edenisabellee

[edenisabellee]

cartography

an original poem by edenisabelle

i want to know what clothes you sleep in.

if it’s an old t-shirt, threadbare and clinging to flesh, or nothing at all; just you and the quiet hush of moonlight spilling across the sheets.

i want to know how your body curls in the dark, which side you roll to, if you chase warmth or toss and turn from it.

do you dream in color? do you talk in your sleep?

would you let me listen?

i want to see the map of your mornings; how you like your coffee, how long you linger in the silence before speaking your first syllables of daybreak.

i want to know the look you leave behind in the mirror before you go; if it’s rushed or unhurried, if you’re kind to your reflection or still learning how to be.

i want to trace the architecture of you; the edges of your marrow, where skin pulls tight over shoulder blades. the hollow where your sternum dips, where your ribs meet like a thought half-formed. i want to memorize the places where breath holds beneath bones.

i want to know what softens you, what makes your breath catch, what makes you laugh in that unguarded, throat-cracked kind of way.

i want to know how you love; if it’s cautious, like cupping water in shaking hands, or reckless, like jumping from rooftops just to feel the wind.

i want to know you.

in the hush between questions, in the glance before a kiss, in all the small, quiet ways before the moment someone becomes

unforgettable.

[edenisabellee]

sun shower

an original poem by edenisabelle

coffee-smell and blood-orange skies, early summer clinging to skin, the air is sugar-warm with ripe stone-fruits and pursed lips.

golden-blonde curls fanned out against plush pillows, framing his cupid face like a halo; all light and quiet awe, as if the morning itself paused to admire him.

he’s the sunlight caught in me, too bright to stare directly at, but something my pale face begs for-- like fresh-spring petals budding for warmth, or march frost craving the melt.

it’s the toe-dipping kind of love; hesitant, careful, like a child afraid to sink but aching to dive.

the kind that lingers at the edge of something blue and vast, testing warmth with trembling, chilly ankles.

it’s meant to be kept between collarbones and curtains, tucked in the folds of sheets; of shared glances and bitten lips, where no one looks and nothing loud survives.

no one sees me in his arms; a love this innocent belongs to quiet, to something you can’t name aloud.

we're soft-spoken in the charged space, between too-close knees and fleeting brushes of finger pads,

he lazily traces the knobs of my spine, skin pulled taut against the bone; just the soft curiosity of someone who already knows the shape of me.

his grin is crooked, a little sunbeam of a thing, and i catch it when i’m able.

it lands on me softly, warmer than what seeps through the blinds, and i wear it for hours after, tucked somewhere behind my ribs,

glowing.

[edenisabellee]

litany

an original poem by eden isabelle

for all his strength, he was never built to endure softness; he bends and snaps like frostbitten branches in spring, too brittle for tenderness, too splintered for mercy. every damn time, it’s the warmth that undoes him, the gentlest touch splitting him wide open like a seam in old silk, unraveling beneath supple hands that mean no harm.

he talks a good game, walks the razor-edge of restraint, but it unravels fast in the heat of your gaze. his bluff crumbles, pitiful, under the weight of those traitorous pupils, blown wide with thirst, drinking in every last lick of that pretty, pleading green like a man starved of sweetness who’s forgotten how not to beg.

he’s at your mercy and he knows it; knows it in the hiccup of his breath, in the helpless, frantic flutter of heartbeats beating pathetically against his sternum, no effort to hide it; his chest betrays him, like the chambers and ventricles are trying to tell on him.

he pretends it’s your fault, the way his hands tremble; like you rewired him on purpose, slipped beneath his skin and threaded your name through every nerve ending until they all fire when you so much as breathe near the slope of his neck.

he talks big, sure, but it all shatters the second you look at him like you mean it.

he’ll gasp, sharp and startled, a sound dragged from somewhere deep, like he wasn’t ready to feel this. panting, pleading, those wide, wet eyes doing nothing to help his case.

and then he melts; shoulders slack, spine curving toward you like a question he hopes you’ll answer.

it’s almost pathetic, how easily he folds, how softness cracks him wide open for your viewing pleasure.

except, there’s a sweetness biting at the corners of it, like the sharp scrunch of your face after your tongue meets sugar, or the jolt of something saccharine hitting the back of your throat.

that kind of sweetness that makes your jaw clench, makes your eyes water, makes you go back for more even as you wince.

he tastes like that kind of contradiction: tight-wound tension laced with sugar-slick whispers,

too much,

too soon,

too good.

he’s a syrupy chaser after a dry gulp of gin, a mouthful of something that burns on the way down, then blooms warm in your chest like want.

whatever it is, he calls it letting go, calls it trus;

but it reeks of habit,

his favorite lie:

that he’s not already yours.

he likes needing you. likes being coaxed, cornered, cradled; likes the sound of your voice telling him what he is like it’s gospel.

and what is he?

a soft, golden thing; blonde hair catching the light like something holy. all flushed cheeks and that little cherub face, with too much want in his eyes and not nearly enough spine to deny you.

a man undone by the grace of a woman’s touch; by her command, her mercy.

needy doesn’t even begin to cover it; he was built to ache, and you were built to answer.

[edenisabellee]

overripe nightshade

an original poem by edenisabelle

there’s an old dog barking in the window; powdered-sugar muzzle pressed to the pane as he bellows against the glass.

the night is warm—too warm, even for a florida summer—but the heat doesn’t bother us. we move through the city like something poured, syrupy liquor sweet on our tongues.

the air is thick with the scent of jasmine climbing up old brick and the potent edge of cigarette butts crushed into concrete.

my friend extends his hand to me, and i’m thankful he does, for without his palm in mine i think i’d fall; pointy heels and soft soil never mesh well.

the cicadas are chirping loudly tonight; or maybe they’re late-spring crickets finding a tune, eager for an audience. either way, the insect choir is wild and loud, but not loud enough to drown out the drunken giggles that bounce from our throats. we’re bright and stumbling, like we’ve just remembered we’re alive.

our shadows ripple on the pavement, dragged long and warped by the burnt-orange glow of a broken streetlamp. my skirt clings to my thighs, damp with sweat and memory, and i swear i can feel the heartbeat of the city thrumming through the soles of my shoes. somewhere, music stumbles out of a bar; off-key jazz or maybe an old soul record scratched just right.

we don’t speak much, don’t need to. the night's doing the talking; through clinking bottles left on windowsills, through laughter leaking out of alleyways, through the slap of our feet against the sidewalk in mismatched rhythm. his thumb traces lazy shapes on the back of my hand, like he’s writing a story only the skin can read.

we cut through a narrow side street, where vines hang heavy and low. a stray cat darts past, pale and fast, its eyes catching the light like marbles. i wonder if it’s going somewhere, or just running for the joy of it. i wonder if that’s what we’re doing, too.

there’s something about this kind of dark—velvety, open, alive—that makes everything feel just a little more possible. even the ache in my ankles feels romantic, and the way the city hums feels like it’s humming for us.

[edenisabellee]

must feral dogs starve?

an original poem by eden isabelle

tangled together between sheets, we’re a bundle of limbs—swarming with an all-too-familiar itch. my head’s snarling like a dog—

rabid, vicious,

cujo.

“it’s a killer. surely, you know this.”

it howls a grotesque cure-all— the lie i drink like water. i’m not sharp enough to leave my mark on anything. just dull fingertips, prying pathetically into your chest cavity, reaching, always reaching— maybe i’ll touch your heart. maybe it’ll make me real.

the creature never settles. it slips under my skin, a constant trilling that never quite fades, sliding into the places i thought were untouched.

insatiable, relentless. it lingers there, restless, desperate for a fleeting weakness— to wedge its foot in and reclaim its hold.

it sinks its teeth in tender places— my brain matter, my reflection, the soft of my throat. it growls when i think, howls when i’m still, rears its ugly head at the mere prospect of a warm, full belly.

it gnaws the edges of joy, chews memory into pulp; grinding sanctity between marrow. my cranium as its enclosure, it digs its way through, makes headway to the forefront, and bites into you.

tell me, do you not flinch when the hound bares its teeth?

it’s easier to flee. why make a home of my wreckage when you can just leave me be?

the hound snarls, “don’t let him in.”

this comfort cuts— a quiet dagger, a steel blade slipped into the hollow of me, a reminder: i don’t have to obey the hunger.

do i let this creature bloom? let it rise from infancy, a harmless pup turning ruthless— snarling, rabid, unchained?

i know what it will reclaim: the sick ache of solitude, the silence of starving.

you hold steady, despite the noise. perhaps you hear the same thing i do— the low growl at the back of my throat, the quiet thrum of fear beneath the calm.

but you don’t retreat. you draw me closer.

i curl towards you like something feral, tamed only by your stillness, one hand to my shoulder, the other in my hair—anchoring me to you.

and with each caress, each weighted grasp, every gentle plea, “just lay with me.”

the dog, too, obeys. it’s not gone—just still.

in the silence between its growls, i remember what it feels like to breathe without bleeding, to speak without regret, to stay when every urge screams to abandon ship— because you stay, keep me grounded, put my rabidity at bay.

deeper in the linens, the canine goes.

and my chilly heels make their way to the warmth of your toes. you shift just enough to let me in, just enough to say, “i see you.”

my ribs still echo with hunger songs, but your touch hums louder.

and in the steadiness of your breath against my neck, i find a rhythm that isn’t pain. with you, i don’t have to earn rest. it comes freely— like forgiveness, like breath.

perhaps tomorrow the dog will wake, snarling, hungry, starved;

but for now, though the animal may pace, it won’t get the bed— not tonight.

tonight, i must let sleeping dogs lie.

[edenisabellee]

not even the trees

an original poem by eden isabelle

i soon found myself searching for green.

sea moss, emerald, juniper; verdigris clinging to old copper.

perhaps monstera leaves bathed in early may’s rays, the hush of pine after rain, or the first soft sprigs of thyme in spring.

this was all language could muster; believe me, i scoured.

but even then, none of it does them justice.

they hold something the forest could only ache to mirror— that quiet gleam of wet ivy, the shimmer of lichen in golden dusk, velvet moss beneath bare feet.

and still, it all pales beside

the way you look at me.

[edenisabellee]

soft places for sharp edges

an original poem by eden isabelle

“it’s more than that--it’s a piece of my heart.”

so go ahead, leave that shard at mine. 

i’ll take care of it good, promise.

i’ll cradle it carefully, once shrouded in dust, i’ll polish it clean.

you don’t have to hide anymore or lock those things away.

i’ll tuck it somewhere safe and keep it close, so close—squeeze it warm until it knows it’s home.

i’ll gather up the pieces you left behind, fit them together until it feels whole again. until you feel whole again.

what’s yours is mine, now, after all.

i always figured i’d die a fragile death--limits left untested as i side-step craggy rocks and overlooked opportunities. 

but for you… i’d live.

walk barefoot over every broken path, every sharp edge, if it meant carrying those fragments to a place they can heal. i’d rather shatter than stay safe, rather stumble than miss the weight of all that matters.

see, for you, I’d hold every jagged shard, let them press close, cut deep if they must, because this love of ours isn’t soft, isn’t careful; it’s a flame that burns, a fire of maturity that dares you to feel its heat.

i love every part of you—the easy pieces, the ones you wear like sunlight. 

and i love the parts you keep tucked away, the ones you think are too sharp, too shadowed—too much. 

the things you cradle close, afraid they’re too fragile to share or too heavy to hold.

my dear, I’m taking them all; 

learning the way they fit into you, loving them as fiercely as the rest—without hesitation, without condition.

i’ll carry them with the same tenderness, the same unflinching devotion.

so, remind me again… muddy feet, hot faucet, grass-freckled tub.

these wobbly fawn legs of mine can finally surrender; rest.

my head, too; sub these plush feathers for your beating chest. 

render me speechless, useless.

door open, jaw drop, breath caught, blonde locks.

your shirt slouching on my frame and my finger to your lips,

"i’ll take care of it."

[edenisabellee]

skin

an original poem by eden isabelle

never did i think id find the one who’d cradle my head in bubbles. the one who’d ease the tangles from my hair when the comb’s teeth feel too daunting for my weary hands. 

i never thought i'd see the day where someone could clean my retches from the porcelain-- without a murmur of scolds, just care and devotion, not one soul told. 

and to make my heart soft again; what an impossible feat. but you did so in record-time, flying colors, no batting eye. 

two tender fingers trace from my forehead to my chin-- half-moon circles, counterclockwise, zero sin.

late night drives for your devotee,

all to exit my shower, skin smelling like me.

wrapped in warmth, worries be free,

i hope my tired cricket legs always lull you to sleep the way they do for me.

my elastic heart strings always bounce me back, so explore them as you wish, and steer this vessel back to its track.

unravel my wounds, just don’t let go,

and dive deeper into places i seldom show.

and with each revelation, remind me still,

that fragile as I am, I’m whole by will.

and i’ll have you know, my skin didn’t even get pruny in that bath-- but i want to wrinkle with you still; grow old and gray and dimpled, our skin bearing the beautiful damage of our love story-- marks deeper than hot water and liquor could ever inflict.

you know I’m scared to look different, but for you, i’d let time invade. these smile lines need-not hide; for you, they’ll never fade.

i want to feel the weight of time on our bones, let my hands grow rough in yours, as our steps slow in sync. 

and when the world blurs at the edges, I’ll still see you clearly—like late-autumn stone fruit, aged but still sweet.

[edenisabellee]

postmortem

an origninal poem by eden isabelle

was i always rotten?

destined to diminish?

meant to rot?

carnage, flesh, and shards of bone flaking from my skin with no one to send me to the morgue.

but how am i meant to wrap up this body, tie my name to my foot, when it’s already withered away?

two tired hands grasping at stainless steel, missing the soul entirely.

am i meant to be carried? 

is the back of my car meant to be cleaned by anyone but me?

it’s my mess, anyway.

and do the stars weep for me?

am i sad enough for them to shed their tears?

or do they merely twinkle,

mocking glances, twisted brows.

yet, within this decay,

is there a whisper of rebirth?

can the roots of sorrow nourish

the fragile blooms of hope?

can I rise from this ashen ground,

or am I doomed to be the dust that settles; neglected, unnoticed?

perhaps i'll remain a question,

a riddle wrapped in a tattered shroud,

waiting for the day i can finally answer--

who am i?

if not this fractured phantom?

[edenisabellee]

nothing but

an original poem by eden isabelle

steel blues and calloused palms, steal me so I’m no longer blue; make me believe nothing could be better for my hazel gaze and supple grasp…

just wintergreen kisses, tongue dances, oh, I’m smitten.

purple-pink skies and a new bargain to wage; i am so unbelievably, incredibly, overjoyed… to find existence in your corner, where authenticity wedges its way in before skepticism takes root.

you’ve known nothing but cynicism, just barely holding on, a shield you’ve adorned for far too long.

but pick apart the matter, peel back the layers that doubt has so expertly crafted, where shame clings like a vice, and untangle these golden strands of mine.

beneath white-hot shower heads and steam-coated mirrors, unveil my ever-growing, insatiable aching to know— to see beyond the surface, and caress the very essence of you.

no desire burns brighter than this, not even the water that drips from our faucet, so leave nothing to the imagination, and let me see it all.

give me all the marrow hung in your closet, the fabric shoved beneath dressers and stuffed between floorboards, the dirty laundry slipped between sheets.

let me make your bed, my dear. let me dress your wounds, and lick away your woes, until you realize, deep in your bones, that my feet will only ever carry me to you.

[edenisabellee]

sacrificial pulp

an original poem by eden isabelle

peel me, i’m citrus. 

pick me to pieces till the tang and pulp drips from your fingertips.

my leaf-like veins and blushing pink skin.

smudge the blood, sweat, and tears into the apples of my cheeks,

and understand i’m only shedding to look good for you.

it’s an unapologetically cruel misuse of sacrificial admiration-- 

scraped knees that heal just to fall and scab again.

sharpened daggers strike dull against cold little ears awaiting the warmth of a confession, 

and the simplicities of devotion.

carve a bit more,

collide with my core in secrecy; 

a pit riddled with wretched, surreptitious truths.

swaddled in white lies--

perhaps i’ll taste better this way.

bitter realizations mingle with sweetness of promise,

and while the the scent of sacrifice lingers,

my relentless pursuit persists,

until the wounds are rubbed raw.

[edenisabellee]

a birdsong for remedy

an original poem by eden isabelle

i wish so desperately that my lifecycle was never tainted; unblemished by mature wounds and incautious gashes.

so i dip my toes into the divinity that is you, 

and flood my system till the rot runs clean. 

i flush until this harbored anguish becomes something spectacular, aided by mutters of mornings between sheets, and coffee in tandem--just how i like it.

it’s no secret i’ve got a fragile heart; glass-blown chambers beating pathetically in this bird chest of mine. 

a sensitive little thing, too tender to even be cradled by pillow feathers and satin-lined gloves.

so, my iron-chested soldier,

fetch me some of that brimming confidence from territory uncharted by me;

be that brilliant man you are: cerulean-eyed and eloquent-tongued,

and remedy my sorrowed soul. 

salvage this woeful woman of me,

resurrect this lovelorn heart from the plague of uncertainty,

and show me what it means to lick the possibilities, to merely taste the fine edge where mystique corners devotion.

‘cause i've never been hungrier, and my mouth has never been drier,

so i ask one favor of my soft-spoken-savior:

kiss me till i’m better, 

douse my tastebuds in you,

and satiate me till i’m no longer left wondering… 

what it’s like to be full.

[edenisabellee]

blush, lament

an original poem by eden isabelle

i can feel myself teetering on the precipice; the tail-end of something bitter. 

picking my brain to collect the good parts of you, dripping from my fingertips to my awaiting tongue, dry and devoid of wellness. 

familiarize me with youth spent sucking silver spoons, even though i know i’ll never pass your test. 

your presence was ephemeral; nocturnal dew on silver-green leaves ill-fit to survive the first break of dawn. 

for the very moment the sun begins to peek its timid head from behind the muggy, humid covers, it’s already too late for us. 

this plea of mine so pathetic in its desperation it leaves even Helios tossing in his wispy sheets, plagued with an oh-so-cruel vicarious embarrassment.

my heavy-burdened back, though breaking under the weight of you, stays upright to aid me in recalling days filled to the brim with smile-sore cheeks and nights spent cherished between sheets.

a symphony of contradictions where i’m doomed to step off-beat, lost in the rhythm of what could never be, met only with mocking glances from maestros wise beyond my infancy.

i know this curiosity of mine is never meant to leave the air; bound to stay hanging, questioning, unanswered. 

why cant we just play for keeps? 

[edenisabellee]

tethered imbalance

an original poem by eden isabelle

i know i'm worse for wear, but i tell him he sharpens me up real good. 

careful foot patterns as i tightrope that delicate, all-too-familiar line that stretches thin between despair and elation, focused solely on maintaining this precarious equilibrium.

after all, it’s a balancing act meant for experts; not a pitiful, love-sick woman who bites her tongue and prays her core remains steady as her knees wobble in desperation. but, it failed me just as i expected it to; an allconsuming sentiment that took me abruptly, tugged at my heartstrings, and left me utterly and painfully smitten. 

​​i almost say, “that’s what you think,” but i stop myself; why would those amber pools look--no, sink in my direction and lie so plainly? trace the ridges of my spine and spin tales through gritted teeth, caress the dimples on my back and construct some sort of comedy where no one’s expected to laugh.

he masks that truth behind a facade of cool indifference, draining the last lick of coffee from his cup as he wrinkles his nose and side-glances me with those deep-ends. 

a mundane afternoon spent side-stepping confessions through caffeine kicks and tongue dances.

his voice low, carrying with it that subtle threat i've come to know all too well.

so, what more am i to do than take his advice?

get dressed just to get undressed again; play the part of his devotee, his ever-devoted disciple,

filling the empty spaces of my life with the echoes of his promises. sitting in my sink, picking at my skin, hanging on every word he says,

searching for meaning in every inflection, every pause, as if they hold the key to my salvation, drawing me deeper into the sanctity of his presence.

treasuring each syllable as though he's a deity among mortals.

[edenisabellee]

vigil's bitter

an original poem by eden isabelle

tw: insinuations of an ed.

there are towels strewn across my bathroom floor, 

for knees that kneel but do not pray. 

i wish that i could steer myself clear of any path that isn’t my own, 

but i'm left trembling, emptying,

a desperate bid to purge the pain.

six years i've spent hunched over my porcelain witness, 

sitting as it’s always been;

cold and white, 

reflecting my frailty, my desperate plight.

 i ache for relief, a fleeting peace, 

to still the turmoil that just refuses to cease.

but the world tugs at my edges, pulls me in, 

entwined in its tangled web, caught in the spin. 

each retch a confession, each heave an admission, 

of battles waged inward, of relentless submission.

i seek refuge in silence, 

where only muted sobs echo in the tiled room.

the faucet's steady drip punctuates the air, 

a melancholic rhythm in this space of despair.

i yearn to escape the relentless pull, 

to unravel myself from this tangled spool. 

yet each day brings new struggles to bear, 

entangled in threads that seem frayed beyond repair.

[edenisabellee]

bone fragility

an original poem by eden isabelle

an unkind whisper, 

a gravelly, 

unashamed, 

authoritative, 

“you make me lose control,” against my pillow-pressed ear.

and so, i must know,

did my beating heart in silent slumber really make you teeter from morality?

what if i was awake?

alive, thumping, breathing. 

would it have ended then? 

my once-open palms, turned inward in supplication,

clasped together, pleading for it to end. 

i’m in atrophy 

fallen victim to you,

a casualty of your cruel touch,

wasting away,

disintegrated,

reduced to mere bones, pure and stark-white

untouched,

innocent marrow, 

untainted by your venomous grasp.  

what can i do? 

other than be a disobedient dog at your feet, 

rearing my head in defiance when you tell me to… 

sit, stay, take it. 

[edenisabellee]

honey blood

an original poem by eden isabelle

shield me from empty promise.

cut that bitter taste of life that’s been stagnant on my tongue for far too long. 

douse my buds in sweetener; the real sugary kind, not that fake stuff. 

maybe some honey, raw from the comb, if you wish. 

you say I smell good, even in the ocean, as you hold me above the waves. 

and I say it’s because I’ve got perfume for blood, 

or maybe I just want to impress you.

and i won’t correct you on the pronunciation of that pink hotel

because the soles of my feet are too hot on the sand,

and i just want you to carry me home.

i know i grasp too tightly,

claw marks etched into the backs of those i'm afraid to let go of,

frightened you’ll slip through my fingers like the grains of shell against the shore.

‘cause i’ve always known men to be rushers—

rushing to my hips, 

my thighs, 

the sweet spot that loses its allure without patience. 

but you, oh, not you. 

and that’s so foreign to me.

my tongue feels swollen in my mouth when i think about it, 

like im a tourist in a place that doesn’t speak my language.

so, be patient with me while I learn... 

to take my time tasting leisure, 

savoring the sugar,

and breathing your air. 

teach me the art of stillness,

of finding peace in your silent presence.

because there are no time constraints when we’re hand-in-hand, 

and no tears to shed 

when we’re taking the scenic route.