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Morgan Vail May 9
Oh, lovely,
He’s feeling bird-like.
Oh, starry eyes,
Wistful hills.
Oh lovely,
She’s feeling lovely.
No one is home tonight.
Smiling face.
Go home, lovely.
Won’t you please?
Morgan Vail May 3
I stand in front of the mirror
Like a movie star actress
Giggle at how quickly I'd fall
I clutch the towel to my bare chest
And cry on command
Staring into that old familiar brown
It is very early in the morning
I did not sleep last night
In two hours I will be cheating on a test
But right now I am the dashing hero come to embrace his bride
The femme fatal
The weary drunken hunter
The monster
A movie star actress
And I fake cry too well
Morgan Vail May 3
Seeming as though they want to crawl inside
I invite every word you sowed into my home

Restless they skitter into every corner of my room
Make themselves comfortable in my bed
Unslept in, untidy

I click my pen absentmindedly at the desk as I write
But each sentence is a copy of your kisses

You came, paved the road through icy snow
And I don’t want to reject your passion
Perhaps because, akin to my features
I am unloved

The only one there for me
The only fickle heart that
Didn’t always seem so worthless

This world revolves around an atmosphere of
Shaky hands and nervous glances
Long walks and apologies

No matter how many times I laugh
It isn’t enough to silence the poor restive dog
But the door to the backyard is locked
Don’t make me find the key
Morgan Vail May 2
The smell of cherries,
Rich, tangy, sweet,
Like syrup dripping down through my water,
Leaving my lungs filled with nauseatingly, gorgeous pink,
Outside the window’s damp metallic screen.
It pulls my eyes out,
Leaving across the city,
Dark and screaming as it is.
Screaming to be worth something,
To be known,
And all we are is above, in the clouds.
Pink, suffocatingly high,
All around us the air sings,
And I am choking,
Colliding with the atmosphere,
The heart envelops the mind,
I am here again,
All metal.
Waking nightmare,
The smell of cherries.
Morgan Vail May 2
I am not a person like tomorrow.
A walking ghost,
I still live alongside blissful degeneracy.
They stole ten years from me,
Ten years of my ecstatic individualism.
A decade spent crying into the hard, wooden floor.
And the fog that clouds my peripheral vision,
Obstructs my future as well, clutching the flask.
But that’s alright.
I will not get my decade back,
Nor my stability, that never lingered,
But I will make a list.
What I missed while I was absent.
Most things start with a list.
Why can’t I?
Morgan Vail Apr 29
I am perched atop a golden hill,
With grey birds lighting the sky.
Alone, I’m thought of as ill,
But this illness I possess is mine.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
Akin to good and evil.
Who am I to refuse to shoulder,
The sins of man, primeval?
Disown the fear of love,
Life has never been in vain.
The sky looks down from above,
It commands that no soul is insane.
And nature’s children all gather,
Above the glinting sea,
And of my life I am the master,
As human as I can be.
Morgan Vail Apr 28
There is beauty in my pain.
Yes, if you mean,
Those effervescent tears,
Streaking down your flawless cheeks.
If you mean that romanticized,
Clear blood you lie in.

Darling, you were already bewitching.
You were born from the sky,
A divine demonstration of mortal virtue.
There is no beauty in your pain,
There is merely pain amongst your beauty.
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