On a winding road resides a house,
a bit less opulent than the rest.
Painted beige with green shutters,
and fitted with a scuffed white door
holding a “no trespassing” sign in the window.
The grass is slightly too tall, and the garden unkempt,
but inside you will find no such problems.
The air smells like clean laundry, and pictures of
not-so-pretty people with smiles that end at their cheeks line the walls.
As day turns to night shapeless figures return to their rooms,
shutting the doors tight behind them.
When all others are asleep and the hum of the air conditioning
is all that can be heard, a light flicks on behind the first door on the right side of the hall.
A young girl of not yet fourteen lives here.
Her skin is sickly pale and tissue paper thin, like a careless touch would tear it open;
and her small eyes are glossy with tears not yet ready to be spilled.
On her desk there lies a graveyard of crinkled papers,
with chicken-scratch writing occupying every line and margin.
She wants so badly for  her words to be beautiful,
for them to burrow inside of you and leave goosebumps on your skin.
Because to the unloved reactions feel a lot like caring.
She never was what they needed her to be,
and now she’s nothing at all.
Locked away she lost herself,
and she calls out for me in the dark.
I try to stifle the sounds of her cries, but they find me in my dreams.
This goes on until morning,
when sunlight pours in through the slits in the blinds,
and frauds come out to play.

-K.M.

Nobody knows of the years I’ve spent
freeing my mind from stone,
chiseling away the lies my mother told me
until they’re nothing more than rubble.
There are those that will try and understand,
as I have tried to do with others misfortunes
however none can know of them in their entirety.
For our hells are our own,
and though you may feel the heat
your flesh will remain without blisters.
My feet are calloused from walking on pebbles
and my shoulders are finally strong enough to carry my burdens.
But these experiences have left me trembling
afraid to let my heart be made home to another.
To love is to lose and with vulnerability comes sorrow.
My roots are still shallow, and the fight for sunlight is constant.
I’ve crafted myself from bone and precious silks,
soft to the touch but not easily broken.
And I cannot allow the identity I’ve built be eclipsed
by attachment to someone else.
I  belong to me.

-K.M.

There are people you will meet
with pleasant voices and bright smiles,
who can seemingly take away the sting of the world.
They feel like old memories,
like getting out of school early on a fall day
and playing in the crunchy leaves that littered the earth.
Unaware of how rare these blissfully carefree moments would become.
They feel like your favorite hobby,
like sitting outside on a tranquil spring morning,
with the smell of wet grass filling your nostrils
and a cool breeze caressing the
smooth skin of your cheek as you immerse yourself
in beautiful works of fiction.
No longer fearing the passing of time.

There are people you will meet
with pleasant voices and bright smiles,
who will make you question how you ever got by without them.

-K.M.

You called me last week, three sheets to the wind in the early hours of the morning; when none but the lovers and the brokenhearted were still awake. Your slurred words crackled slowly through my speaker, and as I sat there listening to your ramblings the familiar sound of your voice lulled me into pleasant memories. All those nights we spent together, barricaded in the bathtub of your rundown apartment laughing at the world because it would never understand a love like ours. I drifted back to reality to hear you pleading for me to come see you, and I don’t know if it was nostalgia or desperation that made me agree.
I drove down the nearly empty streets, tracing the familiar path I had taken so many times before. I hesitated before entering your building, but your voice in the back of my mind drew me in. I traipsed through the musty halls, curious about all the single night romances and tragedies they had seen.
I let myself in with the spare key you never bothered to move, despite my insistence, and found you huddled in our special spot. I could smell the alcohol on your breath as you said all the words I’d have given anything to hear you say sober. You told me you still loved me in a hushed, raspy tone; tinged with something like remorse. You rested your head on my shoulder as I pushed the hair from your eyes, dampened by sweat and spilled drinks. You fell asleep in my arms, and for a while I sat listening to the rhythmic inhales and exhales; and there was nowhere I would rather have been.
I left you there in the bathroom, and wandered through your cluttered dwelling; searching for any sign of the life we used to share. I found one lone photo, tucked carefully in the worn pages of your favorite novel. As I looked at our beaming faces I found myself asking how things ended this way. I remembered the petty fights, and how you were needy while I was distant; all those things that broke us. I craved to know what went through your mind when you saw that same small image. Suddenly I was overwhelmed, clutching the single memento of our relationship while being suffocated by the objects of your new existence. It was too painful to stay any longer. I found your phone face-down on the cracked porcelain sink, deleted my number, and walked out the door before you made a single sign of stirring.
I wonder if you remember that night, or if you woke from your drunken stupor and searched for traces of me; not sure if I’d really been there or was simply part of an elaborate dream. I wonder if you noticed the picture missing from between the pages of that frayed book. I wonder if you tried to call me again, and puzzled over my absent contact. I wonder if you did anything at all.

- K. M.

I want to know how it feels to die,
to have the air stolen from my lungs,
and the thick sludge of my soul exude through every pore of my cooling skin.
I long to hear the crash of my hopes and regrets
as they collide in the vast emptiness of space.
I have a yen to know if when my life flashes before my eyes,
my successes will outnumber my failures.
I crave to be catapulted into something greater
or anything other than what I’m living.
I need to know that there’s more to the universe
than the decay of our bodies,
and the tarnished silver of our tongues.

-K.M.

I am a child of the moon, born to thrive in its dim light;
unmarked by my wobbly knees and wavering convictions.
Under the veil of dark I adopt hundreds of personas,
changing my character the way some change clothes,
each one as much a part of me as my limbs.
I let the grass dance on my body as I stare at the velvet sky.
I love the stars like my siblings, and I envy their omniscient view.
I want to see the ***, tears, deceit, and laughter;
the best and worst of humanity.
The black and white and all those beautiful shades of gray.
I want to listen to the groans of a city teeming with lust,
drenched in hushed voices.
The world comes alive when the sun goes down;
and we can, for a few fleeting hours,
escape from under the weight of expectation.
Shed the skin of who we are,
and become who we want to be.

-K.M.

I am Persephone;
queen of the cursed and the ******,
bogged down by chains made of
greed and desperation.
My value lies on a stained mattress;
my worth measured by the broken fingernails
left on the skin of my paychecks,
fragments of myself given for an hour of their pleasure.
I know nothing but chapped lips and blissful vacancy,
outstretched hands met with violence.
I am no longer a spring flower;
wilted beyond recognition,
I am better suited for examination under glass than
I ever was for life in damp alleys.
But for all my inadequacies,
there are three things for which I'm certain:
there's a price to pay for naivety,
innocence is a lie,
and we're not all created equal.
A pretty face is worth its weight in gold;
sold to the highest bidder,
there's no room for integrity
when wolves are nipping at your heels.
hard years have taught me this:
silver spoons nourish the undeserving
and even the virtuous come with a price tag.
We are all marred by what we do to get by, and ideas mean nothing
if wrapped in the skin of a *****.
And it makes me wonder;
which one weighs more,
a pound of flesh,
or a pound of promise.

- K.M.