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Megan L Oct 2015
Me
I was made

from stolen things

old Polaroids

used postcards

they collect dust

in the lightless attic

about all but still

below.
Originally written on my bathroom mirror.
Megan L Oct 2015
I am running

running out of time.

running out of time,

living on a dime.

running out of time,

living on a dime,

pretending to be fine.

running out of time,

living on a dime,

pretending to be fine,

trying to remember how to rhyme.
10/16/2015
Megan L Oct 2015
"You know, I worry about you."

"Oh, you shouldn't. I'll be fine."

This lie slips from my mouth

Like clocks tell time.
A poem from the point of view of important people in my life
Megan L Oct 2015
I still have your flannel

and you

you still have my heart.
Megan L Oct 2015
You are gone

and I can finally allow

the tears to fall.
Written two minutes ago (9:41p.m.) about a Skype call I couldn't wait to end.
Megan L Oct 2015
Heart pounding

hands shaking

at that terrible

two worded

phrase:

"leave me."

A silent plea

made in the middle of the night

out of nowhere:

"please, let me go."

It makes you want to hold tighter

to swallow them up in your chest where you can keep them

and nurture them

and ensure their safety:

"we're hurting each other. It'll be for the best."

Maybe you are hurting each other,

but the flame burns too beautifully to put out

and though your mind numbs with it so do the bad feelings:

"you're consuming me. I can't be like you."

No, but they can be something better.

Though they're laying still, you can feel their aching struggle:

"you scare me. Your eyes are dark. Your mind is dark. I think I may hate you."

Oh, how you want to crack their skull against the granite and watch their blood spread across it.

Even still, you only wind your arms more tightly around them:

"I may love you, too, but I can't be sure like this."

How? How can they be unsure when you look at them like they hold the keys, and they look at you like the Frankenstein monster turned beautiful?

They shift, just a little.

Your fingers curl in their shirt:

"leave me."

You want to cradle them in your arms and you want to scratch marks into their cheek and you want

their eyes to bleed and you want their eyes to see and you

want them to feel the pain they've caused you and you want to keep them from the wrong air and

you

want to protect them and expose them and yo

u want to be responsible for both their life and death and you d

on't

want them

to go.

You would rather hold them hostage than let them unlock their cage.

You can't let them win.

The pillow stifles their breathing.
Megan L Oct 2015
We're a sad starving bunch

of stupid teenagers

sipping from the sky

an occasional rain drop.

We're a sad starving bunch

of secret-keeping teenagers

shrieking to the sky

the phantom growing pains and all too real slowness of our sappy lives.

We're a sad starving bunch

of sanguinary teenagers

shooting our brains toward the sky

attempting to sacrifice ourselves for something more serene.
Written for my close ones.
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