by Elyce | Sep 10, 2025 | poems, stories
That’s somewhere my parents never went
The attic-garage-operating room
It’s the place you go to develop your art, rearrange your engine, and survive
My parents didn’t know the sacred grit of a dive bar
My mom and dad never discovered “brown and pillows” as the fragrance of home
They didn’t experience the safety of ripped barstool upholstery and ashtrays
The map of life lead me to these cashed-in, burnt-out venues because it must have understood me
I want to connect with others who are clinging on
My parents have zero understanding of this lifestyle
They were Presbyterians
Context is everything
Listen
The dive bar is for finding the guy next to you
Giving him a cheers
Lighting his cigarette
Playing his song
And seeing him next Wednesday
by Elyce | Sep 5, 2025 | poems
I think he remembers me as a square, like lunch
Something you find every day
When it wasn’t there, he just went back to the grocery store
I was an extremely forgettable condiment
An experiment maybe, so I could have been a sandwich without cheese
Or, just a moment in time
A truly forgettable experience to be replaced as quickly as possible
Because if you are a girl who likes to fuck
You won’t get that back, you will just get fucked
by Elyce | Sep 4, 2025 | winter
I’ve got your negatives
And I’ve turned them over to authorities
Your dick has been redacted
The officials are unsure how it found its way into my files
I’m a Bomb Shell
But you’re in all my pictures
Brooding overhead like a sasquatch
Ready with a monologue
Always
The police have asked that you stop crying
Once you’ve finished testifying
Because the sound is getting caught in people’s psyches
Lodged, I guess
It’s a jarring bawl
many assumed was coming from a farm
But it was you
Sobbing like the Titanic’s tears
If you’re going to cry…
…do it into a bucket you’ll actually carry
#rude #manchild #richstrike #ibetyouhesonhinge #wouldntwasteamoment
I am looking for someone to make forever feel less temporary.
by Elyce | Jul 14, 2025 | winter
I hate your hay hair
That must be the driest pluck of farmland in California
You’re a fire hazard
Do you like having hair made of straw?
Are you waiting for Rumplestiltskin to weave it into gold?
This must be the peak of dehydration
Your hay hair is drier than sand
It’s kindling
The crows are coming to nest
by Elyce | May 24, 2025 | poems, stories
He fits in here like this place was built to take his luggage and hand him a room key.
There’s been absolutely no interruption.
It’s been like adding nicer pillows and better towels.
Having him here feels like we got new refrigerator magnets, but these ones have words of encouragement and not casual reasons to give up and find rope.
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