Op ia te Su mm er

Elyse Lewis

Your mouth is a poppy Blood red, stained The seeds you spew are decorative Yet synthesized to make killer drugs.

Elyse Lewis. 2013.

DEXTROMETHORPHAN TRIP
This isn't the Indian summer. This isn't the indigenous species that's roamed in my heart since last winter. The hint of a breeze in my terrible cold sweat, the minute of silence after you'd called to tell me Dulciane was dead. This isn't what I've been expecting, what I've been waiting for, but I should've known better. I should've known I'll never change therefore things will never change. I'll never make the first call, the first move, the first leap at the round-off. I'll never be the nice girl with the pretty hair and a smile to die for. But I'll be the dyke with the bedhead and murder on my lips. And it will be my pleasure and it's what I will offer. No one takes the time to do it, but if you listen you will hear your ancestors booing you because you're changing their ways. If you listen to me for once when I'm not shy you might actually hear yourself, or how you were before. Maybe it'll come in charades or riddles, maybe you'll see a history of dreams you had. Maybe you'll hallucinate but more likely you won't feel anything because you're stone like everyone else. All those shivers count as my depression, but I feel and I feel everything. It all comes as waves and they glide up and down my body and I see into the future and I see inside myself. I am transparent, little fireflies light my veins and I can understand the complex relationship between drug and brain. Then I snap and I am on my bedroom floor, as lost and lonely as ever. You never were there, I never told you these things, I never did change. This isn't the Indian summer.

In the tungsten grass, industrial lit apathy I could kiss your cushion stomach and, So softly, you could purr on your moon cake Whereas I, dominant and young, conquer your sake Stick and poke my thigh, tell me my story Quietly, slow bleed, I'm okay with the pain Steer me, under a heavy night, a heavy rain And your soaking hair tickles my leg stain Then in our sweet white republic may we coexist As bacteria floating on your open wound bliss Blister cum, tangled legs, and a high white mast White skins connect as we obliterate the past But in that tungsten night the embers jumped to the leaves So I decided to leave as well, in my short sleeves I was too cold, too terrified, as dizzy as you pecked him And so I ran, forever in that memory of eating slim

 toutes les familles qui m'ont vu pleur sur la piste cyclable la Saint-Jean-Baptiste... Mangez de la marde. Mangez votre bonheur pis mangez vos enfants. Je suis un gros bb. a fait deux jours que je porte le mme chandail parce que c'est mon chandail prfr pis que je le portais au concert de Morrissey parce que c'est une camisole des Smiths. Mais l y'a des taches de sang dessus, j'ai tout gch. Je bois du caf pis je me brle la langue, c'est correct, je veux pas goter ton acidit. C'est morbide, mais je trouve que me dtruire a me rend plus apptissante. Je sais que toi t'aimes pas a les gros bbs, non mais c'est drangeant des pleurs. Mais chaque fois qu'on se voit, aprs j'ai des reflux gastriques. Une fois j'ai failli me pisser dessus, mais j'tais vraiment saoule pis je trouvais pas les chiottes. Avant que tu partes j'avais trouv pertinent de te dire qu'un gars de mon secondaire voulait faire un trip trois avec moi et mon amie lesbienne. T'as ri pis t'es partie en disant que t'tais pas lesbienne, toi. J'aurais d tre dgote, mais j'ai ri. Je suis tanne des filles qui trippent sur Grimes qui se coupent le toupet court pis aprs j'ai l'air de quoi moi avec mon toupet court. D'un gros bb. Comme d'hab. Pourquoi a sent comme toi partout o je vais? Tu sens la shisha ou le fenouil ou la rglisse noire. En ce moment je sens les ananas trop mrs et la sueur. J'espre que tu ne m'en veux pas trop pour tre aussi chialeuse. Je suis encore un enfant. T'es ma meilleure amie, mme si c'est pas rciproque. T'es comme ma maman. Pis j'ai un complexe d'Oedipe.

I. You're probably sleeping, And I should be too Jgerbomb mystique shot through my throat I think you could have seen, Probably in my eyes, Old tears just hanging 'round And you probably slept with him, And I guess if I had, I could understand just how feminine his arms can be But I'm lying through my teeth instead, And I guess you probably are too, Alarms in the back of my head; I'm not okay II. Plush, cushioney feeling In the undertones of a barren desert I remember, I remember Watery aches in hydrated jungles III. Does love really change anything, Or even then are you miserable? IV. I do not wish to be comprehended But light leaks in, my veins illuminated The wait is long, my head buzzes Greyhounds barking in the midst of our trust I am truly a shitty person, honestly Though I try to make it look okay My gut flashes as you crumble in illusion The lighting sucked too much; underexposed film Surprisingly enough I'm not hungry yet And I didn't cut yesterday, though I was drunk I guess I'm not doing so bad after all I guess I'll make it just fine

I don't want to do anything I don't want to think about anything I want to lie down on the ground May the dirt, the humus, and the snail shells Bury me Decompose me

diary entry #23

do i look melancholic with my cigarette hair in the wind romantic girl like you like them. little lolita umbrella but a bomber jacket cause i'm a bad girl but only a little. i'm circled by flowers on my decrepit bench it's like my casket it's like our last good byes. the girl walking on the other side of the street is looking at me i think she's jealous but she has long hair she has nothing to worry about. i'd like to listen to chad vangaalen his music fits my mood but i haven't bought his cd yet actually i'm way too poor. ok well i'm moving in two days then i'm off to vermont we'll stay in a cabin we'll drink colt 45 and eat veggie burgers isn't that cool. i can't wait to be in my apartment i'll always drink always smoke always cry. it's my vulnerability my hope the apples in your cheeks your hyena eyes your carrion mouth your fennel smell all that motivates me and destroys me. i wouldn't want to be the person who listens to me whine like you did one time when i lost it in your basement. i tried to learn a smiths song on the piano i wanted to impress you but i can't play the piano so that didn't work out too well. oh well... my cigarette's over. i've had my little buzz not a big one just a real tiny one i feel so much better. now i need to take a piss. bye.

Sweet Leaf (Seasons)

One day in October things were nice: Soft light, flesh trees, rosy cheeks. I was a little girl and with me, my faithful knight All armor, black skin, a dark chamber for a heart Two vertical eyes, transparent, windows to the heart With him we stole many a soul And we captured lonely grey moors In Burlington the mushrooms grew wild And the skies were as clear as ever Morrissey brushed past me; my father laughed Creepy Halloween nights hollowed in the crush When I scratched off dead peels into mush It was terrible: Yet I was still okay This is the ambiguity in hiding a secret Winter was Hell: It froze its very fires Bitten wound bled again: It was so, so terrible So much that my blank eyes saw no end I have never wanted to lose touch But I can't even remember the details Only deep black and pure white Therefore nothing can be said One day in April a flower blossomed: Wine colored, it dripped of moss Soft green stench leaked out like pus Do you even know how long it's been? I'm back from the ascension into moth lands Primary needs covered, I may face my scars I may face my friends with my gay self I may face my past with my damned self And the sweet leaf has flowered again The recovery healing process drains most of my energy; But it's okay -- Now you don't need to sing me to sleep I can sing for myself My sore limbs will soon tear themselves from this shell And dance, and I will see you And I will see you with your lover and I will be okay And even my knight will open his soul to you

Everyone is successful What is my success? Is it made out of money Or is it made out of love? Either way I'm out I think my success Is made out of drugs

diary entry #65

i never said you could. i never said i could either. when your face is like... like gummo... i know that's not his name but i don't know what his name is... the little boy in gummo... well anyway your face is like his. we're not allowed to make gummo faces and spit on each other. and then forget about it and call ourselves two weeks later as if we hadn't cried our hearts out in our old soaked beds. well anyway, that's how i react. but i'm never the first to call. but i'm all excited when my phone starts buzzing, your little square face lit up in the screen, and i start telling you all that's been through my mind while we weren't speaking. if i was a guy i'd make art with my sperm while cumming. i wrote a rap song the other day i rhymed jlo with jello. i masturbate on the family computer while my parents are upstairs, the danger turns me on. you listen and you tell me i'm really stupid but you're laughing and i'm laughing and anyway i agree with you. hey, i finally saw gummo. hey, i might go to senegal for two months and a half next summer. i might not even like photography at concordia. i already don't like my philosophy minor. i don't like myself cause i'm white and i don't know how to react to racism all around me, and i don't like being with people because they all end up making racist/homophobic/transphobic/sexist commentary and when i confront them they tell me to piss off and it depresses me. but i can't stop listening to kanye west's first and last albums and they're so beautiful. my apartment is full of good food, and financially i'm doing pretty good. i have to build my cocoon for winter, for when i'll be tired because of work and emotions. i'll have you over, we'll play whist and drink gin, it smells like christmas trees. ah, the holidays. ah, autumn. i spend my time waiting for the next season.

The bleed looks nice On your lips, on my tongue All those years I cut Have turned my body to shit Hidden in shame, my thighs glow Under the mask of years My white body knows It's leaking Still alive (For some reason) Still high Still hung Still. The night looks nice In your graveyard room I wish we could've slept And told each other our secrets Remember when I pass

I will explode Into all your fears I hope you're scared I sure am. My tub is ready But I am not I wish we had more time I wish I had your portrait Depression is funny Love is sad And I am all those things That you never had I am the codeine in your mouth I'll be the bullet in your brain I'll be your talent and your pain But I am nothing.

Pinhole Pupils
I've always hated you. You have eyes like oxycodone. You are blue with a cold ragged lip that sags as you wish me happy birthday. Your lungs are probably putrid inside. Mine are. My body is an ashtray. I hope they write a fake Sylvia Plath quote on my casket. It'll say something about my sadness and your head in my oven. And it'll smell like banana bread, my favorite. It's ironic how life exudes from death. Gases, fumes; and the maggots and bacteria are fed and the soil replenishes itself. It's not so bad after all. If I hate you why do I feed off you? Put your breasts away. Your milk makes me sick. I puked in the parking lot of my job before going in to work. Then I took the bus home and puked again watching baby stories on TLC. I've been a mess. I've been roaming around like a drug addict with too much money. Feeling like a star, feeling like death. Your power is poison.

Dear dreams: You have killed me Pilgrimages to yeastlands turned to wastelands My calves ache, every tendril screams: "I want to sleep, I want to sleep, I want to sleep!" Agitation-wise I am on a glass beach Shards in my feet; but it doesn't hurt enough To kneel down in mercy to The Almighty Lord So I flutter; I shake in wait Sweet cum drips down my thighs I breathe! I am alive again! I wish it took more an intellectual activity To rack me up and disturb my thought process I have made myself beautiful tonight I know I'll only see you in my night terrors Though, I still make the effort every time I'm sorry I'm such a loser

256 tats de crainte viennent saffaisser sur mes pieds nus. Dans le sable, jaurai un hmatome demain. Mais je viens de comprendre les nuances interstitielles dune dure de vie : Leuphorie est synthtique. Jai encore une migraine; je ne suis quengourdie. Jai encore un scalpel qui me scie la colonne vertbrale; je ne suis quanesthsie. Ta bouche est un pavot qui murmure mes synapses : Taurais d te coucher plus tt, taurais d lui sourire place de lignorer, taurais d retourner chez toi place de dormir entre eux, taurais d Je suis juste une criss de conne.

A general state of numbness. A quest for euphoria. Itchy body, dizzy thoughts. I am but a walking disorder. Cold water double dose; ease the smart, soothe the singe. I am but a bruised battlefield.