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Kiara McNeil Apr 2012
Anyone can share their body.
But to bear ones soul to the eyes
of another is the epitome of being naked.
To expose your barriers,
to open up to that person,
knowing that at any moment they could change their mind.
Looking past make up,
skin tones,
weight and self esteem, there lies an entity all in its own.
Strong, but yet a piece is missing.
A piece where you find you fit perfectly.
If only they would allow you to cradle and nature their soul
with the care of a mother to an infant.
But then you spot it,
a hint of distrust.
There is no such thing as free lunch, or so they say.
You cut down your barriers,
Pushing past the walls you’ve built up,
And past the trust issues.
You lie there, open, vulnerable,
Just as they and you understand their distrust.
Distrust not for them but for the carelessness of man.
To carry a soul is not like carrying a purse, or a knapsack.  
You swallow it.
It becomes a part of you, and you apart of it.
You find yourself becoming one with something bigger than yourself.
And it’s terribly frightening, isn’t it?
You can feel it can’t you?
Two hearts, and yet one heart beat.
Four lungs, and yet one breath.
You can feel the blood gushing to your ears as you carry
Around this burden if you think of it that way.
But it’s a beautiful burden, one you nurture, you allow to grow,
and yet it scares you as it grows.
As you can’t find yourself as yourself.
It becomes “we” and no longer “me”
It becomes “Us” and no  longer “I”
The change in the air is palpable.
It’s frightening,
For both of you.
You can count the heart beats of a lone cricket until you meet again,
Until you kiss again.
But the kiss is different, not entirely in its taste but in it’s dress.
It’s like being kissed by a star.
You’re not sure where you begin and it ends.
You don’t want to, do you?
Now there’s a permanent lazy smile plastered across your face.
As if you’ve got a secret riddle that no one can solve.

But you don’t.
You’ve found it.
What scientists search for.
The meaning to life resting in your heart
and dancing just on the outskirts of your sanity.
It’s funny.
Soul mates always sounded like something Hollywood
Would use to get you to purchase a ticket.
Now your soulmate has brought you to purchase
An Investment.
An Investment in them and life.  

*When I typed in the title, the read squiggly line came up at the bottom, I realized soulmates isn't a word it's a concept. Possibly might change the title later.
Kiara McNeil Apr 2012
Flushed red
from the anger of the situation.
The blade pressed into your neck,
shaking with anticipation.
Should I cut your lips,
or just go straight for castration.
Don’t beg,
sadly there can be no negotiation.
I can’t feel it, but I can see it.
The knife in my back,
Words form perfectly in my mind,
but my mouth hangs slack.
I can’t cry, yes I have tried.
I should probably cut this short,
all because you lied.
Kiara McNeil Apr 2012
One day your little boy is going to grow up
and your little girl won’t just be playing in mommy’s make up.
The childish glow will fade.
Maturity will sink in with age.
And on that day as we’ve all been told,
gracefully we will have all grown old.
Kiara McNeil Apr 2012
We base our truth in fear.
We fear what we can’t see.
The absence of proof doesn’t prove much,
because you can’t see me.
Does that mean I don’t exist?
Do my words cease and desist?
Just because you see footsteps in the sand,
does that mean there walks a dead man?
Faith is our greatest treasure and regret.
Base your truth on what believe because you ain’t see nothing ye
Kiara McNeil Apr 2012
I don’t touch
because soon touching won’t be enough.
I won’t ****,
because ******* isn’t love.
I won’t love,
because it’s not true.
It’s not true,
because he could never be you.
Kiara McNeil Apr 2012
It happened by complete accident.
I would get a few dozen roses from the deserted patch where they grow,
Completely natural, beauty and thorns in all.
Catch the first bus to the cemetery.
Whistle as I walked up the first hill and hum
as I dipped down the second one.
I would lay one rose on each grave.
Sitting staring at the stone, wondering, hoping,
that they died peacefully, or for a cause.
As I had my last two roses in tow,
my fingers cold, I pricked my finger as I stopped at the last two headstones.
There side by side lay my grandparents.
The only two people there that I actually knew,
and yet didn’t know at all.
I can still remember my grandmothers scratchy voice, the smell of holy oil, the way she looked in her last years tucked underneath the quilt as most of her had already died.
Then my grandfather, I don’t remember his voice at all.
I remember his trains, sneaking and playing with them knowing one day he just might let me push the button to make the whole scene come to life.
But that day never did come.
It never would.
After years of placing flowers and saying a silent prayer
for those I didn’t know,
I felt completely awkward and out of place, almost as if
I was disturbing their moment.
I felt even worse as I watched the blood droplets drip onto their graves.
Even in death I felt like their burden.
I wasn’t suppose to be alive, I wasn’t suppose to make it,
and yet they lay underneath six feet of cold unloving dirt,
and I stand here crushing the stems of the roses in nervousness, fear, and confusion.
Youth never guarantees life.
Age never guarantees wisdom.
In their eyes, I remember the awkward stares.
In their arms, I felt the half hugs.
In their hearts, my father the biggest mistake that their daughter could have ever trusted.
And I, unwanted and unneeded, am a  constant reminder of his psychological and verbal abuse and infidelity.
By now the roses have met the dirt.
I feel no sting from the blood pouring from my hand.
Only a cold emptiness I could never fill.
An emptiness I never noticed until now.
Then suddenly, I feel it.
Two hands on both of my shoulders.
Massaging it gently, bringing warmth into my body.
As I turn around to thank the stranger there is no one.
I smile, look up, and nod.
I pick the red roses and place each one on each grave.
I nod to both before turning away and taking the same path to the exit.
Catching the bus.
Palming the fake doctors note.
And returning to school.
Somehow, somewhere things may never be great,
But they will be alright.
Kiara McNeil Jan 2012
It's like pushing a rock uphill.
The load is heavy.
I even stop to cry sometimes.
But by the setting sun, much like the rock, I'm over you.
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