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 Jun 2013 madeline may
undefined
so shines street lamps tonight
to illuminate figures passing by

words spill out, ricocheting in the deep,
from mouths that chatter with no sleep

lonely strangers walk dizzy to sight so poor
rain swept distant a shore

cigarette smoke like clouds to surf
it's lonely strangers that speckle the earth
when we were just kids living in Nebraska
running through cornstalks holding hands
where the sun died crazy deaths over the mountains
you were my neighbor
and the bank took our land

i would've never imagined
you living in a whiskey barrel
offering ******* and squawking squirts
giving them away for free
to hideous former cowboys
substituting laughter for anger

intead,
a moment like this:
finding you alone on the banks
of a dull river
shivering,
swinging from a branch
 Jun 2013 madeline may
ASB
I don't care what people think
of what I say,

just as long as they can
hear me.
 Jun 2013 madeline may
mc
I've come to hate who I am
because it's not who I wish to be
or who I could be
if I tried

there's so much I want to do
and could do
but I can't
and I won't
because I'm me

I set up all these boundaries for myself
based on nothing other than my discomfort
and my distaste
for change

I know I could be so much more
but being this person
who doesn't ever try
is easy
 Jun 2013 madeline may
chels
you are
frustration because i
always want the last word but
i don't
i want to leave you hanging there
i want you
around my finger
wrapped
around my thumb
hanging
waiting
why aren't you here
wait
i am drowning in these ****** feelings
why can't you just
talk
Anxiety.
Conserve.
Conservatory.
Shakespeare.
Man.
Monk.
****.
I ******.
I'm better.
Expulsion.
Breathe.
Friend.
Not friend.
Friend.
Best friend.
Awkward.
I still have that.
Dress.
Tights.
Queen.
Mill.
Birthday.
Song.
500.
Guitar.
Te­ars.
Nostalgia.
Nostalgic.
Dead.
You're dead.
You're dying.
I'm dying.
I'm dead.
I'm not dead.
24.
You're blonde.
I'm not blonde.
I'm old.
I'm still old.
I'm a child.
I'm going to cry.
Stop.
I don't cry.
No more crying.
I'm allowed to cry here.
That's why I cry here.
I'm allowed.
I can do what I want.
I know what I want.
I have no idea what I want.
But I think that's what I want.
I'm not doing what I want.
But this is enough.
It's not enough.
I'll make it enough.
Where am I?
24.
Twenty.
Four.

Stop thinking.
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
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