When I look at you, I see a wall:
A wary way of walking through the world,
hands pushed deep into your pockets,
keeping them safe from other hands.
Your laughter comes only controlled,
even smiles sometimes shielded
during our careful conversation
that’s calculated before it clears the air,
sentences screened for slips of the tongue,
holding back secrets that sit in your silences
when I ask the questions you can’t answer.

Whoever took that hammer to your heart
has this hard shell to answer for,
this barrier built on top of broken trust,
a mountain I am not strong enough to move
so instead I choose to love you from the outside in,
drumming on the door of this fortress you made
when someone made a fool of you.
May this love make such music that one day
you find yourself holding my hands
as we dance to it, laughing, talking, smiling, free.

There's no regard for your feelings when my heart is in charge.
"You feel the same!"
It's a lie we let me live with.
I'd be okay with going into cardiac arrest over you, anyway.  

My brain thinks you're magnificent-
or perhaps horrendous...
Nonetheless, you seldom leave my mind.
I've considered purchasing another mattress
(my heart wants to know if we can share it).

i'm not sorry
that i wanted sleep
more than your ****.

Your belt does not touch my skin
but it does wound my mind.
That sound and I look like still;
deep down I am shivering.
We live in a land of fear.
You are used to it
but I never would be.
I want to be free.
Starting from this home
I call as house.

What I thought was warmth
is actually heat. My iron soul
is melted. Let me be free.
For me hell is frosty.
I never said heaven is the
opposite.
I don't believe in life.
It's all just bad jokes,
if you are wondering why
I laugh so much
yet they look like forced.

How sweet of you that you
write my destiny
so I just have to
enjoy the ride
without having
to think of anything
else. I am so
grateful
for that. I do not
have to worry
at all. I just need
to be your
mirror. Your magic one.

How sweet of you that the
reflection you see
in me is all the things you
want to see. I am
your magic mirror.
Your glorious reflection.
I tell what you
want to hear. I be what you
want to see. I hold what
you failed to bear. The dreams
of your waste
d youth ----
Place the pride
on my shoulder.
I am an unbreakable soldier.
Place the armor
on my shell.
I am so small I cannot be empty.
Your care nourishes
me. You make
me believe that I am
loved. I survive, I
can face the world all
thanks to
the warmth you
give to my
iron soul.

I'd rather stay myself and be corroded than melt.

How sweet of you that you
forgive my harsh
words and my ill
gazes and all
those high pitched
voices. I know I
am forgiven for all days
you keep saying
that. How sweet of you
and your forgiving heart and
your genuine fatherly
love. How sweet of you that
you keep giving us
your already stolen
life. I stole it and you
are pleased. I am your magic
mirror. I be
the reflection you want
to see. I hold
the dreams you failed
to bear. Oh, you
write your
own destiny in me.

Dearest Reader,


My name is Margot Dylan, and I'm a pariah.

On the 16th of April, I told my mother that I was gay. She threw the clay mug that I made for her before she found out I was gay, against the floral, peeling wallpaper mess of a wall, in our kitchen. The decaffeinated peppermint green tea left a wonderful aroma that almost cleansed the room of the stench of 'lesbian'.

I met Dylan Dunham a few days after that, and, a few days later, she was the first girl that I ever loved.

Dylan wore a red flannel jacket, and was a butch and sometimes a *****-but I loved her even at her tomboy cruelest.

Dylan smoked a cigarette that smelled like lonerism, and she looked at me like she didn't care. My heart skipped a beat, as cliche as it sounds, whenever she would remove the cigarette from her mouth, exhale, and look at me as smoke traveled up her face. I looked at her and knew that she was everything that I wasn't, and everything that I wanted.

Dylan was Dianne, before and after school. Dylan was Dianne, who wore floral dresses and lipstick and who ditched her butch clothing in her locker before leaving. Dylan was Dianne, who was straight and who thought Tyler Wesson, from church, was cute. Dylan was Dianne, who had a short hair cut because of track and field, because she explained that she ran a faster time with less hair. Dylan was Dianne, who didn't associate with me before or after school because her parents knew that I was gay.

During school hours, the only thing Dylan did keep from Dianne was the lipstick. I was envious of the cigarette because of it's burgundy stains. We would stand in a stall, as she looked across from me, after each drag. She frequently offered her cigarettes, but I refused because I only let love **** me. If she ever brought alcohol, sometimes she'd kiss me. I told her that I loved her and she said, "I know."

The only thing that Dylan kept from me was my heart, before she started to smoke cigarettes in the bathroom with Annie Way.


I wish you the best moments so they can overcome the worst,

Margot Dylan