day and night.

Every pore in my body is an orifice filled with you.

This obsession can't be love. Perhaps, just the hormonal side effects of ovulation.

My longing for you destroys me. I freeze up at the thought of getting to know you. Ossification.

When i forget you every little ossicle breaks apart and i am able to be me again.

The pain of loving you parasocially hurts me worse than the cracking of my osteons.

My love for you is oriental.

But in the mind of a teenage girl, it's completely occidental.

[elm-o]

'Spools'

As the spool unravels before me,

I get lost in its string,

Weeving a messy web,

I carefully premeditate my every move until im able to undo my work,

Fingers following the thin rope to detanglement,

And as i try to find myself in it all,

You and i end up in an entanglement,

My thread fed into the eyelet of your needle,

Left without the intention of ever letting go,

im tied to you,

Your sharp needle point pierces through my felt heart as you thred me into your own personal project,

Mesmerized by your shining silver,

i watch as you stab me in my knitted intestines and plush liver,

A river of stuffing leaking from my arms,

You shape me into something entirely new,

and when i can't remember who i was,

i think back to the spool i started from,

remembering the way i untangled myself to tie into your life,

You took your seam ripper and removed everything that you didn't like,

You gouged out my soulful button eyes for cold plastic beads,

You stabbed me along every seam and every lining,

You're so good at hiding your evil deeds,

Left me on my knees,

Using my plush paws to plug the wounds you've inflicted on me,

Like a loosely plugged cork in a tipped wine bottle,

While you just stand there over my cold body,

Refusing me stitches from your kit,

And it was when i felt most lost in who i am, (or who i was),

when you decided to jab the knife in my back,

Using me as nothing more than a tool for your own gain,

Looping the short strings left of me onto that spool again,

Then cuting the ties and hiding my scrap fabric away from the world so they wouldn't know you were the villan that attacked first,

Sewing in the lies of "i love you" into every fiber,

And though this experience was tragic,

I still hope one day you'll look to me to work your magic,

Your silver shining down on my velvet skin,

What ever painful project you have in mind,

I hope you can get behind using my scraps for your own use,

I can endure the abuse if it means i can tie the nuse around the neck of your needle again,

I watch you put on a show for your friends,

You pretend like your satisfied with the end,

And everyday i remember the missing parts of me,

I look down at my frayed string,

Wondering if this is just the life of a spool of thread,

Ment to be cut and left for dead in the bottom of a sewing bag,

Ment to be an object for men to use,

Luring me in,

running their fingers across my fishing line skin,

Though i love the shining of his silver,

Id like to use the last sliver of my string to knot into other things,

Needles just arent for me,

Id rather be weeved with other strings into a basket,

Colorful and painless,

Void of his stainless steel,

And we'd hold each other close and touch and feel,

Gently holding one another's soft palms in our hands,

We'd have more fun together than with any other man

[elm-o]

This is a story about a man in a dinosaur hat i saw at a farmer's market. I call it: 'The Man in the Dinosaur Hat'

I continuously catch myself stealing glances at you like an officer catches a theif in the night. Sneakily, slowly, and unnoticeably i hope you turn your head so i can catch a glimpse of the man. The man in the dinosaur hat. The figures stand atop of his head living and breathing on a planet of hair. I sit and I stand and i try not to stare but i hope to tell him "i like your hat". Unable to muster up the courage to conversate, i find myself blindly walking through the market. Conversations take two or one or three or ten, for some reason im able to ask the man at the stand if he has a salted chocolate chip cookie for my mother, but im unable to tell another man i like his hat? i hope to say just 4 words to that man in the dinosaur hat. "I" "like" "your" "hat". The man at the stand told me "unfortunately we do not sell salted chocolate chip cookies here". I thanked him and continued on my journey through the market in search of that cookie my mother wanted. As i walk towards the north side of the market the man in the dinosaur hat walked south. As we crossed paths we stared at each other for a moment. "Hi" the man in the dinosaur hat said to me. I was shocked. The person who i so desperately wanted to start a conversation with sparked it first. "Hi! I love your hat!" I responded excitedly. "Thank you for caring about the Earth!" Said the man as we walked away. I turned to say "of course!" And waved my fist in solidarity. Im not sure if he said that because of my arbor day hat or if it was because of my compliment on his environmental activist baseball cap. I like to think he saw my hat. Two hats seeing one another in admiration. I never found that cookie for my mother.

[elm-o]

This is an original poem i call 'The Heart of a Poet'

I want a man with the heart of a poet, but gone are the days of paper. Paper backs, hardcovers, sit on the shelf collecting dust. For i havent cracked open a book in ages. I haven't read not a page but instead the look in his eyes hoping its for me. Its the way her wrinkles would emerge and displace as her mouth stretched across her face. Pearls shining through her lips. Gone are the days of poetry filled hearts, for no one writes letters in envelopes sealed with a kiss. I still wait for my love letter like a little girl waits on her prince. Not knowing who they are but knowing its certainly not the guy friend who writes you paragraphs during the early hours of the morning. Its not love he craves, its touch. Gone are the men with the hearts of poets for im the last one. Ive drafted love letters but none would stand the test of time to ever be fully crafted. Oh to be the lady who broke the poor blues singers heart and watch the way he'd cry for her in every song with every key of his piano and every note of his harmonica. With every crack in his voice and every breath in his lungs as he called out rhythmic poems begging for her to come back. Gone are the days of paperbacks and hard covers. For the only tenants at the library are the middle school kids getting high in the bathroom and those who are in desperate need of a printer. Gone are the men with the hearts of poets for they hide amongst us all. Laying in bed at the late hours of the night with stanza filled heads and moonlit ceilings. Their poetry passes through them, and in them, and out them but may never make their way to you. For he loves you enough to respect that you dont, so he'll just keep his poems to himself.