Ellis Merel
they/them
California central valley creativeDonations appreciated
Venmo @ellismerel
Cashapp $ellismerel
Ko-fi.com/ellismerel
Original Work
Contributions
Featured Poems
The ponytail that held my dirty blond hair back
was kept so tight with gel and suffocating spray
that my scalp split and leaked as girls tugged
on the tight curls held in a bouquet on my head.
The crisp locks sat in foam curlers overnight,
a tumor smothered with a red bandana
so nothing would fall out of place. Sleep
escaped me — my corpse soaked in the moon
and starlight for years. When they pulled
a curl taught, it sprang back up perfectly.
My head told me to tell them to stop, but
I liked that they were touching my hair.
I was thankful for the tugging ache and rush
of release as we reached thirty with each
stretch in our warmup routine. The loosened
flow of blood to my head made me dizzy
for a moment, but then shook off the rest
that I missed. I took my place in formation,
wore my best smile to match my vibrant uniform.
The symbol on my chest was vague — neither
letter nor mascot nor name to claim me.
The weight of the eyes of those watching —
my mom, my coach, the other teams
of young girls — pressed down on my shoulders.
My muscles tensed again. I silently started
an eight-count to myself as the song I’d heard
so much I started to despise it blared through
the speakers of the gym, bounding off the glossy
wooden floors and lofty ceiling to drown us.Despite my body’s protests, I began the routine
as we rehearsed for more hours than I cared
to count. During practice I didn't have to think
about the steps, but here mistakes were
inexcusable. I put all of my focus into performing
every move, every pose exactly as expected,
forced past the pleading in my bones for rest,
disregarded the slick of sweat that made
my skirt stick to my thighs, did my best
to balance my spotless white sneakers in
the hands of the girls beside me, held my breath
to keep steady as they held me up toward
the ceiling. I had been doing this, flying, long
enough. I knew exactly how it worked. I knew
the spotters knew how to send me, to catch me.
I landed safely in the arms of those girls
so many times I felt their support before
I even finished rising. Dozens of discussions
dug the fear of the ground from my mind,
wiped my memory of the countless moments
when the arms meant to succor my landing
did nothing to save me from the flat of my back.I lost my path heavenward, hanged high
in the air thick with body sprays bought from
the mall down the street and sweat we all hoped
nobody would notice. I let myself suck in a breath
in the split second of peace I found at such
great height. No hand nor ground here to remind
me of how real and temporary this flesh is.
My eyes shut out the blinding, exposing light
of the buzzing fluorescent fixtures above as
my arms found their practiced position for landing
— crossed over my chest. Closed, as small
as I could be, as tense as I could manage, I
waited for the arms of those below to catch me,
waited for the stifling air to stop rushing past me,
for the hours of practice and preparation to
pay off and mean something. I fell for longer
than I was meant to, farther down than the arms
meant to cradle my frame. Felt the air
in my lungs rush back into the room, beaten
out by the force against my back. Reminded
of how unforgiving gravity can be.
My landing made my eyes fly open, wide
with unheard, unquenched questions.I gasped in a lungful of air, the sound
rough and harsh in my throat, and begged
the oxygen to feed my weary blood. Tears
that threatened to humiliate me burned
the backs of my eyes. I clenched my teeth,
the oxygen in my lungs sparked and came
alive with a growl, and I split my maw
to exhale. A ragged cry, caught between
a savage roar and a tortured scream escaped.
My core clenched tight so it ached in its effort,
forcing my voice out to be as vast, as deafening
as it could be — drown out the drone
of the track from the routine, burst the eardrums
of those who’d always told me I’m too loud.
I kept crying out until I tasted iron
on my tongue. My body begged me
to quiet — I wasn't finished. There was still
more thunder within me. As my throat lost
fortitude, my voice began to falter, another
sound filled the room. Distorted and different
from those that surrounded me, but unmistakably
familiar. A demand — declaration of war
that echoed the urgency of my own, from
the chest of one who is just as unsatisfied.The roar of their voice twisted with that of
the flame that reached across the wasteland
of the gym — blinding and searing hot.
The banners boasting the successes
of past athletes were quick to catch
alight and urge the burn into the walls.
The coaches and cheerleaders
in the tiered seats shrieked and stumbled
down the steps, over the railings, in a rush
for the doors. As they escaped, their shouts
did little to overwhelm the cries of the pyre
and its parent. The glow of the pilot light blazed
bright in their brunette hair, a shaggy veil
around their face, in shades of gold.
When they fed the thrower fuel, sending solar
flares into the ceiling with fierce laughter,
the fire bathed the euphoric grin
through which they growled with holy light.
The gym, the glossy floors, the plastic seats
disappeared into smoke and soot as they fed
the hellish halo that framed my savior’s figure.
The flames danced along as they twirled
and kicked their scuffed, grimy sneakers high.
The sounds of deranged drums and manic
guitars rose from the heat, backed their howls
to build an anthem of the pandemonium —
a song unknown to this saint’s disciples, sung
and played for me alone. I could not recognize
the team their uniform represented, what
the letter emblazoned on their chest
stood for, but the skirt’s shade of green
seemed right to me. I knew ashes
made soil ideal for growing spring.
Ebony Stewart led a workshop at WoWPS in which we were prompted to create a museum of our own identity. This is what I wrote.
Hey there — I sincerely hope
you enjoyed the swingset outside,
expelled your excess energy through
the engine of your legs, let it sink
into the cushion of beach sand
through your fingertips if instead
you heard the doves in sand dollars
croon through the tawny quilt.
Feel no regret in cracking the floral shell,
brittle and rough beneath your thumbs.
The tides will always bring another
even more broad and radiant than before.
To mourn is worth seeing the earth’s secrets.
However you manage, leave the weight
of anxiety and ritual at the door. Here, all
you can bring is the midday sun
still shimmering in your hair — no need
to fight the yawns and yearning
to stretch out your weary limbs
lingering warmth may invoke. Here, rest
is welcome, encouraged, even required.
The only raised voices here are raucous
laughter and eager narrators — should
your lungs still rattle the bars
of your ribcage, refuge within the sound
-proof rooms that flank the halls.
The only ears to hear you will be your own
and whichever gods you trust
to keep the secrets spilled within.Once your muscles are delightfully heavy
with desire for sprawl and sleep,
your eyes stop straining to catch
coming threats that cannot breach
these walls, your lungs at last exhale,
you are welcome to the bed, the couch,
the beanbag, the plushie pile — whatever nest
looks to offer the most healing rest.
Grab a blanket, pick a pillow and a stuffed
companion to cuddle if you’d like.
Should fortune favor you, a cat
or two may find you a worthy throne.
If you’re allergic, you’ll need to visit
the medicine cabinet. The fur lingers
and has become unavoidable. You may
have to step over dirty clothes — scattered
remains of a mindless rush for much-needed
solace within soft linen. You may find
yourself distracted by the empty soda cans
and candy wrappers that clutter the desk
because the trek down to the kitchen
too often looms as daunting as the Sierras.
You may feel the urge to rid the shelves
of dolls and porcelain figures of their dusty
layer dulling their vibrant colors, accumulated through months of carefully keeping
the chaos from reaching their stages.Stay your hand that you consider so helpful.
This place does not require your help.
If we need it, we will ask. Now, my only
request is that you help yourself
to the cushions, the food, the shower,
all you need to find pleasant dreams within
the blankets I leave unmade so you are
never made to fear corrupting something tidy.
Toss and turn and spread out as wide
as it takes to finally feel comfortable
so when my dear friend rolls out of bed —
hair wild, pillow creases across their face,
sweatpants twisted around their hips —
they can rub away the lingering sleepy fog
in their eyes, warm their hands
with a ready mug of coffee, and smile
unrestrained, as I always long to see.