Three Poems by Eleanor May Blackburn


we pushed dirt ridden fingers into scabby gammy knees together- who has the biggest grossest yellowest sore? It becomes a competition like that of bulldog that caused the injuries in the first place. We whisper in larger than hushed tones that we are in love, you are invited to my house for tea with chicken nuggets and sweetcorn and running up and down the stairs. I never understood your enthusiasm for putting the brightly coloured caterpillars inside the Tupperware until you could see the little beads of sweat standing out like antennae on their heads. But I said it was OK. You sharpened your finger and blamed it on the scissors. I don’t think it was enough. Next you drew a rectum in my planner that my Dad frowned at while you frowned at me in the street. Now you sell coke and probably wouldn’t remember me all that much. I wonder if you remember the caterpillars. I do


we snogged with syrupy cider stained mouths
threw bile up the side of a too-small tent
‘don’t touch her’
squished side by side in sweaty proximity
you- always sweatier
unexplainable toxic waste green
we tried that time to no avail
bodily fluids still mingled and seeped together
nervous anticipation stretching wide
over our so much smaller then frames
too much?
so much more than the first time
followed closely by the second
mud coloured blood trickling over kneecaps
captured in a picture sent around to others
with little relation to the event
a long time passed
longer than the horizon I lazily watch
with another
so different than I-
nothing broke
a pair of atoms smashed messily together
heavy with inevitability
skins was on somewhere nearby
cassie and sid reuiniting
the best generation
my parents somewhere above
snoring as is typical
it felt like I gained
not lost
I am unsure of what


he picked up a 3 quid bunch of wilting flowers from the flimsy hut by the side of the road. they swept away my resentment and turned me soft and lovely again, they died 2 days later. they were already dead. I am an ode to all things delicate and easy, the way the petal curls makes me creamy. the way you grunt in bed curls the downy hair between my thighs. I could curl away from you in the same manner but then you would know, a magician should not reveal their secrets; too soon anyway. the baby pink of the tulips match my peach fuzzed cheeks as you spend another hour glued to your phone.

roses are not the only thorns

I am told that flowers are beautiful/I am told that I am beautiful/by the men/therefore I know these things to be true/the words are ugly in my mouth as I try relentlessly to taste them/much like the blossom that does not appease but I steadily continue to chew

Eleanor is a 23 year old actor and writer from Sheffield. She is being published in the upcoming anthology: Globalisation: The sphere keeps spinning by Making Magic Happen Press. She loves moomins, Yorkshire pudding and Blink182. Follow her on Twitter at @EleanorMayBlac1 and on Instagram at @eleanormay_actor.

Leave a Comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s