Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Feb 2020 · 240
six questions
Megan Feb 2020
i. how can i create a legacy when my legs can't hold the pressure i'm given?

ii. how can i keep my eyes on the future when the sea salt tears blurring my peripheral are seeping into the centre of my vision?

iii. how can i keep my heart good and pure when nothing but **** drains into my chest through the bullet holes left in my torso?

iv. how can i love myself when i'm fed propaganda about ethereal goddess-like women that i could never match?

v. how can i create beauty when my hands are plagued with the burden of fixing what those before me broke?

vi. how can i rid my mind of these voices when they're the only company i have?
Mar 2019 · 317
Writer's block
Megan Mar 2019
I want to write, I want to create.
Weave words into sentences into paragraphs.
I want to inspire and destroy,
conspire and deploy
armies of men and women whose blood is the ink from my pen.
***** these white pages with forbidden words -
the plagues in my brain,
the disaster that is my heart -
imperfectly scribbled in the voice of my fingers.
I want to write, I want to create,
but I just can't find the words...
Oct 2018 · 1.3k
Snake eyes tell me lies
Megan Oct 2018
Snake eyes coloured caramel brown,
a bittersweet combination of liquid gold and sin.
A smile that made me melt,
disguising sinister intentions.
Snakes slither in long grass but this grass only reached my shins
and you still managed to deceive me.
Master manipulator?
Painted a smile on my face with cruel intent.
Leading me to believe pretty little lies
while you slept in my bed every night,
one arm around my frail body, the other with your fingers crossed behind your back.
You never planned to stay -
fooled me.
Now the snake eyes exposed
when I catch you in bed,
legs intwined with hers, bare.
You told me sweet words that morning,
then nine hours later you moved on to her.
This is not fair.
You do not get to create my feelings
and destroy them yourself.
Eyes now pitch black,
no specks of gold or hazel or caramel,
just depths of malevolence -
no remorse for shredding my heart.
Feeding me your "I'm sorry" after "I'm sorry"
but you still play the games.
Do not waste your breath
on words you don't mean.
It's okay, I can play too.
Devil eyes coloured ocean blue;
my combination worse than yours.
Fear me, fear me
for I look innocent and gentle
but a tornado lives inside me that can destroy souls and bring men to their knees.
You fuel my fire.
Now with each breath, smoke escapes my lips from the furnace ignited in my stomach.
Do not run from the dragon you created.
Do not mess with girls like me.
Girls with fire in their guts
and ice in their hearts.
Cunning, sly and out for vengeance.
Feel my fire, succumb to my smoke.
******* revenge.
Oct 2018 · 406
Angel girl
Megan Oct 2018
Angel littered with scars, her halo askew above her head. Worn wings turned black and blue, *****. No longer white and pure; she's seen too much to remain white and pure.
Poor angel girl.
Poor angel girl with trauma igniting her senses. Rain soaked hair, mascara paints her eyes black, smudged crimson lipstick resembling the blood she plans to spill.
Angry angel girl.
Angry angel girl with boiling blood and fingertips of venom. Touching lives and turning them to ash. Falling asleep to the screams of those who hurt her.
Angel turned devil.
Angel turned devil with sunken in eyes, pain hidden behind the blue. White knuckles gripping onto reality, she doesn't want to be alive anymore. Losing control, losing control, losing control.
Devil girl.
Devil girl with no soul, spitting on the lives of those who wronged her. Pulling strings like a puppet master, karma at work. No-one hurts an angel girl and gets away with it.
Oct 2018 · 162
Megan Oct 2018
I had to fight through your fire,
but I did not succumb to your smoke.
Oct 2018 · 7.4k
Case file no. 16420
Megan Oct 2018
Early Sunday morning.
Brisk wind, no jacket.
Waiting for a taxi,
shivers in my bones.
Shameful looks from my mother -
she thinks I stopped out last night.

Monday afternoon.
The whole school knows.
Taunts, laughter, names
as I walk through the corridors -
isn't school supposed to be safe?
I see the boys
- I hate them, I hate them, I hate them -
feel ***** rise through my throat
and the blood in my brain thicken.
Hear words that cut like knives:
"****", "*****",
"I can't believe she had a foursome".
I cannot walk into the canteen,
it's full of piercing lion eyes
searching for their prey;
I am called into the head of years office,
heavy footsteps echoing with sorrow
as I enter.
Concerned eyes break through my skin
creating bullet holes in my fragility.
The words I couldn't face
finally enter the wind.
"Was it consensual?"
No, no, no, no.
Cheeks wet with cascading tears.
The truth finally said,
spoken aloud like an oracle.
I wait for fifty minutes.
Fluorescent police uniforms march the halls.
And my mother.
She's crying, she knows,
she hugs me.
Tells me she's sorry.
In the small back office
surrounded by teachers and police and my mum,
words are exchanged.
I see moving lips but cannot hear the words.
My senses are drowned by the event leading up to this.
They gave me a name
in the bedroom that night.
"It", like an object.
Unhuman, unfeeling.

The same Monday evening.
Next thing I know I'm at home.
Brought back to consciousness
with an assertive knock at the front door.
More uniforms, more police.
Mum explains that they have to take my statement.
I panic, cry -
I've done a lot of that today.
I hide some things from them;
I'm too ashamed.
They have cameras on their vests,
tiny eyes watching me,
recording the moment I recall my trauma.
My body hurts,
but my brain and my heart are in agony.
They ask me to take my clothes off.
How can they ask me that?
Explanations are given to my mother,
her face conveys the emotions that I'm too numb to feel.
It's protocol,
they need evidence of any injuries, they say.
Choked sobs escape my mother's mouth
as I take my clothes off.
Shades of black and blue litter my body.
*******, thighs, stomach, *** -
my skin edited by violent hands.
My most intimate areas a part of a police file forever.
They take my ****** jeans, underwear, top all into evidence.
They leave.

Tuesday morning.
I am told not to go into school
by the head of year.
The boys are still allowed.
Motionless body lying in bed,
I stare at the wall for hours.
All of my energy put towards breathing.
Mum skipped work,
sitting outside my bedroom door
like a prison guard -
terrified I would hurt myself.
I can't speak.
How do you tell the woman who raised you
that you don't want to be alive anymore?

About a week later.
I still haven't been to school.
I've barely moved from my bed.
The physical marks have almost vanished,
but the sadness cripples me still.
I have to go to a police station today,
a forty minute trip.
My best friend comes.
I'm numb, I cannot feel the car moving.
I have been numb for over a week.
Isolation caves in on me -
I'm in an interview room with a policewoman and man.
They say three's a crowd,
but I still feel completely alone.
Just over six hours.
Recounting the event took over six hours.
The walls of the interview room painted grey,
or maybe that's just the only colour I can see now.
I didn't cry.
I haven't cried since the Monday that everything became real.
Fragments of the night flash through my mind,
it's becoming difficult to close my eyes.
I went into the interview room while it was light outside,
I leave and it's pitch black.
When I check the time on my phone before I hand it in as evidence,
it's almost 11pm.

Another week passes.
I'm still not allowed into school.
Most of my friends have given up on me.
They don't want to be associated with the girl who cried **** because she was embarrassed of her foursome.
But no-one knows what happened behind that door.
The horrors that occurred,
the venom in the insults they spat at me,
using my body as a human rag doll.
The police call, the detective assigned to my case.
My heart drops
as my mum tells me what he says.
"They're treating two of the boys as witnesses,
only one as a suspect."
I go to my bedroom as I feel my heart strings sever.
Try to sleep,
but I cannot close my eyes.
I see the room,
the darkness,
their eyes.
I smell sweat and shame.
I hear them calling me "it" -
a worthless victim.
I feel the poison on their fingertips.
Dead the second they touched me.

Months pass.
Less contact with the police.
I go back to school.
Adjust to life as 'that girl'.
Learn to sleep again.
Deal with the nightmares and flashbacks.
Stop panicking every time someone touches me.
Open up about the pain I feel every day.

It's February.
Ten months later.
I haven't heard from the police since December.
When I ring
they tell me my case has been dropped.
They say there's a lack of evidence.
What they really mean is that no-one in court will believe
my story against the three of there's.
I expected this.
The blood on my underwear
does not count.
The pictures of my body painted with bruises
do not count.
The six hour recording where I describe every soul breaking ******
does not count.
The countless therapy sessions trying to fix the flashbacks and panic attacks
do not count.
The nights I planned how to die
do not count.
I used to be a person.
Now I'm just another **** case,
at the bottom of the pile.
Megan Feb 2018
Together they were the perfect team.

She was tired of perfection long before she met him. Constantly having to put up a successful front was exhausting, but her barrier of bravado was faltering.

It's hard to find imperfections in an idyllic world.

He didn't want to live in the life of his reputation anymore. The tornado that his life had become was beginning to ruin him and he wanted nothing more to find some quiet.

It's hard to find solace in the storm.

No longer did she want to create masterpieces; she wanted to wreak havoc. She had a taste of the life she wanted, but once you take the first few steps on the path of self-destruction, you cannot turn back. The whisper in the wind becomes seductive. Like a drug, she needed it. She made a U-turn, a complete diversion from the road that had been paved for her. She felt a rush from the change of direction, and fell in love with it. He was her change of direction.

It's hard to find fault in someone that provides the mess you've been searching for.

He wanted nothing more than some peace in his whirlwind of a life; maybe that's why he gravitated towards her. She gave him the comfort that he had desired for years. She made him feel as if the rollercoaster, designed as a downwards spiral, that he has been riding since birth was starting to calm down. She became the sense of calm in his brutal life.

It's impossible to reject something you have been seeking for years.

Together they were unstoppable. She lost herself in his chaos and she took it on herself. She was an angel who lost her way, blinded by desire for imperfection and love for a boy that finally made her feel again. He was a hurricane that found the solace in her that he has wanted for what felt like an eternity. He revelled in the peace she brought to his life and he loved her more than he could articulate.

She found her demon; she became a fallen angel, the devil reincarnate that took the chaos out of his life and put it into hers.

He found his angel; he became a quiet rainfall that gave his tornado to the girl that craved the destruction it created.

Together they were the perfect team.
Megan Feb 2018
I am encapsulated in a cocoon of pain,
it runs through my veins –
my blood is oxygenated with sorrow.
I clutch a cigarette between my middle and index fingers,
the only thing I’ve touched so intimately since.
The smoke that trails into my lungs
blackens my insides,
ensuring I no longer have to refer to the darkness inside of myself using a metaphor.

Why should I care for a body I don’t want to inhabit anymore?

I am littered with scars,
from my metal companion –
a friend when I was no longer loved by all.
A fiery soul burned out,
like the cigarette that I wish to be infinite.
But phoenixes resurrect after they burn down in flames
- I always knew I was not human.

Maybe the heat I felt nipping the inside of my skin,
since I was an infantile girl
was preparing me for the flames that have now engulfed me,
making me question:
do I want to live or do I want to die?

But my favourite bed time stories were the ones about
the princesses that saved themselves,
and their animal companions that could bring themselves back to life.

Little did I know I would be both.

Little did I know
I was a princess and a phoenix
all in one.
Megan Feb 2018
My therapist used to say that
I get the flashbacks because
I don't talk about it enough.

But how am I supposed to talk about it
when everyone tells me that my story has been made invalid
by the alcohol in my bloodstream,
and the fact that I laughed about it the next day?

We all have different ways to survive.

How was I supposed to process my emotions the morning after
when I had blood dripping down my legs,
standing in the 6am cold,
because shivering outside without a jacket
was far better than staying in a room with one of my rapists,
and the lingering smell of shame?

I am far too young to feel a pain like this.

A pain so heavy that my entire soul is flattened
by the weight I carry around.

A violation so evil
that I cannot help but leave my body -
it is no longer mine
but a vessel
that carries the blackness of my ache,
my thoughts that turn to ash when I try to say them out loud
and the demons that have possessed me.

Demons born from the three of you.

How can I continue
when I can still feel three pairs of unwanted hands,
      gripping,                                           ­         
bruising me                    
all at once?

How can I breathe
when I can still feel six eyes
on the most intimate parts of me,
every vulnerability and weakness?

How can I live
when I still have pieces of you
entangling yourselves around my bones,
suffocating my heart?

I thought that by burying it all deep into myself -
every 'it' that you called me,
every bruise left on my skin,
every single ****** that tore me apart -
encased by my ribcage,
wrapped in skin that you made into paper,
I would be able to carry on.

I created my very own Pandora's box.

But you escaped;
every millilitre of your venom
is combined and coursing through my veins,
poisoning each one of my nerve endings.

I no longer see the same version of myself,
like looking in a broken mirror,
each fragment showing a different flaw, a different shame.
I am not me.

I am full of darkness.
My mind is sick,
I am filled to the brim with hate and anger and inescapable sadness.
You made me into a monster
that leaves fingerprints of acid on everything I touch.

Is there anything worse
than seeing six vitriolic eyes
everywhere I go?

Is there anything worse
than your visits to me when I sleep,
waking up drenched in sweat because of the horror?

Is there anything worse
than feeling a constant lump of anxiety in my throat,
whenever I'm left alone? -
because please
please don't feed me to the wolves again!

Is there anything worse
than starving myself because
no-one will ever love me unless I'm thin because
I'm too riddled with trauma?

Is there anything worse
than blaming myself so much
that I started hurting myself again?

No-one ever tells you that trauma lasts forever,
but I'm learning that now.
Because it's been ten months and twenty-two days since
the three of you destroyed me...

And you've been destroying me every day since.
If you've read this to the end, THIS is the destruction caused by **** - stop injustice anywhere you can
Feb 2018 · 901
An ode to my mum
Megan Feb 2018
Maybe you are my guardian angel;
    or maybe you are simply my mother.
Your heart always so gentle,
     the purest form than any other.

As if I am your physical beating heart,
     and you are the unbreakable ribs,
I have never known a more protective guard,
    since the time I was sleeping in the crib.

I was seven when you could no longer hide,
    the first of many times I would witness,
how broken you really were inside,
    Mummy's never shown her weakness...

I was seven when I had to force you to eat,
    cover you with blankets when you fell asleep,
and wipe the tears from your cheeks.
     That's when I learned that it was okay to weep.

You continue to carry me forward
     despite the added weight on my shoulders;
You make sure I'm armoured,
     should I ever falter.

There is not enough metaphors,
    to adequately describe you.
No amount of words in a bookstore
    can describe your value.

It's been you and I for a while now,
     We have put each other back together;
So take this as my final vow,
     I promise to fix you forever.
My dearest mother, I promise to stay seven forever
Feb 2018 · 438
Who am I?
Megan Feb 2018
I am the spark that starts the fire.
I am the flame
the oxygen that fuels the burn
and the inferno.

I am the aspirin
that cures you
and I am the cyanide that kills you.

Only touch me if you dare;

I am a land mine.

I am a lone flower petal.

I am the hand that takes the gun from your head
at your lowest points.
I am the finger that pulls the trigger
behind your back.

Who am I?
Feb 2018 · 1.3k
To my three rapists
Megan Feb 2018
i have to show the world that what you three did to me only scratched my surface,
only took off the shiny layer of myself that i had previously perfected for the eyes of society’s critical audience.
but you didn’t.
you’ve broken my soul
and torn my heart
and punctured my lungs
and i’m finding it harder to live and breathe every single day.
people think that the pain caused by an experience like this lives and dies in the moment that it happens,
but those people are sincerely wrong.
it's been three hundred and twenty-seven days since it happened,
since each of you violated me
and took advantage of me
and abused my right to consent.
but i bet you didn’t know that those days equate to seven thousand, eight hundred and forty-eight hours that it’s been on my mind
and i bet you didn’t know that the nightmare is now burned into my skin
and flowing through my blood
and coded into my dna.
the constant feeling that my body is no longer mine will not leave.
the feeling that i’m missing a part of myself is going to stick with me.
the feeling that my heart strings are severed,
that my lungs have burst,
that my legs can no longer carry the weight of my newly found burden
and that my life has been tainted by your evil touch
will never disperse.
these feelings cannot be brushed under a rug,
but i’ve got to appear like they can to the outside world.
do you know what else hurts?
what also hurts is that this trauma,
the same trauma that is making me want to end my life,
constantly hoping that the last of my heart strings will break so that my heart can plummet to the depths of my destroyed soul to lay with my sanity,
is being used to mock me.
as if my life could be forced into further submission without the teasing and bullying of my peers.
thank you,
to the three boys that took my innocence,
turned my meaning of the word ‘no’ into ‘yes’
and made my body into a lighthouse as a guide for the devil.
he’s found me.
you’ve broke me.
you win.

— The End —