Are You Receiving?

The strokes are long and smooth and the slippery, slightly coarse, sound we make together makes my skin smile. There isn’t a whole lot I can say to describe the way you make me feel except to say that You. Make. Me. In a way that I don’t doubt or worry that I also make you. It just is.

One was light, airy and empty, the other dark and tended to mark and scratch everything it touched. Combined, the stories told were everything we needed them to be, a documentation, a history, a release, a comfort, a joy, a heartache, a declaration, a proclamation, a manifestation of what we are, what we were and what we can be together, Pen and Paper.

~Elle Esbe

The way someone in authority speaks to you is terribly important.

Especially if it differs from the way they speak to your equals.

The city of Extra is the place where we live. Where it isn’t enough to be nice to be considered a nice person. It isn’t enough to be happy to be considered a happy person. It isn’t enough to be good to be considered a talented person. It isn’t enough for you for me to just be me. In the land of Extra what you give isn’t what they receive. They have it in their minds already. The media has told them what to see. Insecurity has told them what to see. Liars have told them what to see. And to see is to believe. In the state of Extra you must be extra nice to be considered nice, extra happy to be considered happy, extra talented to be considered good, extra you to be considered me. ~Elle Esbe

…that urge was an itch that stitched itself to my spine like swine in the muck but fuck what a way to play with you I say I don’t care for spare advice precisely what I did for fun and son I run for you its true its like that urge was an itch that stitched itself to my spine like swine in the muck but fuck what a way to play with you I say I don’t care for spare advice precisely what I did for fun and son I run for you its true its like that urge was an itch that stitched itself to my spine like swine in the muck but fuck what a way to play with you I say I don’t care for spare advice precisely what I did for fun and son I run for you its true its like that urge was an itch that stitched itself to my spine like swine in the muck but fuck what a way to play with you I say I don’t care for spare advice precisely what I did for fun and son I run for you its true its like…

~Elle Esbe

There are seven colourless pills in my colourless hand. The first goes down easy. The second slides down right. The third makes a impression leaving bitterness in its wake. The fourth takes what left of the colour from my face. The fifth sits pretty on my tongue which I stick out to admire in the mirror. And after a time she disappears on her own. The sixth gets chomped and broken in. The seventh… I don’t remember. I stick two fingers in up to the knuckle and my body’s reaction to the invasion pulls the poison from the grave and I’m left with a failure of intent.

~Elle Esbe

I didn’t want to play with you.

It’s true it was the music that called me in my head.

There’s something to be said about the bogeyman that’s organically made.

Faded and held together, just barely, by bone and water and blood and flesh, same as me.

You see your weight in my eyes is heavy and yet I can only look at you once.

Serrated skin peels back as you grin, teeth and joints cl-click, dust breathed in then out, and underwater imagery.

It’s you who scared me first and best because believing in anything else strengthens the possibility of you.

~Elle Esbe

There’s something so demeanimg and misleading about the other dimension. That space in the universe that was made wholly and utterly just for me. Where words are like food and every bite satisfies my existence. Nothing is quite the same there. Bad things happen there but only when I want them to.

~Elle Esbe

Like butter, I sit in the shade.  Like butter, I mind my own.  Like butter, I harm none.  Like butter, I soften for you.  Like butter, I wait to be cut.

It’s that knife edge poised in flight that leaves me in awe.  It’s that image you make that takes my breath away and I don’t miss the intake.  At all.  It’s why I sit here like butter, its why I mind my own like butter, it’s why I harm none, soften and wait to be cut like butter.  Nothing feels quite as beautiful as the threat without the pain.

~Elle Esbe

There’s something dangerous about a person who walks away. It does something more to the person left behind.

“I’ve been both and there’s nothing I can do about it,” is a lie dangerous people tell themselves.

~Elle Esbe

That’s what he seemed to say as his diseased flesh and tormented tissue stretched and flaked off his features. Thick, wet streaks of no longer pink tendon turned to midnight in the waning light.

Will you touch me once?

That’s what I heard in my head. In a voice that was soft and deep and not the aggressive groan that was my reality.

I knew what he was. And I remember what he was to me. That was the only motive I could give for my reactions. The reasoning that I found myself reaching towards him, teaching myself (yet again) that flame was of the fire. That’s the only reasoning I’ve got to find my hand, whole and happy on the end of my arm, reaching out towards such darkness.

You looked at me then, with sockets black and oozing a stench that sickened, as if you couldn’t understand me or the morsel that was so very close and getting closer.

And when he took what I unintentionally offered, I feel it like white noise in my blood. My body jumps back-its response to trauma and the foreshadowing of pain.

His dirty teeth are clenched, coated in my blood so red as if to blind me. My eyes follow the glow that drips onto the floor. There’s a bigger pool of it at my own feet though not as red against me. I lift what’s left if my offering. My third finger is yours now. My body quaking to stay warm. I was calm but the pain would come.

The sound of crunching pickles makes my body gag. I look up and into the wet, squishy mess that was once a part of me and is now a part of you. You’re cute the way you chew, mouth open, finger mush flying, Cookie Monster cute.

It’s this moment that I’ve always wanted. Love, horror, intelligence, action in a death I can enjoy. This makes me want more. This makes me want to give more.

~Elle Esbe

I killed time today.

Now let me explain why it wasn’t my fault.

Murder was never my intention.

The day started out bright, the sun warm and extra thick against my skin. The air was thin but not so much that I couldn’t think clearly. I got to where I was going but I won’t tell you where just in case you are questioned. I smiled, waved, said my piece in the time allotted. I went about my business but Time had other plans for me.

Words weeped from its mouth like tar but I kept my feet in constant motion. To no avail. Against better judgement the sun left for the day. The moon had a premonition and couldn’t be bothered to do anything new except call in sick. The stars came, too little and quiet for me to really take notice. Not until after anyway.

And so it was there, in the darkness, that Time stole from me. I said nothing merely watched the treachery. I didn’t have to stalk, it came straight to my person demanding service, late payments and overdraft fees. I blinked in thought, looked up, and it was dead.

I promise you it was just as I tell you.

Easier than a thought, easier than a dream.

How to explain such a thing?

I sat alone at first, minding my own. The night was black and blue and cold down to the bone. It came, said one word to me. I snapped, wrapped my shoelace ‘round it’s neck and pulled with all my might, tight against the unnaturalness of the reaction. When I was done, I breathed in deep the heat of my destruction.

I killed Time today.

It was easy.

Life made me do it.

So many wriggling, crawling, squirming things. Smelly, silly, nervy things. Staring, sharing, curvy things. Noisy, nosy, picking things. Dying, crying, talking things. Smoking, choking, killing things. Sitting, standing, drinking things. Eating, shitting, burping things. Slurping, chirping, flirting things. Taking, shaking, moping things. Hating, mating, thinking things. Always on my mind, these things. I stay away and curse these things. The younger ones are worse, these things. I try to understand these things. I try my best to hate these things. The older ones know many things. Yet always it’s the same, these things. How can I get away from things defined as you and me?

Sleep calls me by my first name. I hear him in my skin, breathe him through my veins and taste him in my hair like smoke. I reach for him. He hugs me close, kisses me and watches me pass. While I’m gone, he keeps me secure in illusion. When I’m awake he waits for my return.