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Meg Aug 2015
The heart

Since writing this poem I have come across the following quote by François VI de la Rochefoucault:
"Absence diminishes small loves and increases great ones, as the wind blows out the candle and fans the bonfire."
Meg May 2017
your energy is intoxicating
if this is addiction
i don't ever want to be sober
Meg May 2017
Remember the adventure girl you used to be?
The girl who lived in the woods on weekends and only came home for dinner? (But never on time)
The girl with flowers in her hair and a smile on her face?
The girl who believed she could control the wind and the sea?
The girl with scabbed knees and blonde bangs and curls?
The tree climber?
The blow-a-dandelion-and-make-a-wish girl?
The girl who jumped in mud puddles and didn't think twice that her skirt was *****?
The play-pretend cloud-watcher?
The girl who wanted to fly?
I wonder where she is now and if she would like me.
Meg Feb 2018
Is my second language.
I try to speak in the tongues of the greats:
World leaders, activists, rebels.
I attempt to curl my tongue around the foreign syllables of Self-assurance,
Too heavy to dictate with the proper connotations.
You see, I am still learning this language.
I conjugate with firm handshakes,
Pronounce with eye contact,
Communicate with poise...
Some of the time.
You see, I am not yet fluent in this vocabulary,
Cannot articulate with precision my identity.
I hear the echoes of voices rolling consonants and vowels off their lips like a hymn:
Some people have spoken it since birth,
Have merely acquired it.
Others, like me, have had to work for it,
Have had to force our mouths into alien configurations,
Into abstract lingual shapes, learning how to speak the way a fawn learns to walk:
Gawkily and with a resigned unfamiliarity.
My native tongue cannot enunciate all of the curves and straight edges of Fearlessness,
But ******* does it try.
My voice’s inflection is heavily accented with uncertainty;
Anyone who hears me knows that confidence is not my first language.
But that does not mean that my voice will break on the bones of my past mistakes.
It does not mean I cannot speak the words without my chin up, eyes unblinking, voice unwavering, as un-fluent as it may be.
It does not mean that my accented second language is any less correct than your first.
I am training my mouth to say “no” in a different language,
To say “no” with my mouth closed.
Letters drip off of my tongue like honey but not half as sweet.
But who dictates verbalization?
Who decides that my speech is too broken to accommodate coherent oration
I ask you:
is this soapbox sermon any less fluent than our history textbooks?
Is my broken English any less multifaceted than yours?
I will tell you
My lack of coherent eloquence is no less worthy of my lungs than of yours.
Meg Apr 2018
I am alive by luck at this point.
I wonder if the gun that will eventually take me has been made.
Whose trigger will bury me.
How many bullets, like a flock of sparrows, will come carry my life to its final bed.
Today, I am alive but there is no law to thank.
If not me, then someone else.
Born into a game of chance we never asked for. Traded diplomas for obituaries. Traded graduation speeches for eulogies. Traded futures for an early grave. Forced to cash in their chips. We don’t want to play anymore.
And this too is eulogy. And this too is prayer. And this too can resurrect the coffin wood back to a tree. Can sing back alive whatever parts of you died with them. Whatever leapt in your throat at yet another headline.
Mourning until you, too, are a thing to mourn.
But we will no longer be martyrs.
We are the rude awakening to politicians who pawned out our safety, who bartered our lives for bribes.
You say “gun reform is not the answer” but all I can see is a bullet rattling like a pinball in an innocent student’s jaw.
You smell like gun smoke and
I can see the AR15 you're holding behind your back and
I guess it's easy to crack jokes about dodging bullets when you're the one firing them.
Give teachers books not bullets:
Kafka isn’t kevlar.
Bronte isn’t bulletproof.
And how sick is it that we must add school shootings to your list of proud american traditions.
Throwing opinions like punches.
How many more have to die before you decide your ego isn’t as important as you think it is?
And I, too, am buried alive
My soggy grave parting its greedy lips.
To you, my bones, when ground into gunpowder and mixed into water, taste like champagne.
My pulse, as thin as an obituary panting beneath sweaty palms, and sure
We are “just kids,”
But you are forgetting we are the next generation
And you autopsy your fists.
Call it reclamatory.
Lately, when asked “how are you?” I respond with a name no longer living.
And who knows if mine will be next
Performed this yesterday in my first poetry slam and won second place :)
Meg May 2017
Dear misogynists,

Let’s be very clear here.
Boys are not ******* by nature. It’s not in their genetic makeup to automatically be mean-spirited or cruel. Being born with a ***** does not predispose anyone to being the kind of person whose hands make a welcome mat of my hipbones, who licks his lips as if looking at an appetizer, whose breath laced with tequila, privilege, and desperation slurs "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, baby?" from the other side of the street.
Genetics does not do that. Society does.

Dear misogynists,

It is the reason I know Title IX better than my own social security number. It is the reason I have to clench my keys in white-knuckled fists when I walk home from school. It is the reason I avoid eye contact at all costs because that "counts as permission." It is the reason I am told my mouth is useless unless he's the one putting something in it. It is the reason women all over this ******* planet get asked "Well... What were you wearing?" because apparently my outfit speaks louder than my voice, but you must not have met me because I can be pretty **** loud.

Dear misogynists,

It is the reason I am told "You know boys won't like you if you don't stop with that feminist crap." Who the **** asked you? If you think that passionately wanting equality and not being afraid to voice that is "crap," I don't want you to like me anyway; in fact, I want you as far away from me as ******* possible. I don't give a **** about your disapproval and I never will.

Dear misogynists,

Maybe you're right - "locker room talk" is as American as baseball, or apple pie, or roofies. "How could he possibly help himself? If he saw you in that dress, what was he supposed to do? NOT assume you wanted him??"
YES. That's exactly what he was supposed to do: NOT assume I wanted him, or anyone else in the room for that matter. Stop excusing ****** harassment because "boys will be boys;" my skirt is not an invitation, nor is anything but the sober word "yes" - and I include the word "sober" because yes, it does make a difference.

Dear misogynists,

So no. I don't give a ****.
And no. I won't stop with "that feminist crap."
And no. Boys will not be boys. Boys will be held accountable for their actions, just like everybody else.
And yes. I do kiss my mother with this mouth, but you can keep dreaming.

Signed, a Feminist
Slam poem
Meg Nov 2016
i'm sorry, since when was my shoulder an invitation?
since when were my shorts a request?
since when did anything but my mouth spell out the word "yes"?
since when did "no" mean "yes"?
since when did wearing shorts make me desperate,
but isn't that what you were begging for?
you say i'm a **** for showing my shoulders,
but isn't that what you wanted in the first place?
it's when the guidance counselor says,
"well, what were you wearing?"
that you should know there is a problem.
Did I ******* stutter?
Meg Nov 2016
my body is a temple
but i don't believe
in the god it was built for
Meg Nov 2016
my bones are hollow
like those of a mother bird's
but when i force myself to throw up,
the only child i am feeding
is the madness
that lives in the nest
of my own mind
Meg Feb 2016
you stole
my breath away,
the one
i didn't even know
i was holding
Meg Nov 2015
You asked me what was wrong
If I was okay
I just looked at you with broken eyes
A broken smile
A broken heart
A broken soul
And I didn't have to say a word
That was answer enough
Meg Apr 2017
you smell like gun smoke and
i can see the shotgun you're holding behind your back and
i guess it's easy to crack jokes about dodging bullets when you're the one firing them
Meg Nov 2016
i swallow my pride like maggots
in cocoons of silence,
and when they turn into butterflies
fluttering in my stomach
i want to *****
but he steals them from my throat
and tacks their wings to his wall
Meg Apr 2016
hearts are wild creatures
that's why our ribs are cages
but maybe that's why
they sing so often
Meg Feb 2018
And I wonder how many calories are in the flesh of the inside of my cheeks
Meg Jan 2017
i miss make-believe raindrop races on window panes down the highway.
i miss puddle jumping in dirt roads.
i miss muddy sunflower boots.
i miss hiding giggles behind daisy patches during hide-and-seek.
i miss scraped knees and climbing trees.
i miss forest picnics by the river.
i miss jumping from porches, believing i was invincible, even after breaking my wrist.
i miss feeling magical and powerful and important.
Meg May 2016
i don't want to look there anymore for fear of the clockwork ****** that i make of my own memory every time i pass that house on Sheridan Circle. it is filled with the ghosts of childhoods well spent but long past and i can't help but think how the rope by which the old swing used to hang looks like a noose, which it may as well be. maybe one day i will swing from it for the last time.
More prose.
Meg Jan 2017
do not be fooled - depression is not
depression is seeing scarlet
but not being able to feel the fire's burnished tongue.
depression is seeing aquamarine
but not savoring the feeling of drowning in saltwater lungs.
depression is seeing burgundy
but no longer being able to taste red wine in your throat
or pomegranate seeds between your teeth
or sunsweet berries on your tongue.

*depression is seeing color
but not understanding it.
Those who say depression makes the world seem in monochromatic shades of grey don't understand depression.
Meg Feb 2017
Sometimes it's more than enough to live and not want to live but to keep on living.
Give yourself some credit <3
Meg May 2016
instead of dragging
a knife across my wrist,
i grab a pen,
hoping that
maybe the ink
will seep into my skin
and **** me anyway
If you ever see me with ink all over my skin but I say I'm okay, I'm lying.
Meg Nov 2016
if depression = darkness
i'm no longer afraid of the dark,
but perhaps that's part of the problem
Meg Aug 2015
You tell me that I'm beautiful.
That I'm "simply amazing."
That I'm adorable.

You tell me about the universe.
About perfection.
About society.

You tell me all these things;
A hushed whisper in the darkness of my mind.
Compliments and poetry mumbled in a groggy, half-asleep voice.

I like listening to your voice.
I like hearing you rant passionately about life.
I like hearing my name on your lips.

I wonder why you even bother talking to me.
Why I'm even worth your time.
Why I'm different.

You say I'm

Yet you are
Sorry for ******* everything up.
Meg Nov 2016
why does everyone say
that we must try to love each other
by overcoming our differences?
we should love each other,
not in spite of our differences,
but because of them
Meg Jan 2017
demons rarely come dressed
in a red cape and horns.
they come dressed as
everything you've ever wanted.
Meg Apr 2016
someone once told me
pain is like water;
you need a little
to know you're alive,
but too much
will drown you.
and now I think
isn't it funny
how the things we do
to feel alive
are the things
that can **** us?

i suppose
it's because
we just want to feel
I've been writing a lot of poetry lately. Sorry if I'm obnoxious. Credit to my friend for being the ambiguous person whose quote I used. (Take that, Danny.)
Meg Apr 2016
i've spent my whole life
trying to get away from myself.
why would you waste yours
trying to get closer to me?
*save yourself
while you can
Meg Aug 2016
do not call me "cutie."
if you're lucky enough to call me anything,
call me beautiful.
call me spectacular.
i want to be a force of nature.
i want to be remarkable.

i do not want to be "cute"
Meg Aug 2015
Why is it
That we must
In love,
Like we fall into a trap?
Everything that falls
Gets broken.
*Love is
Fated to end in broken pieces
From the very beginning.
Just an old poem I dug up.
Meg Jun 2016
i fell in love with a beautiful lie
when what i really needed was the ugly truth
but no one ever asks for that

so then why do your lips taste like
Meg Dec 2015
I want to trace
every line and contour of
your face,
your hands,
your throat,
and commit it to memory.
Cover every inch of my body with salty-sweet kisses,
my back against the wall,
your breath on my skin,
leaving goosebumps in its wake.
I can feel your heart pounding with intensity,
your lungs expanding with ragged breaths,
your hands shaking with desire.
We are utterly lost in our passion,
rendered clumsy with shaking fingers
and quivering breaths.
Fervent eyes meet for a brief moment:
a pause before it all shifts in and out of focus,
and I can't decide whether everything has been obscured,
or if everything is so vivid all at once.
Meg Feb 2018
He will not come dressed in a red cape and horns, no, it is so much more than that. He will masquerade as everything you’ve ever wanted. Deception is the name of the game and he knows exactly what he is doing.
Little girls who play with fire get their fingers burned and I’m still picking the soot out from underneath my fingernails.
You see, it is easy to mistake the flames for light when you don’t know any better.
Things that promise light seldom go unheard, and he isn’t any different. It sounds a little less like a fire alarm, a little more like a siren song.
And though he sets your heart ablaze, he will fill your lungs with smoke, I promise you. That is not what they mean when they say he takes your breath away.
Boys like him will only starve all of the oxygen from the room and leave you choking.
He will lick the kerosene from your palms and tell you it will quell the flames.
And he will make you believe that this is what it feels like to finally be warm.
But there is no safety in the tongues of burnished flame.
Don’t let your dignity go up in smoke.
They say fire and gunpowder do not sleep together…
Darling, be the gunpowder.
Where there is smoke, there is always fire.
Darling, he is the fire.
So follow it back to him.
After all, he is the one who started it
Darling, finish it.
Rise from the ashes of the one who thought he was fireproof all along.
Meg Apr 2017
if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
if a teenager commits suicide and no one is around to notice, did they ever exist? when you look at it that way, high school feels a lot like deforestation
Meg Aug 2016
If I sit on my roof
and block out the light from my house,
I can forget that I exist.
I can swim among the constellations
and lose myself in the bittersweet triviality
of our existence.
I can break free from the intoxication
of my life wasted on autopilot.
I can pretend that I am merely thoughts,
free of the weight of a life
and of society
and of reality.
I can question things
and depersonalize
and forget this anchor of a body
and all its bitter consequences.
for now,
all I can do
is lay beneath the stars
and forget.
Meg Apr 2016
to the death
This is another blackout poem I wrote using a newspaper.
Meg Nov 2016
i spend my time
reading ghost stories
and seeing myself in them.
my every footstep becomes a graveyard,
my every word a tombstone,
and I am now the ghost who haunts them.
it's fun to visit a haunted house
once, maybe twice
but no one wants to live there.
if ringing my doorbell is a joke,
then my love is only the punch line
Meg Feb 2018
I am told I must be loved as if it is dangerous to drop me, but I cannot decide if I am glass or a grenade.
Maybe both.
Meg Aug 2015
Your words
In a sea
Of the
Saccharine sweetness
Of insincere consolation
And empty phrases;
In an ocean of
"It will be okay,"
"I'm sorry for you,"
Deceptively accompanied by
Awkward apologies
And bittersweet lies
Disguised as comfort,
As understanding.
Meg Feb 2018
You must clip your dead ends if you want to grow
And honey I ain’t just talking about hair
Meg Jul 2017
I don't believe in heaven
But sleeping in your arms is the closest I'll ever come
I would rather sleep next to you than experience heaven for the rest of my life.
Meg Apr 2016
emotional stakes
are changed
when a young girl,
tasked to bring hellfire,
lays off the trigger
This is a blackout poem I wrote using a newspaper.
Meg Aug 2015
i'm too


to tell you

how i feel

so i'll


behind timid smiles

and soft hellos

i'm afraid

that if i ask you

"what do you think of me?"

your reply will be

*"i don't."
Meg Feb 2018
poetry drips off of your tongue like honey
I wonder if you kiss me will I be able to taste it
maybe then i’ll have some honey too
Meg May 2016
in the end it never matters
*it all hurts the same
Meg May 2016
i wonder.
if i stand in the rain
for long enough,
will it wash away
my identity?
Meg Nov 2015
At night,
when the sea is still,
you can't tell sky from water,
and everything is
convoluted mirrors
spiraling away into darkness:
an abyss of serpentine stars,
warping the night sky
into a kaleidoscope
of constellations.
The sky is full of stars,
and I get the euphoric sensation
that I am floating in space,
suspended in stellar time
with nothing but oblivion
and pinpricks of light
around me.
this brings me comfort.
It is reassuring
to pretend as though
I am significant
in this world.
Meg Nov 2016
dear little girls,

who taught you to open your legs before opening your mouth?
who taught you that the only use for a woman's lips is anything other than speaking her mind?
who taught you that women who say "leave me alone" are worth less than those who say "yes, daddy"?
who taught you that the fire behind your eyes should be snuffed out?

Those people are the worst teachers who little girls like you are learning the most from.
I say, look those people in the face and say "*******."

That flame behind those fierce eyes of yours?
If it will set the world ablaze, I say let it.
I say let gasoline fall like rain.
I say dance in the ashes of the world that thought it was fireproof.
I say
Meg Aug 2015
Some say
Love is a temptress;
Luring prey into its trap,
Set so innocently
So that victims
Walk blindly into it.

Some say
Love is a trickster,
Cunning and deceitful;
That it intoxicates the soul
And hides the truth.

Some say that it
Kidnaps them,
Brainwashes them,
And leaves nothing but pain
And suffering.

I say
Love is the chance
That no one takes,
The dream
That all fear,
The ambition
That no one feels worthy of.

I say
Love is the soul;
So afraid of death
That it never learns to
Meg Nov 2016
every night
i check under my bed
for monsters
but never my mirror
Meg Dec 2016
sewing the open wounds shut
hurts just as much
as the wounds themselves
Meg Jul 2016
i just want to cry,
throw something,
anything but this ****** numbness
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