mynameisnotcelia

[mynameisnotcelia]

[mynameisnotcelia]

Summerland, Mount Rainier NP.

[mynameisnotcelia]

The Museum of Forlorns

Tonight the birds have their wings broken,

Their ancient hearts bled against glass door—

Nobody did, nobody will, nobody has ever spoken.

Amidst the dust, there's a moon forsaken

Adorning the walls of despair and misery;

Tonight the birds have their wings broken.

The angels in art, have never been awoken

In deepest slumber their faces crumbled,

Nobody did, nobody will, nobody has ever spoken.

Once, the birds were offered a token;

A museum of forlorns, standing in nothingness—

But tonight the birds have their wings broken.

The ribs, bones, blood and all that was taken

There's no sky in their silent wail—

And nobody did, nobody will, nobody has ever spoken.

And everyone, who passed the hall, left it unbroken—

You, who know no rage, tomorrow you will leave again

But tonight the birds have their wings broken,

See? nobody did, nobody will, nobody has ever spoken.

— circadeacademia

[mynameisnotcelia]

A piece of work Have you ever been told you’re a piece of work? I have, so of course, I wonder if I’m a gem in a mine, difficult to get to, a cog on an endlessly rolling conveyor belt, a painstaking placement of surgical instruments, a backbreaking digging of a ditch, a soul-crushing excel file, an emotional journey into therapy, a sculpture all curvy and light frozen in time, an abstract painting with my face mangled like my thoughts, a daydream interrupting life, or some other work not yet defined?

[mynameisnotcelia]

-deep cuts-

With fiery passion, I once painted

With anger, even

I sliced through thick layers

Of oil paint

While you were otherwise

Occupied

I was holding onto something

And didn’t know why

I was gasping under a stress

I couldn’t name

You weren’t a safe person

To give a name to

The feelings I was feeling,

So I painted.

Right in front of you.

[mynameisnotcelia]

-left behind- 7/30/21

I wish I could put my foot down

But when I think about it

I see your face beneath my shoe

The nervous laughter as you said,

“I don’t deserve what you did for me.”

Echoing

Until I shrink back

Into silence.

Because I can’t cut you off

But I can’t make you talk

So we’re at a stalemate,

As my trust dissipates

And you miss out on the love

I could have given you.

There’s no way to rescue you.

If you want to push me out,

Knowingly or not,

There’s no way I can stop you.

A part of me dreams of this:

Driving to your house in the sun,

Knocking, the clock tick-tocking,

Open the door and save this,

Open your eyes to SEE that

You story makes no sense

Step back for me and check

Your calendar for all this

Time you’ve spent wasting,

This time you’ve spent scrolling

And numbing

Forgetting that I never

Want to burden you,

I just want to talk to you.

And if you have time for a relationship

More demanding by nature than mine

Then why am I left in the dark?

[mynameisnotcelia]

-dissipation-

I cannot begin

And I cannot end

I cannot break or even bend

I cannot swim

I cannot drown

I’m just somewhere

Sinking down

And down, and down

Till I hit the bottom, breathing

Deeply the feeling

Of losing my feelings

In the mess of things.

My words become bubbles

Dissipating before

They hit the surface.

[mynameisnotcelia]

Forgive me for my anger,

My dear pen and paper:

I’ve nowhere else to put it.

A sweet and gentle creature

They have always called her,

So rage is not a given.

— “out of character”

[mynameisnotcelia]

-caught up-

I remember being so

Being so caught up in

In something I felt nothing

But that thing, that thing

Whatever it was, it was

My everything, in thought

For as long as I endured in thought

And I felt nothing, everything

The way it was given to me

Running from emotion

Unless it was prescribed

Or intentional

If the tears have labels

I’m allowed to cry them.

I just want to drown in a good story

So I don’t have to live mine.

[mynameisnotcelia]

-waiting for what-

Sometimes I feel relief

As my sadness comes in waves

I run into it like a madwoman because

It’s all I used to know.

And oh, how we find comfort in

The catharsis of familiar things

The release of everything

That I am holding

If happiness flows away along with them,

Then it was meant to be

A melancholy soul

Waiting to become sea foam.

[Oct. 20, 2020]

[mynameisnotcelia]

1/2/24

The internet is transient

And yet, I’m drawn to it.

…

I think my mother wanted me to be hardworking.

I can’t do half of what you do, so I must be failing.

I’m in need of constant care these days, I’m flailing

Trying to find what direction life is aiming.

If life is pain, find the problem and solve it.

It’s all on you to make life how you want it.

Make something of yourself, don’t define “something”,

Put your goalpost in a marathon: always running.

I am simultaneously further and closer to what I wanted

Than I’ve ever been,

And nothing makes me restless like not knowing where to begin.

I’ve always been one to find solace in the end,

So how do I know when to live again?

When everything means nothing, I lose purpose.

It’s so easy when nothing is permanent.

“Nothing” is a permanence, it surrounds us,

Frivolous, callous, pointless, heartless.

Nothing is permanent, all things ephemeral,

Vapor, vanity, meaningless candor.

So I spin in circles wondering what it all means

And if anything I do, if any breath I breathe

Is enough to warrant just existing.

[mynameisnotcelia]

I don’t want to isolate

But I’ve swiftly come to hate

All that the modern life

Demands of me.

I’m always on the cusp of leaving

Till I remember, weeping,

The people who’d still love to see me.

So I step back

But not too far

I try not to see

The sores and scars

And the way this world falls apart

For I cannot hold it

I cannot heal it

My hands were never

Meant to hold this.

— we weren’t made to live like this

[mynameisnotcelia]

-reaching in the dark-

I want to do something that means everything

And something that means nothing

I can’t have both

But I keep trying

And here I am blaming

My existentialism on myself

If life is pain, find the problem and solve it

My mind is a kitchen and I must cook in it

No one can do it for me

But God, I’m exhausted

God I’m exhausted

God I’m exhausted, WHY?

Nothing means anything

But I still don’t know

What that means

And what it means

To mean something

Do you ever think about that?

[mynameisnotcelia]

-a house of flowers-

When I was a child

I thought like a child

And reasoned as a child:

Surely in the Father’s

Many, many rooms

He could fashion for me

A house of flowers.

I told God exactly

What I wanted.

I thought everything

Was so simple, everything

Had a reason, everything

Followed the rules, everything

Was a house of flowers.

Beautiful and just

As I planted.

From the youngest age I thought

The world was kind

People wanted to be loved

People would listen to me

People would seek the light

So when they rejected my love

My compassion

(My control)

My voice,

I became lost.

You taught me that my love

Is not enough

And so I seek

A house of flowers . . .

The quietness away

From anyone who’d hurt me

Some peaceful loneliness

Deep in myself

Where I can sing and not speak,

And become so much fuller

Yes, I

Still seek

A house of flowers—

Build it on the edge of the earth,

Where the waterfall falls off the cliff

Into space; the flora against a backdrop

Of stars

And here I will surely find

Something to heal me

Among all the plants of the earth…

God, if you’ll just build it

I’ll wait all my life

For my house of flowers.

[mynameisnotcelia]

-when the ink runs out-

I wonder when the ink runs out, when

I feel like I can write no more, when

I’m so consumed, that there’s no room

To ruminate on what has been.

Let the day never come

When I am so shallow

I forget what fills me.

Let the day never come

When I am so hollow

I forget what shakes me.

And still I know, it takes very little to break me.

[mynameisnotcelia]

-siphon-

I’m siphoning the past out of my fingertips

Seeking some kind of catharsis in remembrance

What do I hope to find?

The satisfaction that I searched

Every memory entirely?

Left no boulder unturned?

What do I hope to find?

Some kind of peace of mind.

Giving your memory

A piece of my mind.

All these

Nebulous things

That fester within me

I want to forget them

I don’t have that luxury.

It’s like I want everyone to know

The I’ve held their memory

In my being

All this time

For no other reason

Than it could be held.

It could be held so I held it

I continue holding

Onto everything

That I can; I want to know who I am

And every single speck of dust that shaped me.

[mynameisnotcelia]

-it must be-

Here I am with steam

Coming off me as I sit

In my anger

And my rage

At nearly nothing

And words on the page

Hardly sate me

I start to hate me

For being so ugly this way.

It must be awful to love me this way.