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Margo Polo Dec 2014
i like to poison myself
when i think of you
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
The fire inside me has gone out.

Burn, ******.
Margo Polo May 2014
I unpacked all my bags then decided
staying is harder.
Margo Polo May 2014
I would love to own dogs with you one day.
Margo Polo Dec 2014
I forgot your name last night
closed my eyes
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 type i'm afraid that allmywordsruntogetherandthatyou
will never
what i'm trying to tell you
that you'll never understand the words
flying off the merry-go-round in my head
i feel as if i'm flying off the handlebars of my bike
and i'm in that moment of ecstacy where
i suddenly realize i will hit the ground
but until then i have this moment of freedom in the air
my biggest fear has always been that i will be misunderstood
that is why i take semester after semester
course after course
lecture after lecture
writing page after page of tiny spiny words
to make sure i learn every single way i can express myself
in case i forget one
because i do
and it terrifies me
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
Last night I
had a dream that
you died.
Everyone we knew
came, said their I’m-so-sorry’s,
left, filtering out the front door
like sand through a sideways sifter,
leaving behind pieces,
words and memories
and casseroles I
could not taste.

And the whole time
everyone was here,
you were here, too.
I could hear
you, smell
you, feel
I could feel you
surrounding me like the ghost of the baby blanket
I once had and could never leave at home.
I loved you here and here you would stay, with me,
and now you would never leave.
I could keep you.
You were bound to me.

But the ties that bind are tight and you did not like me leaving.
You could not go with me and
and without words
by holding, enveloping,
you told me
that you did not want me to ever leave again.
So I stopped.
I stopped leaving.
And the calls stopped, too.
The invites. The lunches. The impromptu trips to town.
All unnecessary noise.
The people left. And then it was just you and me.

Until one day I saw what you had done.
I glanced in the mirror and saw.
You had etched yourself into my face.
Dug with your nails
terrifying ravines
escaping the corners
of my eyes. Pulled down
my mouth and every
shallow natural valley turned to
deep empty bowl, hungry and wanting.
My eyes no longer held light.
I saw this, all evidence against you,
and I still loved you.
You had hurt me in ways you never had
while you were here – here – and I knew.
And I still loved you.

Slinking up the stairs
I called you to me. I felt you surround
faster than before and
closer, tighter, colder.
Suffocating, stifling and
so destructive in how you loved me.

Slowly but faster
I grew to know
I would not become you and
you would not become me.
We were stuck on other sides of the mirror.
I was so angry
at what you had allowed me
made me
begged me to become.
I gasped and put
hand to heart
it hurt so.
I stood upright
how long have I been bent
took in one long deep breath of stuffy air
how long since I opened the windows
and called you to me
when have I last heard a voice not my own
called you to listen.

I felt the loss of everything else
Nothing was left of that here
and I was so angry
and I am so sorry
and I yelled
      I screamed
      I roared
why are you still here
why are you making me like you
why did you come here and
hold me
and keep me here with you
I am not the one who is dead
and I said
and I regret
and I am so sorry
I can’t have you here
go away
leave me alone

and you did.
You left me
all alone.

Why would you leave me?
Margo Polo May 2014
This wound, I think, that will not mend.
It sits and looks at me and weeps.
She told me she would never bend.

These thoughts that I could not keep penned
Are quiet now; and still she sleeps.
This wound, I think, will not mend.

A letter, a note, I thought to send
To her, to her who comes and reaps.
She told me she would never bend.

No one knows; I have no friend;
I cannot fathom just how deep
This wound that will, I think, not mend.

They told but they could not portend
How widely, vastly, far she creeps.
She told me she would never bend.

They never saw her in the end;
They never saw how vast her sweep
Or this wound that I knew would never mend.
She told me she would never bend.
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 May 2014
It is a dictionary in ice.
        Pages frozen in place,
        the words blurry and unreadable.
        All cold and slippery.
I cannot grasp the concrete.

It is a blurry photo.
Unfocused, unmotivated,
Discarded as soon as it is found.

It is the waking up
                        with a dull pounding.
A nap that did not refresh
An exhaustion that never ends

I cannot wake up
  cannot end this dull ache
  cannot focus
  cannot grasp
  cannot thaw
  cannot do not know

Please wake me up
        and clear my head.
Adjust the focus; twist it
and snap a clear picture.
Give me something concrete.
        Press it to me
        and close my fingers around it.
Then wrap around me
        and help me hold on
        so this does not slip away, too.
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

Margo Polo May 2014
I love all parts of you just as I love you as a whole.

Your eyes are not your eyes.
        They are nets for light,
                and catch they do.

Your nose is not a nose.
        It is line and curve
                in your silhouette;
        Immediately recognizable
                and just as soon loved.

Your skin is not skin.
        It is flat and rolling prairie.
        It is not porcelain, but pocked,
                scarred and lovely.
        Sand on the beach that begs to be touched.

Your hair is not hair.
        It is thick forest
                Dark and deep.
        When I run my fingers through,
                I cannot help the rush of comfort.

Your legs are not legs,
        They are crooked columns
                of tendon and muscle,
                    cartilage and bone.
        They carry you to me.

Your arms are not arms.
        They are air.
        Strong as wind when wrapped around,
                and soft as a breeze when alighting on skin.

Your torso is not a torso.
        It is a trunk.
        Solid and beautiful.
        You are my tree and I lean against you.

Your mouth is not a mouth.
        It is a cave,
        Dark but warm
                and full of secrets.

Your hands are not hands.
        They are mirror twins,
                Machines that create and destroy.

And the ring on your finger is not a ring.
        It is the invisible oath;
        the promise that hangs in the air
                   and binds you to me.
Margo Polo May 2014
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art hot as **** and make me so tired.
Rough *** doth shake the bed frame as I lay
And watch you - you with passion I inspired.

Sometimes too hot for mine eyes to behold,
I must look away lest I be blinded.
The ring upon your finger shines as gold;
The gleam, my dear, I never have minded.

But thy eternal hotness soon shall fade,
And wilt thou see how mine has faded, too?
Death shall take out our hot ***** with *****
And shovel, dragging me to hell with you.

But I guess there are other parts of you I like;
Together, through the afterlife, we'll hike.
based roughly on Shakespeare's Sonnet XVIII
Margo Polo May 2014
I think that that old clock struck ten.
I wait and watch the gulls along the shore.
I said I would not wait for you again.

So here I am and you are not. Again.
I will wait just a few minutes more.
I think that that old clock struck ten.

I thought I understood the ways of men
How they seem so steady at the core.
I said I would not wait for you again.

The time will come and I will go and then,
Then, you shall be the one wanting more.
I think that that old clock struck ten.

The time will come when I will have to pen.
My thoughts and fears upon the page will pour.
I said I would not wait for you again.

But for now I wait, a silent, staring wren
Sitting, standing, waiting by the shore.
I think that that old clock struck ten.
I said I would not wait for you again.
Margo Polo May 2014
Feet tapping down linoleum
        Hallway with doors on each side.
I glance quickly, fearfully to the left,
        Quick shiver down the spine.

Their gazes frozen but accusatory
        Lidded eyes and proud mouths
High or flat cheekbones
        Hazy hair and darkness surrounds.

The whites and peaches are unhealthy
        Shades of curdled cream.
Skin of the dead still moving
        Behind the painted screen.

See the hands of some.
        Keep walking, pray they don’t move
Lest they think you too proud
        The strength of will they’ll prove.

Longing for eternity,
        They thought they’d found the way
To lasting immortality
        But death could not be swayed.

Prisoners of their long-lost past,
        Forced witnesses to arrogance,
Trading fates with any soul
        If given half the chance.

Softest rustling of fashions before
        As they reach beyond their frames
To grab and grasp, rip, tear, shred –
        I wake and scream in pain.
Margo Polo May 2014
From thence we came and held our proud heads high;
Such fierce and frightful warriors were we.
Until the day of reckoning is nigh
We shall not sleep, though tired we may be.

We are the soldiers; thin and quick we slide
Between the trees. Their stark white trunks are cold,
But we feel welcomed and amidst them hide.
Our ragged, clouded breaths we barely hold.

Like wind, we each pass silently, unseen,
The canopy above distorts the light.
It shades us as against the trees we lean.
The wounded droop; no longer will they fight.

And then she calls, so freeing us from play
Until we go to fight another day.

— The End —