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You fit into my thoughts like your poems fit in my pocket...

Delightfully comfortable.

I could write you a list so long, outlining all my flaws.

You call me beautiful and I can almost see it.

Hands could intertwine and it could be so wonderful..

But you'd have to get to know me.

Walls could come down...

But you'd get to close.

It could be wonderful for awhile.

Bodies tangled and laughter filling our hearts.

But I get scared so easily.

You are a masterpiece...

I'm resisting the impulse to run as emotions take me.

But I know an absence of you would always linger in-between if I did.

All I know at this moment..

Is I couldn't stand for "us" to be another broken memory along the floor.

But how could that be possible when I'm so consumed with thoughts of you.
This world, of beauty,
lifts myriad vacant skies
for blank world to view.
.
My first attempt at a haiku
.
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
WRITER'S BLOCK

When you left you stole my burning heart.
You stole my drive.

You never stole my ambition.
No-one ever will.

You stole my crayons and melted them.
You made my pen run out.

Writer's block crept in,
it's an expectant execution block.

Just now,
I'm cold and lonely.
My eyes mere trenches of emptiness.
I fought my war with passion.

Now I'm dying inside.
I'm crying inside.
I am the Mona Lisa,
But, moaning I am not.
(C) Livvi
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