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Sep 27 · 50
How Can This Be So
Molly Hughes Sep 27
I turn on the news
Scroll all day on my phone
The first words on my tongue
Are how can this be so

I walk down the street
And see those without homes
I ask once again
How can this be so

I hear people talk
Of our great country so bold
But still the words on my tongue
Are how can be this so

The people with power
Spit on those down below
I cry out the words
How can this be so

Those around me are bleeding
While their pockets grow
I beg them to tell me
How can this be so

The whole world is on fire
And still we work to the bone
I get tired of asking
How can this be so

They would fall from their perch
If we all threw a stone
The system is broken
That I do know
Aug 23 · 42
Heavy
Molly Hughes Aug 23
Have you ever torn at your own flesh
in an attempt to be lighter?
Clawing at chunks of skin and life
to force a shape that isn't consecrated with shame
like the body that you're used to.
Have you ever looked at yourself in a mirror
and stared so long
with eyes squint
that you almost look like the girls in the magazines
on TV
described in novels
strutting down the runway
only to open up and see the same old you
soft
full
whole
and wish you could disappear
into the floor
forever?
Have you ever had a loved one say the very worst thing
you've always suspected?
The magic words that snap your heart in two
and confirm every doubt you've ever had
every bad thought about yourself
you've spent your whole life trying to swallow
into the stomach that has always been treated so cruelly.
Have you ever used every birthday wish
every dandelion blown in the wind
every 11:11
to pray
beg
plead
for a different person to live inside of?
I weep for my poor body
so bullied and bruised
and I swear to never wish
for another
ever
again.
I can't believe how many poems I've written about my body issues on this ****** site
May 2017 · 709
Big
Molly Hughes May 2017
Big
I got tired today
Tired of looking
so hard in the mirror
that shapes swell and burst
and fill the room

I said no more today
No more wishing
No more waiting for a day
that will only come if I let it
Not because I've bent myself
in an impossible direction

I said "look at me" today
I'm beautiful, I'm soft,
I bulge and I tremble,
I hit and I kick
and I do it
hard
Dec 2016 · 278
Forewarning
Molly Hughes Dec 2016
You are the funniest person I have ever met.
Perhaps that's why when you're gone
everything around me feels colder
and more unbearable
than it has before.

You have made me happier than I have ever known.
So I'm not sure why recently
I've been waking up with a lump in my throat
and a heaviness in my limbs that causes me to crawl,
bent over,
broken.

I am so unbelievably scared.
Scared that you're going to turn round and tell me this was a mistake.
Scared that you're going to realise
that I'm not who you thought you wanted.

I don't know what else you could do
to make me feel any safer.
But I feel so vulnerable,
so incredibly close
to the edge of the cliff side
that I can hardly catch my breath
and I can feel the hands on my back
ready to push.

Is it too much to want for you to message me first?
Is it too much to want to feel your hand on my back?
Is it too much to hope you'll reach for me on a morning?
Am I stupid for being terrified that you lie awake at night
wishing I was her?
I wait for the day that you *** and say her name
instead of mine.

I thought we were sat on the same step,
even.
But now I feel myself looking up to you,
reaching out
and you don't even look down.
I just found this saved in my drafts from the last week in November my boyfriend broke up with me less than a week later this is making me feel all sorts of things I'm not even sure what they are or what it means

Also I haven't changed it anyway since I found it in my drafts because I quite like how messy it is it shows how I was actually feeling I think I dunno
May 2016 · 344
Waterboarding
Molly Hughes May 2016
Why won't you leave my ******* brain?
I know that you're a *******,
that you're not worth a minute of my time,
although really I know that that's not true
but that's what I keep telling myself,
in order to get out of bed in the morning.
I thought I was finally angry,
that I'd reached the long awaited
'Stage 2'
of the break up,
but here I am again,
sobbing in the street,
six beers in.
Do you still think of me?
Or if somebody mentioned me now
would you simply answer
"Molly who?"
Molly,
the girl that loved you.
Still loves you.
Molly,
the girl you ******
last thing at night and first thing in the morning.
Molly,
the girl that didn't turn out to be
the girl you prayed she was.
Molly,
the girl that's been alone so long
that she stays that way,
even when somebody else is rammed deep inside her.
You're with me more now
than when we were together.
How is it fair
that you get to snap your fingers,
say "that's that"
and be okay;
what happened to
"I'll never finish this"?
You lied.
Do you understand that?
You're a ******* liar.
You took me by the hand,
called me all the things I'd always dreamt of hearing
and pulled me down,
deep down,
to a place I didn't know I was capable of inhabiting.
I resisted at first,
the place you put me in strange and all too familiar,
and I wanted to keep one arm out of the water.
But you wouldn't stop asking,
wouldn't let go of my hand,
a merperson,
floating hypnotic in the water,
bewitching the love sick sailor with her head over the side of the boat,
cursing the moon.
And so I fell right in,
felt the foam crash right over my face,
the waves swell in my lungs,
the salt in my mouth
and the sting in my eyes like nettles,
and I laughed until I choked
and begged for more.
But that's when you swam away
and I was lost and lifeless inside the rib cage of a shipwreck,
right at the bottom of the sea bed,
amongst the whale bones,
and I suddenly remembered that I couldn't breathe.
I was stupid;
you were stupid.
I was clueless;
you were cruel.
There's shells in my hands
whenever I cough
and sand in my bed.
You used your tongue to open me up,
a clam,
and I swallowed down the ocean.
Fish flap on the shore
and search for sea,
puddles of air,
the kiss of life.
I wait for the rain
to turn into a river.
May 2016 · 602
(Anti) Social Anxiety
Molly Hughes May 2016
Eyes staring,
eyes everywhere;
watching,
looking,
laughing,
judging.
Can't breathe,
can't walk,
can't speak.
I just wanna get on the bus,
I just wanna eat my lunch,
I just wanna buy a cup of coffee.
Can't find the words,
can't find the breath,
hands shake,
coffee spills,
I blush -
violently,
unmistakably.
Walking across a room feels like running across a desert,
talking to a stranger
is incredibly impossible,
looking at anybody in the eye
is not gonna happen.
Just leave me be,
just let me live,
without this constant commentary
racing around my brain.
Does everybody feel like this?
Does everybody hear this voice?
Is this just how it is?
I'm not special,
I'm nothing to look at,
not attracting attention;
so why do I feel the burning stab of a thousand eyes
pressing against my back?
Am I just totally mental?
Is this just pure self-obsession?
Just simply BEING shouldn't be so excruciatingly difficult.
Should it?
I wanna go to the bathroom
but I can't get across the room
without anybody seeing.
An easy-breezy laugh comes out like an uncertain whimper,
a friendly smile makes me look angry and confused.
I swear I'm nice, really,
I promise.
Just don't look at me.
Please don't look at me.
May 2016 · 492
Long Black
Molly Hughes May 2016
I told you I'd stopped drinking coffee
because it made me too anxious.
You told me,
wide eyed and serious,
that I was a different person
after a couple of cups,
my mood changed to black and unstable,
harsh.
How could I tell you
that it wasn't the coffee,
but you?
No amount of caffeine could make me shake like you could,
send the invisible hand wrapping round my neck,
constricting,
refusing to let go.
That sick twist in the pit of my stomach,
you,
the vice like tightening of my muscles leaving me bed bound,
you,
the topsy turvy, murky milkshake of words in my head,
you,
the quickening of breath,
short rasps racing up my throat knocked back and left to struggle somewhere around my lungs,
you.
It was all
you,
you,
you.
Coffee made me more alert, aware, awake;
unable to switch off and escape into sleep.
All I wanted to do was stop feeling tired.
You were one great big exhaustion.
May 2016 · 354
Spit
Molly Hughes May 2016
What did her mouth taste like?
Did she taste like me?
Was her breath sugary and hot,
her sighs cotton candy and sweet tea,
or did the guilt turn them sour
her spit bitter and spoilt?
Or had her tongue dragged you in
and swallowed you whole
allowing any of trace of me to be forgotten,
the guilt but an irritating side effect
of one ******* magical poison?

What did her lips feel like?
Did they feel like mine?
Were they firm,
but soft,
sedated,
but awake,
exciting and strange,
but completely home,
moving in shapes you didn't know how to fit inside,
talking in tongues you couldn't quite understand?
I bet you tried.
I bet you thought she was calling you all the things nobody had ever called you before -
but can't you remember all the times I called you perfect?
Usually when you were half asleep or I was half drunk,
me watching your face soften from mountain to sea with each passing breath,
you telling me to shush because it was only the drink talking.
But you were wrong;
I meant it.
Every dumb sappy thing I ever said,
I meant it.

Where did your hands go?
Did they slide inside her tshirt
and wrap around her waist,
holding on so tightly that your skin seemed to melt into hers,
like they used to do to me?
I still have the burn marks to prove it,
thick,
hot welts on my hips,
ugly and the most beautiful purple flowers I've ever seen.
Or were your hands wary and unsure of themselves,
shaken by such sudden starlight,
hanging awkwardly around your sides,
reaching out
and falling back
again
and again
and again?

Maybe if I'd have pressed my mouth against yours that bit harder,
slid my tongue along yours that little bit quicker,
eaten sugar lumps before we kissed,
you'd still be here.
Kiss me again
and I'm not letting go.
Kiss me again
and I'll choke you with honey.
Kiss me again,
kiss me again,
kiss me again.
Apr 2016 · 295
Gone
Molly Hughes Apr 2016
It's hard to tell
if it's really you,
speaking to me so venomously,
words coming from some pitch black place
buried deep inside.
Your eyes stare
as if they're desperate to close;
the lids sagging,
the pupils unseeing.
You flinch at my touch
and I'm scared to get too close.
I can't remember the last time you smiled.
Sighs sit heavy in the air
and land every now and again,
falling with such force that they
bruise skin
and break bones.
I very much want to shove you down under the duvet,
wrap you in the sheets,
away from the falling sky,
but I'm frightened to touch
and my arms don't seem able to hold enough of you;
and if you're under the bed clothes
then the sighs have nowhere to go,
so the space between the matress and the sheet hardens and turns to stone,
trapping you inside.
Maybe that's what you want -
but I'm selfish and I'd take any amount of cuts and bruises
over that.
So we sit,
side by side,
on top of the blanket,
and you can't seem to find the motivation to speak,
so I say enough words for the both of us
and I hate myself for every little thing that I say,
because it all means absolutely nothing
and you stopped listening a long time ago.
One night whilst we slept
you walked too far
and went away
and I'm not sure when you're coming back.
I'm sorry if I'm the reason you had to leave -
I should have seen your back starting to turn,
heard the footsteps within the silences.
I'd have grabbed your hand and never let go.
But I need you to know,
I'll be here waiting when you come back.
I'll listen with pure joy as your jaw swings open
and the weeks worth of unsaid words come pouring out,
lie in total bliss as your fingers remember how to sit between mine,
soak up the hard pump in my chest as your tongue finds the words "love", "I" and "you" and let's them spill into the breeze to linger a while
before they float straight through my smile
and into my throat.
I miss you
but I'll never get tired
and leave you lost.
I'm here,
and I know you will be soon, too.
Jan 2016 · 235
Too Much
Molly Hughes Jan 2016
I loved you too hard
and I loved you too quick.
Well,
if you want,
I can love you soft
and I can love you slow,
if that makes things better,
but I can't,
I'm sorry my dear,
not love you at all.
Jan 2016 · 251
Spin
Molly Hughes Jan 2016
It feels as if a spinning top has been turned
and I'm stuck to it,
one side me a month ago
and who I am now on the other.
I was so happy.
I didn't realise before that such happiness existed,
or that I'd ever feel it.
But I did
and you let me
and I smiled so hard from morning till night that people were asking me if I was okay.
Okay??
I'd gotten all the way to then without ever really being okay,
but now I was
exactly right.
You woke parts of me up that I didn't even know were asleep,
helped me see things that before I'd ignored -
you made me feel like something worth wanting.
The mirror held me differently
so that I barely recognised my own reflection.
Did she always walk with her shoulders so far back,
stand with her head held so high up??
The second time I met you
I felt something physically change within me.
A sudden jolt somewhere behind my belly button,
the dislodging of stars and hot insides.
I wondered if you'd noticed,
if I'd changed on the outside too,
but you were too busy
tracing the tree trunk ring lines on my fingertips with your lips,
to notice.
Then I'm spinning
and spinning
and spinning,
and I'm grabbing hair
and tshirts that smell like you and home
and fingers that fit perfectly in mine
and stained with paint duvets that keep us safe
and door handles that lead to places I've never been before
and flowers and rain and mountains and oceans and forest
and I've landed somewhere hard and all too familiar
with the wind knocked right out of me,
like a boat being spat out of a storm.
Everything's dark.
Everything's cold.
Everything's exactly how it was before -
except,
now,
I know.
I know what could be
and who we could be
and who I could be
but now I'm stooped so low that I can't even see myself in the mirror,
people are asking me if I'm okay and my mouth is too sore to answer,
I can feel something just behind my belly button
but it hurts
and makes stomach acid swim up my throat.
I spit it out on pavement
and wonder if it burns.
I hate you so ******* much for doing this that it scares me.
You took me at my worst,
rolled me in your hands like clay till I was somebody new,
and then crushed it between your palms
so now I'm so broken it hurts to breathe
and bits of ***,
plate and vase,
rattle in my lungs
till I cough blood.
And just a month ago,
before you span the top,
I loved you so much it scared me
but now I don't know the difference.
Dec 2015 · 230
Name
Molly Hughes Dec 2015
Most of the time,
your name stirs lethargically around my head,
muffled and not quite discernible
under the everyday sea of thought that laps
repetitively
against my skull.
But now and again
the tide turns
and you lurch out of it,
the single syllable crashing along with the tumultuous waves
against bone and flesh,
drowning tomorrow's shopping list
and that phone call I promised I'd make.
For a second,
I'm knocked out,
reeling,
struggling to contain the ocean -
you arrive so unexpectedly
and leave so messily,
frothing and spraying against the shore until all that's left
is a couple of red raw letters
and a memory or two.
I shake my head to get rid of the water
but everything still feels
cold
and
damp.
I miss the sun warmed lakes that used to reside in me
and the certainty they brought.
No turning tide
and no waves to knock me flying,
just a vast silky stillness that I could,
first,
dip a toe in to,
and then dissolve in,
fully submerged.
And I could scream your name until my lungs bled,
and hear the single ******* syllable echoed back at me,
again
and
again
each one different for each time I actually said it
(whispers under bed sheets, long moans that lasted long after you'd left)
and still not get sick of the short bluntness
of the four frank letters -
an unapologetic start and end
with a whisper in the middle.
But if I decided to put my lips to better use,
and let my blood stream soak you up instead,
all was quiet.
No slam of wave,
no spluttering sea -
and that silence,
full and happy,
said more than words ever could.
Dec 2015 · 586
Bed
Molly Hughes Dec 2015
Bed
Sleeping in the same bed was,
at first,
hard,
limbs at odd angles
and breathing self conscious.
I’d roll one way,
then the other,
not sure what I was looking for
until I found you
on your back
mouth agape and body warm.
The first few times I didn’t dare touch you
not sure if I was allowed
and not wanting to wake you;
until the sun came up
and the light gradually let itself in
and I hid my face under the duvet,
scared you’d open your eyes and see something in it
that gave the game away,
or that you’d see something that
you’d missed before,
that made you want to get up,
put your socks on
and leave.
Even so,
I grew braver each time,
until I let myself roll one way,
and then the other,
with such force that I’d
‘accidentally’
roll into your outstretched arms,
which were always
palm up
and open.
Most of the time you’d **** awake,
bleary eyed and mumbling,
while I lay there
breath caught and wondering,
before turning your palms in
and bringing me to rest somewhere between the notches in your rib cage,
arms closed tight around mine.
I’d count the minutes as I felt you go from a sturdy pillow,
all old cotton and chest,
to a soft wave in a calm ocean,
rising and falling rhythmically
and in harmony with the beating of your steady heart
(lovely and loud beneath my right ear).
Despite your woozy ocean waves
and despite your bath water warmth
and despite your arms,
palms no longer up,
wrapped around my rib cage,
I didn’t sleep.
How could I?
Although I could already hear the birds calling,
see the light starting to slip silently across the wall,
I prayed that the sun would never come up
and that you’d never stop me swimming
and that you’d never let go.
The night used to seem like it stretched on forever,
dark,
empty,
unhappy;
but now it leaves almost as soon as it arrives
and,
somehow,
the day is never as bright.
My first poem in an incredibly long time
Feb 2015 · 369
Dad Part 2
Molly Hughes Feb 2015
Afternoons around the lake feeding the ducks,
throwing crusts from the bottom of a bag
that smells like home.
Scraping down a white wash hill
on a scarlet sledge,
fingers freezing in the spray.
Walking home from school with a lucky bag,
a smile
and a warm hand on my shoulder.
Watching football
with a belly for a bed,
shouting out whenever you did.
Clipping holly best I could
through a fist full of mitten,
from the special bush that we called ours.
Laughing at the funny men
arguing on the telly,
the ones with the bowler hat and the silly face.
Coming home crying
with a splinter in my foot,
saved by a steady hand, a kind word and a needle.
Finishing almost last
in the school fun run,
but still feeling like a winner hearing you cheer my name.
Being able to say
that you're my dad.
Something I wrote for my dad for his birthday. Not sure if it's any good but parents like anything home made and it is definitely from the heart.
Feb 2015 · 374
Be Happy
Molly Hughes Feb 2015
She's left scorch marks on your fingertips
and circles round your eyes.
Hell to touch
but heaven to spend all night *******.
You see starlight in her hair
and rainbows in her smile.
She's with you
even when she isn't
and you miss her
even when she is.
I smile
to see you smiling
and I love her
for loving you.
I'd like to rub away your circles
with my thumbs
and **** away
your scorch marks.
I'd like you to see starlight in my hair
and rainbows in my smile,
have you clench your fist when I'm not there
and you need someone to hold.
But for now,
hold on to her tight.
For now,
love and be loved.
I know I'm not her.
I have thorns stuck in my hair
and barbed wire in my smile.
But when I think of you,
I can't help but smile anyway.
Jan 2015 · 427
Paris
Molly Hughes Jan 2015
We walked along
the flowered streets
and felt the gentle sunlight
dripping on our shoulders.
I think I smiled
for two days straight
and every laugh
was like the uncorking of champagne.
The buildings on either side of us were egg shell white
and just as delicate,
their slender bodies and effortless sophistication
somehow humble and full of history.
Every turn was met with unending beauty,
so much so that it made your eyes hurt
and your chest ache.
Winding streets slanted us in the right direction
and the smell of fresh bread, crepes
and something without a name
made our stomachs feel warm and full
and rumble too.
The dirtiest newsagents was a palace
and the grimiest bar the same,
the topsy turvy,
tipsy language in the air adding instant elegance
to the ***** walls,
the filth on the table tops somehow romantic.
We left the city
and it whispered goodbye,
through the car horns honking
and the dogs barking,
a melody most sublime.
We left the city
but it never left us.
For my best friend and for my favourite city.
Nov 2014 · 562
Serious Limerick
Molly Hughes Nov 2014
There once was a woman in bed
Who groaned, and cried and bled
Her daughter's last kiss
Was bitter sweet bliss
As the virus, to her, did spread
Another exercise we were given at uni was to attempt to write a serious limerick. It's still difficult to take seriously, given the rhythm of the poem, but here is my attempt.
Nov 2014 · 883
The Needle
Molly Hughes Nov 2014
The needle opened a heavy, internal door
to a colourful, devilish tidal wave of pain.
I told him I didn't want to try it.
I told him I was scared of needles.
The needle opened a heavy, internal door
to a colourful, devilish soft spray of pain.
He asked me if I loved him
and I answered with hot metal
and the push of a syringe.
The needle opened a well used, flimsy door
to a colourful wave of pure, sweet pain.
Shadows line my arms like forget me nots,
and I spend my days lying in tranquil meadows,
surrounded by forest fire.
The needle opened me up
and gutted me out,
and I liked the pain.
I thought I woud upload a few things I've been doing in class at uni. In this exercise we were given three words (mine were pain, door and colourful), and we were told to create a short poem with one recurring line, using the words. This is a very roughly written poem, but here you go.
Sep 2014 · 464
An Unexpected Panic Attack
Molly Hughes Sep 2014
I'm choking,
I'm choking,
I'm choking,
on thoughts
and fears
and already failed
careers.
My heart is bursting,
it's bursting,
it's bursting,
so it can rip out my chest
through my once bullet proof vest.
My hands are numb,
so numb,
so numb,
so when they try to reach out,
they feel nothing but doubt.
I'm so cold,
so hot,
so cold,
so hot,
I once knew what I was,
but it seems now I do not.
I'm not me,
I'm not me,
I'm not me,
and I don't know where I am,
if I'm woman or man,
if I can't or I can,
if I should run or I've ran,
but BAM -

What was that?
Aug 2014 · 495
Girls
Molly Hughes Aug 2014
I want to be one of those girls.
The girls with craters for collarbones,
arms so gamine and slender
that they mirror the bend
of a flowers stalk.

I want to be one of those girls.
The girls who can wake up and go
without spending an hour
scrutinising themselves in the mirror,
so naturally beautiful
that they exude summer.

I want to be of those girls.
The girls who like to dress like the magazines,
that are entirely sugar and spice
and everything nice,
always painted
with a rom com ready smile.

I want to be one of those girls.
The girls who always know
exactly what to say,
when to laugh
and when to shut their mouths.

I want to be one of those girls.
The girls described as ****
and cute
and girlfriend material,
instead of
'one of the guys'.

I want to be one of those girls.
Not whatever I am
who laughs too loud
and eats too much
and drinks too much
and doesn't care
what Kim K wore to the gym last week.

I want to be one of those girls.
I want -

I just want to be me.
Aug 2014 · 263
Burn
Molly Hughes Aug 2014
I always thought
I was made of concrete,
but it turns out my walls
are paper thin.
Paper burns
and you set me on fire,
so now I'm nothing
but dust and ash,
damp with salt water
and scattered by sighs.
I hope your clothes
smell of smoke
that makes you remember,
and I hope it makes you choke,
and struggle to breathe,
just like I did,
so that one day you'll realise
that you shouldn't play with matches.
Aug 2014 · 2.4k
Deckchairs on a Pebble Beach
Molly Hughes Aug 2014
Deckchairs
on a pebble beach,
hands almost touching,
fingers brushing.

Deckchairs
on a pebble beach,
excited laughter,
quickening breath.

Deckchairs
on a pebble beach,
sun setting,
night time creeping.

Deckchairs
on a pebble beach,
the child who collected
shells on the shore,
a child no more.

Deckchairs
on a pebble beach,
sandcastle hearts
and tidal wave tears.

Deckchairs
on a pebble beach,
the seaside
will never
be
the same.
Jul 2014 · 282
Smile
Molly Hughes Jul 2014
Plenty of things in life make me smile.
Warm rain, Mexican food, Christmas, new clothes,
old friends, holding hands, sleeping in, the smell of fresh laundry, sitting on the floor, Berlin, walking home at 6am, taking pictures, learning a new word, having my back tickled, coffee and cake, the sound of a record finishing, music, Disney movies, snow, the cinema.
But you,
telling me to smile,
after seven hours on my feet behind a hot bar,
rushing around a shop floor hanging out clothes,
serving food for you to eat,
is not one of them.
And if you're telling me to smile
because "It might never happen",
it already did,
when you decided,
that as a woman,
I must be smiling.
****.
You.
Now I'm smiling.
May 2014 · 261
Fragile
Molly Hughes May 2014
They say
that food and water
are essential to survive
but I've drank all I can
and I've eaten till I'm full
and still
I feel like
a daisy
in winter
May 2014 · 759
I'm (not) Okay
Molly Hughes May 2014
My throat hurts
from screaming silently
in crowded rooms,
and my face aches
from smiling
far too much.
But still
nobody hears
and still
people ask
"Why the long face?",
even though
I made extra sure
to laugh
at all the right moments.
How do I explain
that my heart
feels like it's trapped in a vice,
that my eyes are so very tired
from constantly blinking back oceans?
I can't.
One more smile,
that almost makes my cheeks
crack,
and an
"I'm fine"
will do
instead.
May 2014 · 291
Blinded
Molly Hughes May 2014
I wish the world was
blind,
so that somebody could finally
see me.
May 2014 · 991
Hungry
Molly Hughes May 2014
I’m always hungry,
so I’m always eating,
and I’m always growing,
even though I can always hear the wind whistling
around my chest,
cold lashes that escape when I open my mouth,
freeze the air when I try to speak.
So I tell myself,
“One more slice of cake,
on a lonely Sunday,
surely can’t hurt”,
right?
I wait for a reply,
from the empty room,
but I’m already licking
the crumbs off my fingers.
I want to
gorge
on happiness,
drink down mugs
of sweet nothings
that will make my heart stretch
instead of my stomach.
God knows,
I have enough room
in this swollen rib cage.
Apr 2014 · 354
Bridget Jones
Molly Hughes Apr 2014
I am so
full
of empty.
It pushes against my cracked rib cage,
constricts my lungs so that breathing hurts,
chokes my throat like the swallowing back of tears.
I want to **** the marrow out of life,
live out the cliches sang about in songs,
the ones written about in the dog eared paperbacks on my book shelf.
How can a heart be broken,
if there is nobody to break it?
Apr 2014 · 1.0k
Reflection
Molly Hughes Apr 2014
I wouldn't say
I hate myself,
so why do I hate
what I see in the mirror?
Apr 2014 · 839
Bloom
Molly Hughes Apr 2014
Childhood is full of
the tugging of hair
and licking sherbet so sharp that your
eyes water.
School is making daisy chains in the sunshine,
splashing through puddles in the rain,
socks that fall down
and hair that sticks up,
the clasping of sticky hands
and the shoving of bodies in ant farm corridors.
Friendships are forged in the form of
whispers,
hands cupped round ears
and tentative
"Will you be my best friend?"s.
These friendships
strengthen like super glue
or dissolve like sugar in tea,
fragile as a moth trapped in a jar.
Some friendships are more than
a breath of words in an ear,
some are a shout from
a mountain top.
Some friendships don't need to be deterred
by the length of a daisy chain
or how many sweets you've shared.
Some friendships don't need the deep roots that are
plotted and planted as kids,
because some friendships scatter off trees in the wind
all of a sudden
and bloom in the aftermath of tears,
tears cried over boys and cupped in collar bones.
Some friendships grow and blossom in the
sunshine of smiles,
giggles on lazy Sunday afternoons,
stifled laughter in sticky situations.
Some friendships are
sealed
by the soil of memories
more real than classrooms
and plastic chairs.
Some friendships are more than scrunched up notes
thrown across tables
and promises made with crossed hearts.
The best friendships are the ones formed as
adults
that make you feel
that young again.
A poem I wrote for my best friend for her birthday. We haven't known eachother for very long, but I wanted her to know that that doesn't matter.
Mar 2014 · 367
Void
Molly Hughes Mar 2014
I swear,
to God,
I want to be thin,
but I just
need
to fill
the empty.
Mar 2014 · 312
Picture Book
Molly Hughes Mar 2014
If a picture speaks a thousand words,
then I've just written a novel.
I hope it has a happy ending.
Mar 2014 · 227
Spring
Molly Hughes Mar 2014
I feel
strange
like sunlight is trying to escape
through every crack in my body.
I don't know if this is happiness
but it sure isn't
sad.
Feb 2014 · 541
Plastic
Molly Hughes Feb 2014
What is it like
to touch another person's skin?
Is it soft enough
to crawl under
and use as a blanket?
Or is it cold
and hard
and nothing but a shell?
I can't remember.
Everything feels like plastic.
Feb 2014 · 608
Please
Molly Hughes Feb 2014
There's the sort of fear
that
paralyses
your body,
and
the sort of fear
that eats at you
from the inside out,
until your smile wavers
and the truth starts to show.
There's the sort of worry
that
plays on your mind,
and the sort of worry
that
ruins your mind,
turns it rotten
and blinds your eyes,
so there's no colour left in your isis
and all you see is black.
There's the sort of hope
that seems
like a light at the end of the tunnel
and
the sort of hope
that is essential
and is the last bit of rope
for you to grip on to
before the darkness eats you whole.
There's a type of
pleading
that means
"Give me the last cookie",
and there's the sort of
pleading
that means
I'm begging.
Please,
please,
please.
Feb 2014 · 1.1k
Twin
Molly Hughes Feb 2014
I'm not me.
I struggle through life with my
siamese twin.
It's getting stronger than me.
Heavier.
It's lied alot in the past,
first white lies,
then little fibs,
then real lies
and now we're here
and I don't know who to believe.
I think this time it's telling the truth.
I think this time the boy's not crying wolf.
I think it's just me doing the crying.
Nobody seems to help,
nobody seems to understand
how big,
how tiring,
how cumbersome
my twin has become,
what I have to lug about
every day.
Nobody understands how much it's
distorted reality,
so I don't what's real
and what isn't.
But no.
This time I think it's being honest.
And isn't honestly the best policy?
Although,
they also say
ignorance is bliss.
I wish I had an on/off switch for my twin.
I wish I could turn off the power.
I can feel somebody hovering over mine.
Feb 2014 · 1.0k
RIP
Molly Hughes Feb 2014
RIP
I am dead
and buried
and dust
already.

I am rotten
and rancid
and revolting
as I type.

I am hooked to hospital drips
and unable to move my lips
and slowing from gulps to sips
and falling
quicker
and quicker
and quicker
until








I am dead
though I breathe,
my parents laugh,
not knowing they're bereaved,
and as the dirt fills my nostrils
and the soil clogs my throat
it turns damp
from my tears
and flowers
hopefully
grow.
Jan 2014 · 2.2k
Plastic Surgery
Molly Hughes Jan 2014
My voice box has been cut out
and laid bare and ****** upon a table.
My tongue has been severed
and tucked away in a drawer,
a slab of hidden whispers.
In their shadows,
a new voice box has been installed,
a new tongue fitted in the empty hole.
They feel stronger.
Louder.
Different.
The voice box is loud enough to scream into the ocean
and have twisted,
unknown creatures at the bottom shudder at the sound,
the tongue is strong enough to slap and caress,
to climb a mountain and run a race,
with nothing but words to mark it's trail.
The old ones will sometimes try a feeble wail,
a shake of the drawer,
ghosts that I will welcome with open arms,
but the new ones are a gift.
And I will treasure them.
I got into my first choice of university to study creative writing. Never been happier.
Jan 2014 · 2.0k
October
Molly Hughes Jan 2014
The cold
is so bitter.
It claws
and bites
and nips
but
I can feel it.
There's a crime scene, chalk man drawing on the other side of the bed,
999.
The posters read "Missing - Somebody Who Cares."
I lie next to it and imagine my hair being stroked,
my cheek being touched,
whispers in my ear that tickle like reeds in the wind
and cause crashes like waves colliding with the shore.
The clock ticking wakes me from my thoughts.
I'll spew flowers,
create fires with my hands,
write novels
and spear hearts with my words -
if only somebody would listen.
A daisy can't live forever.
It will shrivel and wither and die when winter closes in.
It feels like autumn.
Molly Hughes Jan 2014
There was once a girl with a fear of mirrors.
A fear so frightening,
it followed her round wherever she went.
Zombie films were fine
and spiders didn't bother her,
she would have happily seen a ghost
and the dark was her best friend.
But the mirror haunted her.
"Look at yourself..."
it would whisper,
"Fat,
ugly,
baby face,
crooked teeth...
"
Even in bed,
when night veiled it's reflection,
it spoke.
The duvet over her head wasn't much of a shield,
the voice taunting her,
ringing in her ears,
until she woke up,
a sticky, writhing mass in the middle of the matress.
"Good Morning."
The day time was no better.
Shop windows acted as put-me-up mirrors,
cutlery in cafes the same.
There was a solution to walking in the day time,
head down,
head down,
head down,
don't make eye contact,
head down
,
but a rogue puddle could stop her in her tracks.
Her watercolour reflection swam menacingly on it's surface,
the voice rising dreamily from it like a mermaid speaking under water.
But she'd take a whole city of puddles
if she could avoid the carnival of horrors that was shopping for clothes.
There,
no matter where she stepped,
mirrors of all shapes and sizes would spring from corners,
the reflections getting redder
and uglier
and sweatier
and more pathetic
each time she span into a new one,
pretty,
thin,
popular girls preened themselves in the corner of her eyes,
friends with the mirrors.
She could hear the voice speaking to them,
but it's words were kind and friendly.
Looking down made no difference as mirrors adorned the floors,
up the same,
the ceiling a funfair nightmare of crazy mirrors,
the whole shop a kaleidoscope of her disgusting,
repulsive,
loathsome face.
She couldn't even cry.
The fear was so great,
that she couldn't risk seeing a reflection in one of the tears.
Even her sorrows mocked her.
The only way was to bottle it up,
to smile,
act like nothing was wrong,
look in her bag when her friends were looking in the mirror,
close her eyes at the hairdressers,
throw a sheet over her own, hateful mirror.
Throw a sheet over herself.
Nobody could hurt her if she didn't let them in.
One day,
the girl smashed the mirror in her room.
She grabbed a shoe and struck it with such force,
that the awful face before her splintered
and crashed to the floor in a thousand pieces.
When she looked down,
hundreds of dark eyes blinked back at her.
It's shell still remained hanging on the wall,
a black rectangle that looked like it could be a portal to another world.
She could still see herself in it.
She shut her eyes and squeezed them hard,
but the mirrors were behind her eyelids,
printed onto her brain,
painted onto her pupils.
The mirror was inside her.
The girl was now a looking glass of self-loathing.
The voice whispered inside her head.
"Just look at yourself.
Look at yourself,
look at yourself,
look at yourself,
LOOK.
"
She realised she would never be able to escape the mirrors.
She realised that she would smash herself into nothing but broken glass if she didn't just
look.
So she did.
As each day went by,
with every new mirror that crept up on her,
she looked inside it,
looked at herself.
The first time sweat beaded and dripped down her neck
and her hands shook.
She thought she would faint,
thought she was going to run,
thought she wouldn't do it,
but she did.
She looked.
She kept looking for a long time,
scrutinsing her every feature until she realised,
it wasn't that bad.
She looked,
until eventually,
as time passed by,
she managed to smile.
Until eventually,
whenever she closed her eyes,
the mirrors on her lids nodded "You'll be okay.".
Until eventually,
the fear wasn't so scary anymore.
Until,
eventually,
she let herself cry.
And she wanted to see herself in the tears.
There was a once a girl who liked mirrors.
Jan 2014 · 687
Girl
Molly Hughes Jan 2014
I thought girls
were meant to be cute.
Able to giggle
and flutter their eyelids
and toss their hair around,
to catch boys in the tangled net.
There's a hole in mine
and my eyes won't seem to flutter.
Moths lay stagnant over them,
not a butterfly in sight.
I try to look seductively out of them,
give a coy smile,
but it doesn't work
and my laugh isn't right.
Not the light hearted bird song that lifts a guy's heart
to a girl's mercy,
but an awkward
sigh
stinking of irony.
I wish I could be like the others.
I wish I could sway my hips
and lick my lips
and feel
beautiful.
I wish I could preen in bathroom mirrors
instead of run straight by,
the ***** floor a better sight
than what the mirror would hold.
I wish I could be in the pictures
instead of taking them,
the friend referred to as pretty
instead of the one made to deliver the message,
the girl that talks instead of stays quiet,
already knowing the outcome.
I wish I could just
be
a
girl.
Whatever that means.
I wish the mirror wasn't the scariest nightmare I've ever had,
scarier than the men I can't please,
scarier than the fact that I can't please myself,
scarier than all of that.
There's a crack in my reflection.
How do I seal it up?
Dec 2013 · 1.7k
Popcorn
Molly Hughes Dec 2013
New Year's Eve,
Auld Lang Syne,
holding hands,
clock chimes twelve,
midnight kiss,
me and my bottle share the moment.
Sadness tugs,
memories flood,
goodbye year,
you were good,
and bad,
a paradox
like sweet and salty.
I lick my lips and taste the sugar,
the last grains sticking on my tongue.
The salt left makes me thirsty
and I have to drink it all away.

But there is more just around the corner.

Life is like popcorn,
with sudden bursts
and noise,
and rush
and excitement
and panic
and commotion
and surprises
until
silence.

Even if we can't choose what flavour we eat,
we get to hold the bucket.
Sit back and enjoy the movie.
Dec 2013 · 1.2k
Hello Little Girl
Molly Hughes Dec 2013
Hello little girl,
hidden inside me,
I'm sorry we can't play.
My Barbie's were thrown out years ago,
there's not a teddy bear in sight.
Now who do I hold close at night?

Hello little girl,
hidden inside me,
I'm sorry I have to push you away.
My face screams nineteen,
my rib cage whimpers
child.
You must be getting lonely.
At least we have that in common.

Hello little girl,
who wants to paint all day,
play hopscotch and swing high as a bird,
no,
high as the moon,
on the swing set.
I'm sorry my feet are firmly on the ground.
These decisions are too hard to make
and you must be frightened.
Shall we paint a rainbow or paint a storm?

Hello little girl,
hidden inside me,
I'm sorry this is goodbye.
The photos and videos
will help me remember,
but I must start to walk
without anybody holding my hand.
You'll be okay.
You'll be alright.

Hello little girl,
hidden inside me.
It's time to grow up.
Dec 2013 · 7.3k
The Puberty of Christmas
Molly Hughes Dec 2013
There is nothing more unsettling
than a teenage Christmas.
The coming of age
when adults find their inner child again
and you have to try and get rid of yours.

11 is fine.
Part of you still believes Santa put the presents under tree.

12 is also okay,
just a little less pixie dust stirs in the stomach on Christmas Eve.

13, 14 and 15 are tricky.
You don't want to look babyish by getting too excited,
so you shrug it off and ask 'Santa' for a mobile phone,
a laptop,
a TV,
until by 15
you ask for the most 'grown up' present of all.
"I just want money."
The words burn your lips and tongue like acid,
a yearning for the sensation of a gift you can unwrap
tugging in your rib cage.
You can't buy that.

16, 17 and 18 are Christmases tinged with nostalgia.
Little ghosts of the younger you run down the stairs on Christmas morning,
feet clad in slippers and Power Rangers pjyamas askew,
whilst you follow in procession,
almost a funeral.

It's not that you don't like Christmas.
It's not that you don't love your family.
It's not that you don't feel a fire light in your belly when you bite into a mince pie,
it's not that the battered Christmas videos your family replay each year don't still make you smile,
it's not even that you've gotten too old for it all.
Have you?

Slippers and tiny fists batter against advent calender doors,
begging you to open them.

When you're 19  you do.
You let them out and let them rush to rip open their presents under the tree.
You let them eat their selection box first before dinner.
You let them cry when the Snowman melts
and you let them laugh and not mock heave when your father chases your mother with mistletoe.
You let the ghosts become holograms you can play in your mind like a projector and slides,
no longer a need to leave holly by their graves
but a chance to remember and smile.

You let them be happy.
Merry Christmas everybody!
Dec 2013 · 2.2k
First World Problems
Molly Hughes Dec 2013
I wish I could love my life and love myself
a little bit more,
fall on my hands and knees at every chance
and praise the life I lead.
I wish I didn't hate myself quite as much
and I wish I didn't recoil at the idea of my life,
the Grimm's fairy tale where Hansel and Gretel got eaten,
Rapunzel never threw down her hair
and Snow White was never kissed by Prince Charming.
The hatred burns hotter when I think of myself,
poor little rich girl,
sat in luxury in front of a warm fire,
belly full,
as thousands of kids in Africa bloat to death with paper thin limbs,
families in the Middle East are massacred and scattered across their countries barren landscapes,
innocent, too soon nearly corpses whither away in hospital beds,
sinking their teeth into whatever life they have left, clinging on.
I'm stable on the mountainside.
My family have never even seen a gun.
I haven't missed a meal in my entire nineteen years.
What the hell do I have to complain about?
My unhappiness disgusts me nearly as much as I disgust myself.

Sitting on a damp bus,
watching beads of rain rush down the dusty windows in diagonals,
like meteors crashing into Earth,
I curse.
I curse the vehicle,
I curse the safe home it's taking me back to,
the three course meal it's taking me from.
It's ******* sick.

I wish I could smile and mean it.
I wish I could love and not hate.
I wish I could love myself.
I'm so sorry for not being able to fully appreciate my life,
for taking it for granted,
for sounding like a spoiled brat.
You probably hate me as much as I hate myself.

I.
I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I
*******
I.
That's a vowel I'm going to try and use less of
(at least after this poem),
I promise.
Oh the irony.

I am not looking for sympathy.
I am not looking to be compared to a dying child on the street.
I am not asking for a single kind word.
I just ask for a bit of forgiveness.
I don't blame you if you can't seem to find any.
Just know I'm sorry
and I'm going to try.

Now.
A
E
-
O

**U
Dec 2013 · 876
Flatline Kisses
Molly Hughes Dec 2013
I find it quite amazing,
that you don't realise how my lips tingle and my heart swells
when you make me,
yes,
make me,
kiss you.
Just a friendly little peck, eh?
You could be kissing your Aunt Mildred,
your lips remain so dead
and your stomach so still.
I'll give you one of my butterflies,
if you want one.
The brushes against my back,
my cheek,
the brush strokes that paint sparks along my skin,
leave your hands lifeless.
They resuscitate me.

When you say you 'love me',
I don't think you understand
how many times I've imagined you whispering those words,
in a thousand different places,
in a thousand different situations,
in a thousand different ways.
They float through the air,
stopping time and creating pixie dust,
before falling into my ears,
forcing tremors throughout my once stable foundations.
In reality,
you could be asking somebody to pass the salt,
your voice is so flat.
So why can I not stop fizzing?

If you grow old and look around
and find yourself alone,
don't worry.
Don't cry about how nobody ever wanted you,
about how nobody ever needed you
or loved you till it hurt,
hurt so bad they almost hated you.
Because they did.
I do.

I do.
*****.
Dec 2013 · 671
Unrequited What?
Molly Hughes Dec 2013
The only thing worse than being with you,
is not being with you.

The only thing worse than talking to you,
is not talking to you.

Every time I try and go cold turkey,
I find my hand automatically
reaching out.
I grasp and open my fist,
but nothing is there.

You thawed me out,
a task previously thought impossible.
Problem is,
I can't stop melting.

How dare you give me these feelings,
turn me into this,
when you get to walk around solid
and free.

I'm a wreck.
Unrequited love is too pretty a term for whatever this is,
the ugly, confusing mess that has
spawned
and
grown
between us.
The one you engendered.

I hope you're happy now.
I hope you can sleep soundly at night,
whilst I toss and turn between images of you.
I hope you can look me in the eye when we speak,
whilst I try hard to find the floor,
the table,
the clock on the wall,
as interesting as possible.
I hope,
most of all,
that one day you'll open your eyes
and finally see me.
I'll be waiting.

Sad thing is, I think you know it.
Dec 2013 · 1.2k
War Wounds
Molly Hughes Dec 2013
In my mind,
the fight was a result of your undying love for me,
an act of protection,
for your fair maiden.
I was the perfect damsel in distress,
simpering,
dragging you away from the bad guy.

How I ever managed to daydream,
over the screams
and the struggling,
is beyond me.
Wishful thinking
I guess.

As you gracefully caved in the guys skull
with your elegant knee,
painting a watercolour of red on the concrete,
I stood back and watched.
Each drop of blood,
that splattered the night scarlet,
mirrored a drop of the salty tears
running down my cheek.

I wanted him to get back up
and smash your beautiful face into a perfect Picasso.
He didn't do anything but lie in his own river.
I wanted to be washed away with it.
Instead, I had to watch you triumphantly step back from your ****,
the picture of alpha male,
a predator,
and look for your mate.
Why won't you capture me?

Because you want her.
My best friend.
The one who I should be comforting,
for having two guys so in love with her that they'd **** each other.
I'm scared if I place a hand on her shoulder,
I might crumble.
I'm chalk,
she's marble.
I could leave my soft white mark on you,
if you just gave me the chance.
Marble's cold.
But maybe you like the chill,
the chance to pull her closer.

I can't look anymore.
I step over the battlefield and make my way down the street.
I see her get in a taxi
with the guy you just half bludgeoned to death to win her heart.
I see you stood amongst the wreckage,
confusion on your war wounded face,
not knowing what went wrong.

You cared.
Just like I gave in and cared about you.
What idiots we are.

Somebody punch me in the face.
Dec 2013 · 2.4k
Health Anxiety
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.
Dec 2013 · 8.0k
Electricity
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.
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