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Meg B Dec 2014
I can't say for sure at what age you
suddenly start to really
take the world in,
but I have these
specific memories of being
an angsty fourteen-year-old
running laps around the reservoir
at swim practice.

I was so young,
but old enough that I really thought
I knew what love was,
and maybe I did,
maybe I knew love in a certain kinda way,
a certain kinda love I'm too old
to understand now.

I ran laps.
I remember noticing my breathing,
the one-two-three huff-huff-huff
rhythmically circulating oxygen as I
went numb from the waist down.
I remember thinking about this
boy that I loved in
some way or another.
I remember noticing the water's
gentle splashing,
the way the high, hot sun reflected off its splishing.
I remember the sound of runners
passing me by,
the sight of those I passed doubled over
from a "cramp" or maybe just
laziness.
I remember the way my coach yelled and yelled,
pushed and pushed.
I remember feeling and thinking so
many
different
thoughts,
noticing so
many
different
things.

I remember the first time that
I just took in so much
I had to go home and write some
love poems,
spilling my guts onto college-ruled paper
in some various-colored
gel pen.

I can't say for sure at what age you
suddenly start to really
take the world in;
I can't say for sure at what age a poet
suddenly becomes a
poet;
but I have these
specific memories of the first time
I took the world in,
and I decided to write
about it.
Meg B Dec 2014
Grandma Clarice,
or Chub as I prefer to call her,
is tough as nails.

All 90 pounds of her on her
not-even-five-feet-tall-frame,
she always told the funniest jokes,
and her laugh was one of
those laughs
that just
              reverberated so warm against your
                       eardrums,
contagious like the
common cold,
you couldn't help but catch it.

Chub always made the best pies,
any kind your gluttonous mind could
imagine:
cherry, blueberry, apple, peach, lemon chiffon, anything creamed;
don't get me wrong,
my mama inherited the gene,
her peach pie my absolute favorite
in the summertime,
but still,
mama learned from the master, and Chub was
the master indeed.

Chub was witty,
she was poised,
she was so many things that I
don't even feel like I ever really have figured out
what all she was, she is.
But I can't deny the
memories I have of Chub
smiling
as I played Christmas tunes on the piano,
looking collected and cool as she
whipped up another perfect meal,
her voice inquisitive as she
asked me about school,
the teacher in her proud yet astute.

Chub can't remember anymore,
but I remember for her,
the laughter, the
impeccable odors wafting from her all-white kitchen,
the late night games of Rummikub,
that tough-as-nails Chub who will always
exist in my
memories.
Meg B Dec 2014
It was a Saturday night somewhere where'bouts
December the 10th of 2012;
okay, fine, I can't recall the exact date, but that's not
the point
of this;
it's so much less bout the whens and whys and so much more
bout the whats, the what the **** it was.
And it was so good.
It was just a December night
in my windowless bedroom,
and I know it was a Saturday
for sure
because Daddy was picking me
up
at 9 o'clock on the ******* dot
because that Sunday was game day,
and we needed to get to Indy in time
to swallow down some Medium Rare burgers
before kickoff.
Anyway, so yeah,
Saturday night in my cave of a bedroom,
the only light that broke the darkness's
arrogant foreground
was the iridescent glow of the four
lavender and ocean scented candles I had placed
on the shelf by my desk,
seemingly casual enough,
but nothing I ever do is actually casual,
and it never was casual with you,
as much as I may have pretended.
It was all calculated, all culminated, all animated and anticipated,
*******, yeah, I laid out the whole set up
with the candles and the music and the glow,
like a perfectly **** setting.
But it turned out after it all that it wasn't that
sexiness I thought I wanted
that hit me so hard in the gut.
It was us, sitting there on my bed
side-by-side,
bodies close enough that we were almost touching,
like I could feel the body heat from your
perfectly built arms,
but I didn't actually feel the silkiness
that was your caramel skin
against my ivory.
Nope. No touching, for once
it really wasn't about that,
not even in the slightest.
We just sat and gabbed and laughed and
cried and squealed and
joked and concluded and pondered
and on and on
and
on
it went,
our bodies every so often readjusting
their positions on my white comforter with the black
flowers,
and I really just knew you in those moments
and you I
and it was like there was no clock
no time
no morning early rising committed plans
to the outside world,
because that realm ceased to exist as
you laughed in baritone
and told me funny stories about football and your friends
and then tragedies
about a mom that never loved you right
and a dad you never knew except for
the drugs and
his lack of
presence.
And there I went telling
you about when I got kicked off the team
and the one time
I got beat up
and other secrets I never knew I would
tell anyone and somehow
on it went as we were spiraling into
the abyss full of
everything we have ever needed, wanted, desired,
fears no longer fearful
and hurt set loose;
somehow I frantically reached for my phone
realizing that we just
made an entire night of conversating
and falling into something
that could be that word I won't
use because I ain't entirely sure,
but ****, my Dad was 20 minutes away,
you couldn't stay,
and I think I just
yeah,
I'll say it,
cuz I really think that night
I fell
in love.
Meg B Dec 2014
I've written too many
    poems
  about you.

This is my last one.

Until tomorrow.

Tomorrow though,
I'm done.

I mean it.
Meg B Dec 2014
I know that I only
hate you
because I'm actually
still crazy
in love with you,
but I
*******
hate you
for saying
I was the person
you'd think of
in your last moments
and then
somehow not loving me
in the kind of way
to
even feel the
    magnitude of
               it all.

*******.

I love you in my
                     hatred,
hate you in my
             undying,
                            unwavering,
       stupid
        stubborn
    dumbly drunk on you
                   love.
Meg B Dec 2014
After 6 PM,
four glasses of Chardonnay;
Jekyll turns to Hyde.
Meg B Dec 2014
Don't you ever
have moments
where you want to get
so high
your pain becomes funny,
so drunk
you seek company and comfort
in strangers,
so numb,
so ****** up,
so incoherent,
feelings aren't felt,
thoughts aren't thought,
pain isn't painful?

             Oh, right...

Me neither.
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