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Autumn Stott Nov 2017
It goes something like this:
You spend years clawing through the hearts of men, one drunken night at a time. When you wake up in the mornings, you kick them out with one last kiss, and pretend you haven't forgotten their names already. You walk into the kitchen, pour yourself a cup of stale coffee, decide caffeine just isn't going to cut it, and crack open a beer instead. You stare blankly at the dust particles dancing around in the sunlight and wonder how long it would take to count them all.
One-
Two-
Three-
You get to one hundred and give up.
You spend the rest of the morning wondering when things got this bad.

It goes something like this:
You get in the shower. Shave your legs. Wash your hair. Conceal your imperfections, coat your lips bright red. You look in the mirror and realize you don't know the person looking back anymore. That is your face. Those are your green eyes. Your crooked teeth. But it is not you. You stare at your reflection so long that the room around you becomes a blur. Your heartbeat begins to race but you cannot stop. You keep staring. Keep analyzing. Keep wondering when you became a stranger to your own body. When you finally snap out of it, you decide to run.

It goes something like this:
You pack your bags. Some socks. A pack of cigarettes. A bottle of whiskey. Just the necessities. And you run. You run and you run and you don't dare stop to look back. You don't want to change your mind. It's four in the afternoon and you're supposed to be at work. You almost feel bad for not showing up. Almost.

It goes something like this:
You get to the edge of a town that hasn't felt like home for years, and you take it all in one last time. You can't help but smile. You're finally free. You put your thumb in the air until a familiar face stops. He asks where you're headed. You tell him you don't care where you go, as long as it's beautiful. And this time, you promise not to forget his name.
Autumn Stott May 2016
Thursday morning and I'm walking in my sleep,
or maybe I'm awake,
it's becoming hard to tell the difference lately.
All the doctors and all the
psychiatrists promise that this darkness
will pass with the wind,
but they don't feel how it
digs its way into my bones,
makes a home out of marrow and
blood.
With each passing moment,
the sun is crawling deeper and deeper
into an abyss.
I do not deserve its light anyway.
I am a tornado with a pretty face,
scaring away anyone with sense,
destroying anyone brave enough
to walk into my path,
What I'm trying to say is, please, love me.
What I'm trying to say is, please, leave me alone.
I am really angry lately.
Autumn Stott May 2016
So you want to be a poet?
You want to make beauty out of ugly words,
want to make people feel something,
you want the grandeur and glamour,
the clapping audience after your appearance on stage?
Well, kid, here's the thing,
A poet is not something you can just "be".
It is an illness passed down at birth,
it is the doctor handing you to your mother
and saying
"I'm so sorry, she was born with poetry in her veins".
It is your father begging for forgiveness
the first time he finds you
scribbling metaphors on your bedroom wall- just like him.
It is your first bicycle accident,
and the apologetic look
on your neighbors face when she
sees the ink pouring out of your wounds.
It is drinking too much,
not sleeping enough,
loving too deeply,
yet never loving at all,
It is walking up to every stranger you meet and saying
"here is my heart, would you like to break it?"
So you want to be a poet?
Good luck.
I've been really angry about this writer's curse lately.
Autumn Stott Apr 2016
There are over one million words in the English language,
I have been scouring my dictionary for days
trying to make falling out of love sound beautiful,
If I were a poet, I would say that
your betrayal fills my lungs with smoke,
like the cigarettes I keep hidden in my glove box.
I would write a collection of sonnets about
her perfume lingering in the back seat of your car,
and how she reminds me of wildfire- beautiful even in her wake of destruction.
If I were a poet, I would find solace in the truth.
But I am not a poet
and there is nothing beautiful about the way you ripped my heart from it's home,
or the way you used my hollow chest as a blanket for your infidelity,
I am trying to find a poetic way to say I'm not afraid of you finding my cigarettes anymore,
Blowing smoke in your face as I walk out the door.
There are over a million words in the English language,
*******.
I am not a poet.
Autumn Stott Mar 2016
I was in first grade when they taught us the definition of love,
noun: an intense feeling of deep affection.
My teacher went around the room asking for examples
of what love meant to each of us,
"Love is when my mommy cuts the crust off my sandwiches",
"Love is when my brother lets me pick the TV show",
"Love is when I got sick and the whole class made me a 'get well' card".
When my turn came around,
I couldn't find the courage to speak up,
instead, a stream of tears slid down my face.
At six years old, I felt everything too deeply.

In the sixth grade, I would sit in the back of my class,
and scribble metaphors between pages of notes,
"Love is a burning building with no fire escapes",
I was searching for a way to say that I was drowning,
I was looking for validation, for someone to tell me life was
more than just math quizzes and scientific formulas.
Instead, I got referred to the school therapist.
"Flunking out of your classes isn't poetic."
At twelve years old, I felt everything too deeply.

In my last year of high school,
they asked us to write an essay about our futures,
where we saw ourselves in 5 years,
Everyone around me erupted in giggles about their dreams of college and marriage and stability.
The girl in front of me could hardly contain herself,
"I'm going to be a mother- two boys and a girl if I get my way. How about you?"
I contemplated telling her I didn't plan on making it that far,
that I had lost my passion for the future a long time ago,
but I knew what kind of answer she was looking for.
"I want to be a writer."
I dropped out the next day.
At seventeen, I felt everything too deeply.

It's been six years,
The floor of my apartment is littered with crumpled pages on ink-stained carpet.
I am still alive,
only because I haven't found the right words to leave behind.
This is my legacy,
empty beer bottles filled to the brim with stale cigarette butts,
a collection of lines and stanzas laced with two decades of uncertainty.
If I saw my first grade teacher again, I would tell her that to me,
love is getting out of bed for the first time this week,
I would tell my middle school therapist that flunking out is the most poetic thing I've ever done,
I would send the girl from class a book of obituaries I wrote for myself,
At twenty-three years old, I don't feel anything at all.
Autumn Stott Mar 2016
I am the pretty girl.
My mother tells me I should be thankful,
"you're one of the beautiful girls, baby,
a perfect blonde-haired, blue eyed masterpiece",
she tells me that not all girls are blessed
with petite frames and dimpled cheeks,
that boys go crazy for a woman with
my genes.
When I try to tell her about the poems I have written,
she chimes in with disapproval of my new hairstyle.
When I proudly show her my sketches,
she reminds me to do my makeup extra nice for dinner next week,
"don't embarrass me, baby, we have to look our best."
I am the pretty girl,
forever caged in this same old routine,
throwing passion to the wind,
with a desperate cry for my mother's approval.
Is my eye shadow blended well enough now, mommy?
Are my lips glossy enough?
Is the blood spilling from my veins
the "perfect shade of red" for my
pale complexion?
My mother tells me I should be thankful.
I am the pretty girl.
Autumn Stott Nov 2015
I am the "other" girl,
the one your parents warned you about,
the unexpected bolt of lightening during a quiet storm,
the warning shot that pierces you straight through the heart,
the "I'm sorry" you could never find the courage to say out loud.
I will come into your life like the sea,
raging, dominant,
crashing onto your shores with violent ferocity,
both intriguing and terrifying.
You will fall in love with me,
they always do,
but just like the rest of them, you will never admit it.
When we are laying in bed, wrapped in each
other's arms,
I will ask how your girlfriend is doing,
just to see you tremble at the thought of her face.
I will destroy you one kiss at a time,
and you will pretend the entire time that you don't see it coming,
I am the "other" girl,
the beginning of the end,
and nobody is making it out alive.
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