Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Molly Hughes Dec 2013
The constant fear of stomach aches,
back pain,
sore muscles,
colds and flu,
headaches,
bad coughs,
weird sensations that you don't even understand.
The constant fear of wrongly multiplying cells,
of hair loss,
of transplant,
of cardiac arrest,
of nausea,
of ***** failure,
of words like lymph nodes,
stage three,
clogged arteries,
terminal,
irreparable damage,
cancer.
The constant deaths,
in a thousand different ways,
in a thousand different hospital beds,
that consume you every day,
make you sick in the head,
sick,
sick,
sick.

The constant Grim Reaper's  hand of health anxiety,
forever on your shoulder.
Molly Hughes Dec 2013
When you kiss me,
I don't think you realise,
but my lips turn into an explosion of electricity
on your dead circuit board mouth.

Let me revive you.
Let me shock you into submission.
Let me make your hair stand on end,
your knees tremble.

Either that, or just smash my bulb.
My light flickers when I see you with somebody else,
and what use is a dim light to anybody?
Apart from the little extra illumination it shines on you.

Maybe I could rewire you.
Maybe I could flip a switch.
Maybe I could turn on your lips and you could kiss me,
kiss
me,
under a streetlamp.
Maybe you could be my light in the dark.

I think there's been a power cut.
I can't see.
My eyes are under a blanket of darkness,
and your light has gone out.
I guess I'll just have to switch on mine
whilst you smoulder for another
brighter,
more beautiful light.

Time to pull the plug.
Does anybody else ever get the urge to show their poems to the people they're about? Imagine their face.
Molly Hughes Dec 2013
Age is no big deal,
but eight years contains a lot -
well love, so do I.
Very rough, very terrible first attempt at a haiku. Please don't be too brutal, this is really hard.
Molly Hughes Nov 2013
So,
even though you pushed me,
even though you charmed me,
with your words,
your smile,
it's my fault
and I'm apologising,
for doing what you told me to.
But I'm not sorry at all.
Molly Hughes Nov 2013
I wish I wasn't so vulnerable,
so able to
fall
at the slightest of pushes,
like an autumn leaf is wrenched away
by the gentlest of winter winds.
You are an unmovable oak,
and you probably thought I was the same.
I've become very good at pretending.
You never meant to be the one to push me,
to leave me at the bottom of a pit
that I'm desperately trying to claw my way back out of.
My hands hurt.
Yet I saw your outstretched arms,
felt the nudge in my back the first time we met.
The smile sent me flying.
Even though I hate you for it,
hate you so hard rivers leave my eyes
I don't blame you.
I don't even really hate you.
I hate myself for being who I am.
A scared little girl who can't bare to look in the mirror,
can't bring herself to flutter her eyelids and shake her hair at you.
The smell of rejection lingers around my nostrils already.
I know your type.
I know you better than you know yourself
and
most of all,
I know nothing can ever happen.
I'm sorry for burdening us with this,
for tripping up
and falling down the rabbit hole.
So where's my Wonderland?
Your mouth reads Drink Me,
your heart reads Eat Me.
I'll eat till I'm full,
drink till I'm love drunk
but the table is bare.
Just like this pit.
I'll make a ladder from your oak,
and try to find a way out.
Just don't look me in the eyes.
Don't smile.
Don't be the winter wind.
Molly Hughes Nov 2013
If I am as cold,
as empty,
as lonely as I think I am right now,
how much colder,
emptier
and lonelier will I really get if I truly
be myself?
Winter doesn't last forever.
The ice will melt.
I can put on a jumper,
wrap round a scarf.
And maybe,
just maybe,
I'll actually get a little warmer.
Maybe,
just maybe,
I'll see the sun.
Molly Hughes Nov 2013
SOS
I am so cold.
Wind whistles round my rib cage,
frost settles in my veins.
Help me.
My brain is sinking under quicksand
and it is oozing out my nostrils,
my mouth,
my ears.
It hurts.
I silently scream
in crowded rooms,
but nobody notices.
I'm wasted.
My body is rotting,
my untouched skin decaying.
I was happy once.
In photos of years gone by,
old movies watched again and again.
I yearn to wake up seven years old,
the gleam of life in my eyes.
I wake up dead.
Ghosts in my eyes.

I'm losing it.
I don't know what to do
Next page