There are some nights when
sleep plays coy,
aloof and disdainful.
And all the wiles
that I employ to win
its service to my side
are useless as wounded pride,
and much more painful.

then
our granny spoke,
manners are the gate
that opens to the kingdom
where, on the chairs, sit
respect and honour.

then
our granny spoke,
manners are the rainbow
that materialises after
the heavenly grace and bliss
shower on our heads.

so we spoke,
manners are our breath,
our each step on the mat,
on the marble, our bridge
where long-lived fame stands.

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

I got a little carried away
by the way you say my name.
A little caught up by your make-up.
Lost in your eyes -
it's hardly a surprise -
how easily I fall in love.

Oops.

I just made it real.
I've felt empty for so long,
and you made me feel.
(Oh, to feel!)
I didn't mean to project my feelings onto you,
but everyone seems so fake,
and you seem so real.

Oops.

I didn't mean to smile that time.
I've been trying to stay mad at you
for making me lose my mind.

Oops.

I've got to get away from you.
These feelings make me want to die.
I'm jealous of everyone you talk to.
Why can't you be mine?

Oops,
oh ****,
I really ****** up this time.
I can't see a thing,
your beauty's got me blind.
Abandon ship!
Get out fast!
I swore I'll never love again because it never lasts.

Oops.

I died.

I didn't mean to,
just like how I never meant to turn red
whenever I heard your voice.
It's just so full of life.
Could you please sing at my funeral now that I'm dead?
I bet that'll make 'em cry.

Hey you with your thinky pain,
your existential crises,
your broken bleeding heart beating in vain.
Hey you!
I say, hey!

Stop being a ****.