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Margo Polo Dec 2016
I only write love poems when I'm not in love
when I can only just recall the weight of another's hand in mine
the ghost of a thumb tracing circles in my palm
moving up and down the side of each finger
the gentle squeeze, gone as soon as imagined.

I only write love poems when I'm not in love
when I can only just recall the feel of another's back against mine
pressing and shifting as we sleep
a roll, a stretch, and then
an arm lazily, gently wrapped around me
the firmness of bone pressing into my side.

I only write love poems when I'm not in love
when exact words of forgotten conversations are falsely filled in
and I fail to place what I had said and what I wish I had said
in the right spaces in time
I never say I love you quite right to the people who deserve it
because I lied so often to those who did not.

I only write love poems when I'm not in love
so this is not a love poem
because when I'm with you, there is no room
for the flowery imagery and spark of idealized romance
or the burning ember growing into a flame that fills me
with longing for another body.
There's only you and I and whatever sky
we comment on while I take in everything you are
and everything we could be
and I miss you before you are gone.
Margo Polo Dec 2014
i like to poison myself
when i think of you
Margo Polo Dec 2014
I forgot your name last night
closed my eyes
Margo Polo Sep 2014
If platonic marriages were a thing,
we'd have 5 dogs .
True love is easier to find outside romance.
Margo Polo May 2014
A kid I saw today looked like you.
Poor *******.
Hopefully he grows out of it.
Margo Polo May 2014
When I  die
        (if my parents don't know)
        remember to weigh me judiciously with authorial intent.

Don't let my father go to the front
and tell everyone what a good daddy's girl I was
        how I loved fishing with him
        and wore my camo pants like a champ.
                                I was 2.
                                I didn't know better.

Don't let my mother's lip tremble
or let her say how much my writing made her cry
        how I spent my evenings worshiping textbooks
        and typing til 2 am for large red A's on my papers.
                                I was worshiping the body and mind of a guy
                                who never wanted me back.

Don't let my father see my body
        the tattoo next to my left hip bone
        the one I got my freshman year
                                because why the **** not.

Don't let my mother see my face
        the rings in my lip and nose and ears
        because they told me only ***** had those
                                and I wanted to see if they were right.

Don't let my father tell stories afterwards
        all my achievements and awards
        every 100% I ever gave.
                                He never told them to me.
                                He only has pride in the dead.

Don't let my mother tell stories afterwards
        because she'll get them right
        but tell them wrong.
                                She'll either laugh or cry halfway through
                                and I don't know which is worse.

Don't let my father sing the hymns
        or even say how much he loved hearing my voice.
                                I could never hear myself over him.

Don't let my mother lament that I never sang for her
        she knew why
                                she married him.

Don't let them tell you how I was a good Catholic girl
        who always went to mass
        and prayed the rosary on roadtrips
        and never ate meat on Fridays during Lent (not even on accident).
                                I stopped going to mass after freshman year
                                and never prayed while driving
                                and made it a point to eat as much meat
                                                            ­            as I possibly ******* could.

Don't let them tell you how I was a good sister
        how excited I was when she was born
        so helpful and caring.
                                She never fell off the bed when she was little.
                                I kicked her.

But especially don't let them trick you into thinking I was perfect.
        I do not want to be canonized by my parents
                who knew so little
                        and saw even less
                                because I hid myself away
                                        so they wouldn't be

I­n fact,
don't let them come at all.
They'll be mourning the wrong girl.
intentional fallacy (n): in literary criticism, a fallacy involving assessment of a literary work based on the author's intended meaning rather than the actual response to the work
Margo Polo May 2014
I wrinkled my nose
and said
It smells in here

You remarked
Maybe it wouldn't
stink so bad
if you'd clean the litterbox

Yes because
the litterbox
smells like
stale beer
and chewing

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