These three poems are excerpts from a larger work titled “Cheers to the Death
of a Girl,” which explores the loss of innocence unique to the female experience.
Immense responsibility, premature sexualization, common traumas, body
image, and the admiration yet simultaneous rejection of femininity are explored
in an ironically celebratory eulogy to the passing of female youth.
cheers to the death of a girl
“cheers to the death of a girl”
her heartbeat slows
as she waltzes to a funeral march
steely eyed in her satin dress
sunken gaze
skull and bones
stares that send shivers up your spine
a chill that won’t go away
but fades with familiarity
a flatline over time
a norethindrone induced sleep
but the moon and the tides gave her nine lives
when the bell tolls
there is a melancholic reverence
yet a mournful end
to the fleeting feeling of youth
with a side-eye and a sarcastic celebration
raise a glass
“cheers to the death of a girl”
Lady Macbeth
my skin remembers
where your rib tattoo
scarred me
permanence without a needle
weaving it’s jet black hue
my skin remembers
whiskey at 1 am
your tapestry
cold fingers amongst body heat
dark walls
lights out
water in perpetual drought
jean skirt
red eyes
a treatise of compromise
muffled music
foreign laughter
bathroom doors ajar
stardust and plaster
my skin remembers
dreaming in a liminal space
you seeped up every square inch
if your hands were painters
I’d be blue to this day
a learned aversion
to solvent inks
and pigments that yield permanence
Out damned spot!
I may not scream, but I think
The Garden
I feel like my roots reach up and strangle me
grounded in potted earth
where we must thrive with no promise
of a watering can
and forget fertilizer
when there is no sun
and I know there are denser gardens to grow in
those with scavengers and runoff
downpours and sleet and snow
when your best-cared-for garden wilts
can’t you tell something is wrong?
and honestly I hate this fucking metaphor
because we don’t sit idly
fruitful to be fertilized
though we’re poked and prodded and harvested
as if ovaries grow from seeds
it’s not the fruit of your labor
it’s hers and mine and whoever dares to childbear
in this gated garden we call home
About the Writer:
Elyse Runkle is a writer based in Los Angeles,California. She grew up in Austin,
Texas before moving to California at eighteen where she received her bachelor’s
of fine arts in Television Writing and Production with a minor in English from
Chapman University. Her work largely explores the female experience, identity,
and mental health.
