etre-aime

mansie moonbeam

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seeds. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

seeds.

darling, everything's blooming now spring just a wind gust away & already the world is more green than I've ever seen & I know why your cheeks blossom rosen - you have bathed in this light your whole life; you carry magic like the trees carry moss. (sometimes I feel I know your whole soul. sometimes I wonder what secrets sleep inside you.) you, not quite icarus, never too much sun only the dapple in the boughs of a redwood where you lived for a year before they came & plowed them down. you were young & wild before we met, I know this for certain when we talk on gardens that grew ghosts, we share histories we'll hold perpetually. I thi

12/19/15 by etre-aime, literature

Literature

12/19/15

here, now sleeping through the daylight, at night watching babies sleep & praying to whatever hears me that they keep breathing (ba beat ba beat ba beat) my heart a war drum, still as fragile as a feather breaking & beaming daily here, everything floods: the basement, the pastures, the parks there is a river where once there was road & the starlings swarm in multitudes so grand it is as if god shook pepper from his hand, filled the sky here, I don't readily cry, though I want to cradling babies who are fighting to die: the girls born boys the girls born as someone's toy everybody raped everybody raging daily as if breaking apart the house b

wandering. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

wandering.

chasing poetry like dandelions not yet knowing how to wrap my words around this wild & wonderful world knowing full well there are oceans nestled in mountains & whole peaks in the bloodstream of the sea: shoshone & where to begin with the stars when they scatter so wide & far? still it feels like a dream seeing south dakota sky alive at night: colorful constellations comforting holy, ravished lands & every evening driving into sunsets, headed west with hopeful hearts & awestruck eyes catching what I can through a camera lens north carolina still an anchor in my skin - the blue ridge my kin while wyoming & west virginia now old friends

lions + lambs. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

lions + lambs.

mama always said "you can't fix every bird with a broken wing but you can try" well, I've been watching birds die my whole life, palms stretched wide to cradle hearts titterin' out of heaving chests and mama believes in heaven and the book me? I believe in molecules and dirt * star-dust lighting all of us like little lanterns dancing round a rock and mama's wise nurses her babies to full glow, blankets her plants when it frosts carries her ghosts like they're crowns sagely, she passes her stalwartness down

house-cats. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

house-cats.

Rose takes the red-velvet lined steps two at a time, ragged braids slapping her shoulders beneath her borrowed best Sunday dress. Across her left arm, Claude, orange paws stretching outward, all belly and discontent, bobbing as we climb the stairs. I imagine we are climbing up a hill covered in poppies, and that we are great adventurers about to arrive home after a very long and very weary journey. Claude stares at me with his green, unimpressed eyes, and I imagine he's our captive, a souvenir from our time in the Jungle who's come home to live with us in our cottage on the cliffs by the sea. I think he'll like it here. "Another lightnin' b

lynx lore. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

lynx lore.

grass underneath my bare, boney feet heat lightning splicing through the air, hot, & thick, & buzzing summer nights, feeling good about the fact that: you don't know how I love Run the Jewels, I didn't get them from you &, you don't know what I thought in that van, but I do &, I am trying to forgive you but, here I am dancing, & lonely, & not here I am unshaven legs & ten shades of I don't give a fuck here I still love the world, bruises, scars & all I catch myself breathing, in four, out four so steady, so stretched, so still; a lynx before the leap

June 7th, 2015. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

June 7th, 2015.

* * cats draped across the porch like the linens out to dry * * *fireflies * * * * * speaking in Morse Code * as far as the eyes can see, * * * * & further * * * Sadie, panting in the tent with me & Em, * legs in the air, trying* To listen long enough to hear the *

post. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

post.

Even now, I'm stitched together with every one I've ever loved like the glue that bonds the stamp to the envelope, eternally forever even when the adventure ends, even when the letter's gone, sent. It's different in dreams now, the faces I meet are never the ones I want to see, the dead are never waiting there for me & I can't remember your face, just a long distant voice over the phone saying “hi” Hi hi hi, some lives feel like an eternity, some loves continue to haunt me, to some I'd love to say I’m sorry, but to others, fuck you, you weren't worth the tears, stay the fuck out of my dreams.

bhava. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

bhava.

& sometimes when I walk it’s as if I’m transported to another time entirely & the feet that carry me are mine, but not mine, different in ways I could never quite say. Step inside. It is raining. Or better, Maggs & I are in the fairy glen behind her house, bare feet & knees, & above us a soft rain falls on the trees, which we can hear but cannot see as we rest upon moss & green. That there, that’s me. & then suddenly, I’m something different entirely, an earlier, native being, alive & awake & living among the trees. Sometimes the things I’ve seen include places I’ve never been, not in this li

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seeds. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

seeds.

12/19/15 by etre-aime, literature

Literature

12/19/15

wandering. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

wandering.

lions + lambs. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

lions + lambs.

house-cats. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

house-cats.

lynx lore. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

lynx lore.

June 7th, 2015. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

June 7th, 2015.

post. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

post.

bhava. by etre-aime, literature

Literature

bhava.

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every other friday by the-chemical-factory, literature

Apartment by saartha, literature

Literature

Apartment

Honey from the kitchen. Rain from the window. Having slept all day, I now move silent and smooth, as if not moving at all like a still cup of clear water I slip from room to room, this apartment in which I live alone watching the streets flood lightly watching the air eddy around a candleflame my hands like foreign territories Who knew, all I needed was a little more absence, more and more and more quiet a lessening sense of self as though I could slip out into the night and never be found.

leitmotif by freudenschade, literature

Literature

leitmotif

(I will never forgive Millais for painting Ophelia calm in the water. My cousin Noah died shoeless and struggling under a lonely man’s hands, his eyes full of rain runoff. Real people don’t sink as pretty as oil on canvas: Noah was four feet five on the autopsy slab, no flowers, no frames. I am ruled by the aesthetic, but I would embrace his every imperfection if it meant having him back. This clumsy dilettante still loves Noah with the scabs on his shins, sitting sloppy at Sam’s recitals in sneakers and shorts. Give me the asymmetry of his eyelashes. For the fir

singles. by freudenschade, literature

Literature

singles.

Cooper is twelve years old and a treasure in his tennis whites, and I am unremarkable, eleven, blurred at the edges like some uncertain shoreline. He only speaks to me because he sees Coach Drown's hands linger too long on my hips when he's teaching me topspins. We're pairing up, Cooper declares, claiming me from across the court with the wide end of his racquet. He spends the rest of practice serving straight down the line, aiming to concuss. Cooper Corentin plays tennis like we're in trenches. Come on, kid, fight back, he says. If I were a fucking truck, would you just stand

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Painting Nights by brassteeth, literature

Literature

Painting Nights

Dear Emma, The truth is I'm not a painter. The truth is I followed you here from that flower shop on Whitmore Street, two and a half months ago. Please, keep reading. You actually took my breath away when I glimpsed you holding a bunch of lilies in your slender hands at the flower shop counter. You stunned me. That's never happened to me before. I was watching you turning the bouquet left to right, you seemed in awe of the flowers' beauty. Your eyes, your perfect smile, the way you held yourself. It was not a conscious decision to follow you here. I think I was in a trance. I know how it looks; I know it sounds like a

Quaaludes by wildoats, literature

Literature

Quaaludes

It’s when you open your mouth to kiss me that I remember what I know about Quaaludes. The details are all knit up somewhere deep inside a ball of knowledge because I learned about them in fifth grade which seems a little too early in retrospect doesn’t it, and since then I’ve wrapped whole yards of other strands of knowledge around that ball and whenever I want to remember what I know about Quaaludes I have to unravel the whole thing just to get to it. But it’s there. One. They make you tired but it is kind of a verbose tired which sinks you into that three-quarters-down state, the cliff’s edge of sleep, but refus

When Sarah left. by inmyroom, literature

Literature

When Sarah left.

We did not speak in volumes, we had quiet mouths that were infant-like in their crawl towards the matching loudspeakers we made from plastic cups. It was a year ago today. It was a hot day and I sat on a Union Jack, clasping ski goggles and suntan lotion like they could save me from things that grow and swell inside or things that make you ashamed to be in love or things that make you blinder the sadder you get. I sat as two men spoke of a man named Clive. He would come and reuse bricks and bits of bones to rebuild the wall we kicked down. They did not notice me, I waited as they pin pointed the weak point, they pond

reminders i carry in my hand: by juliatrotti, literature

Literature

reminders i carry in my hand:

dear me, you do not have a terrible heart. you do not have sad eyes and love is not a war you need to win. sometimes i feel like disappearing, but remember: we are never really alone. dear me, every now and then, you can close your eyes and still find your way. remember to breathe because you did not sink a paper boat and you are not floating underwater. you already know the answer to the question you are looking for. dear me, remember the small things, like the writing in the borders of pages. see the things that everyone else misses. listen to your thoughts and then lose yourself. dear me, laugh until it makes you cry. see

to map sunrises... by this-epiphany, literature

Literature

to map sunrises...

one day I will tell my daughter to touch herself before she ever lets a man do it for her, to learn her body-secrets and the shape of pleasure. I will tell her that San Francisco always keeps your heart. that her skin is a blank canvas, that hair grows, the value of the right kind of disrespect. that the older we get, the more we need the people who knew us when we were young. I will tell my daughter to give away the secrets that keep her up at night, and that there is never a wrong time to love someone, but sometimes a wrong way. I will teach my daughter to travel without makeup; that sometimes forever means morning and sometime

tideline. by maria-tulfe, literature

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3C03 by etre-aime, literature

Literature

3C03

creating crystals in the corners of my eyes even though I've not been sleeping & the nurses all know me by name & they dance when they enter my room & we joke, 'cause that's easier than crying third lumbar, burst, ankles busted & wheels in place of feet weighted down with plaster casts with names & faces scrawled across & I'd like to think I've gained more than I've lost this accident stitching my family together like sutures strung across my skin, my calves, my back & mostly that's enough to make me keep it all together still, some sleepless mornings it hits me like the fall: what if I never walk again? what if I never dance?

3C03

etre-aime

About etre-aime

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Mar 27
United States
Deviant for 15 years
luckylittlewarriors.blogspot.com/
She / Her

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etre-aime

Jul 8, 2015

*

0 min read

A little spoken word goodness for all you lovers & risk-takers & humans.

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etre-aime

Jul 7, 2014

With a little help from my friends.

0 min read

Asking for help is one of the hardest things to do.  I'm a pretty independent type.  But sometimes the universe throws something at you so grand, that you have no other choice but to accept that everyone needs the help of others sometimes.  I'm at that point now. At the end of May I went rock climbing & my life was forever changed.  I fell, 30 ft, landing flat on my feet like a cat, breaking both ankles & my L3 (one of the largest vertebrae in the lower portion of the spine).  It's been quite an adventure since then. I spent the month of June in the hospital, moving from floor to floor, until I was in the rehab center, working on bu

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etre-aime

Oct 4, 2013

a letter to the abandoned.

0 min read

because it needs to be said, I love you.  that you gave me courage, & acceptance, & endless advice.  it was because of you that I wrote, for a long, long time. & when I stopped writing, it was not because I didn't want to be a part of this lovely community.  it was that my words went dry for a time.  when I could write, I could write because my life was full of chaos & turmoil.  it was easy.  & then I was happy & writing took effort & I was lazy.  it's not a good excuse, but it's the truth. & so maybe I can't write poetry anymore.  at least not on a regular basis.  but I do still write (& I do still stop

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Profile Comments 493

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ScribalWriter

Mar 27, 2016

Hello! I just wanted to stop by and wish you a wonderful Happy Birthday!

I hope you had a lovely day.

happy birthday!

Thanks again!!

Thanks,.

Happy Birthday!

I enjoyed the photo above, very creative

UnThai

Nov 21, 2013

You've been invited to Literary Publications

Please visit our Homepage by clicking on our logo. When doing so, click on our Tour to see what we're about. We would love to have you as our member, for you writing deserves more feedback and our wonderful members would be more than happy to welcome you into our humble abode!

Have a beautiful evening, M'dear!

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