I am exhausted of
feeling exhausted.
I am emotionlessly emotional.
I am hopelessly hopeful.
I am sitting still at 1000mph.

There's a difference between looking and
seeing.

You can look at me,
but I wonder more
what you see.

Brown eyes,
brown hair,
barely more than
five feet tall;
my feet are small,
as are my hands;
my teeth are straight,
thanks to braces;
shoulders been broad
since I swam,
but my figure
is much less athletic
than it used to be.

I could look
at myself
and point out
a million flaws.
My forehead is much
too big for my liking,
my cheeks are too red,
my top lip is so
skinny it barely
exists,
and, if you ask me,
my waist line
could afford
to look a little more
like my upper lip.

My looks are far from perfect.
Not saying I'm hideous,
but I don't look
in the mirror
to find
America's Next Top Model,
or anything close,
at least not until
my face is perfectly painted,
flaws concealed under
a combination
of moderately priced makeup and
a rather crafty hand.

When I look,
physical imperfections
and inadequacies
stare back at me.
My overly expressive
light brown eyes
give me an
omnipotent glance,
and they beg me to
turn away,
to close them,
to put them to sleep
so that I can
see.

When I see,
it's like a whole new me.
I'm a human being
whose physical flaws
are diminished by
an overly giving, compassionate
heart,
a brain
filled of logic & curiosity,
a chest
swollen full of
endless giggles,
a throat
storing sarcastic words mixed in with
empathetic phrases;
down within me
I see
the woman
who still at times
looks and feels
more like the girl
whose heart has been broken
too many times to count
but still, despite her
womanly pessimism,
yearns optimistically
to love again.
Within me I see
a woman with confidence
and also insecurity,
ambition and fear,
tranquility and rage,
hope and despair;
I see dreams,
wishes,
prayers,
meditation;
I see a beautifully
complex soul
trapped in a world
that begs it for
simplicity and
conformity.

I guess when I look
I only get a glimpse
of the body
that feels the need
to be perfect,
to work out a little more,
to weigh a little less,
to fix her hair the right way,
and to dress in the right clothes.
The self-conscious me
who still fears being weird,
who cares what others think,
who worries if my parents are proud.

But when I see,
out comes the woman
who says
**** the status quo,
I can't be put in a box,
I'm beautiful the way I am,
and nothing stands
between
me
and achieving
my
dreams.

When I look,
I don't see,
but when I see,
I see me.

I feel the brim of my glasses graze my nose,
and I know,
even once I take 'em off,
my vision
is better
than ever.

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.

Sometimes I find
myself
hard-pressed
to separate
dreams from reality,
living deep in the
fantasy world,
I lose myself,
too dark to see,
blinded by the
pitch black,
I try to feel my way out,
but even once I emerge,
you are the light,
and I again
become consumed,
swallowed whole by
the brightness,
you are the light, and it's
impossible to deny
how easy it is
for my soul to vacate
my body and fly to you,
like Icarus flying toward
the sun.

New city.
New people.
New places.
New faces.
New adventure.
New me.
I knew new was what I needed.
But the stomach dropping
head spinning
anxiety ridden
fear of crying
mind jumbled
even though
I knew better
made me hesitant of new.

Newspapers and headlines,
all the new is mine
to write my own stories
trials
tribulations
fears
hopes
dreams.
Who knew new
would be so hard
and so easy
all at once?

The train flies
at a seemingly never endless speed,
as my mind races simultaneously
                 along the tracks,
           bobbing and weaving,
                       churning along
as I attempt to discover
which stop I will take,
which place I will make
the home of newfound self identity,
unraveled mysteries.

A lone wolf;
Solitary soldier.
Too comfortable you have become
stumbling down a path
for one.

Blinded by
eyes closed
to the world that truly lays
beyond
your chosen screen
of wool
woven, cross-stitched with
Denial.

Hands you refuse to hold
as you boldly
trek
down the dusty trail;
howling out silently
so no one may hear.

Sporting a
mask
made
of self-loathing
and fear,
vulnerability the
enemy you choose to slay,
for surrendering to
a state of
naked, raw
passion
seems more frightening
than the darkest dungeon,
stormiest night.

Gulping down
another shot
of loneliness on the rocks,
not even a splash
of soda,
for you like the way it burns.
Inhale solidarity,
snorting your
line
after
line
of
self-destruction,
acidic dispelling of
feelings
chosen not to be felt.

Sometimes, though,
in the quietest of the night,
sitting on the lip of a deep
substance-induced-slumber,
you may whisper
in a tone you would hate
to be called sweet,
and the mask comes off;

till 2 PM,
waking and at it again,
alone, a lone wolf
howls
at emotional
sobriety
and takes another
drink.

How badly
do I wish to love away
your
self-loathing,

to kiss
away your
ignorance,

to
hold you
through
your dissatisfaction-induced
convulsions;

cry away
your demons
and hate,
flushing
the pain
into my
skin.

Miles
on
miles
separate
me            from       you,
and yet
you remain with me.
I hear your laugh
and feel your skin.
I ache for your mind,
for the way you
unravel me.
I burn with hatred
I cannot find for you.
I shake off love
I cannot dispel for you.
I left,
and you managed to
follow me,
leaving me wondering
if I'll ever be without you,
if there's some way to flush you,
rid your toxicity from my system.

I have been infected
with your infectious soul,
and distance isn't the cure
I thought it would be.
And now,
years later,
it is much too late to
vaccinate.

If only I had known.

An insatiable hunger
that rips at my insides;
the more I get, the more
still I'm left wanting.

Mostly served in snacks,
rarely a full meal,
but I want you in five courses
with a glass of wine to pair.

I crave your
lips and fingers on my neck;
salivating at the sound of your voice.

I am famished for every inch of your body, starved for the  intricacies of your mind, ravenous for the layers of your soul.

I yearn for another taste of you,
each moment somehow more delicious than the last.

I was panting
as my feet continuously
pounded against
the asphalt,
the steepness of the hills
sending shockwaves through
my calves.

The crisp air and dusk lighting
enveloped me,
the steady beats from my headphones
isolated me.

I moved 'round the multitude
of pedestrians
with relative ease,
feeling as if they were all
paying me as little mind
as I them.

My sweatshirt shielded me from
the cooling temperature
and simultaneously trapped
beads of sweat to my forearms,
the rest dripping steadily down
my shoulder blades,
off my forehead, my breathing
evening as I hit my rhythm.

The lights from the honking cars
and various restaurants and bars
illuminated my pathway-for-one
as I snaked my way north.

My mouth dried out as
my body had near hit its limit,
as I am not exactly in marathon shape
(to put it nicely).

Yet still I pushed,
a mind-over-matter-moment
as I tried to decide on a
definitive destination.

I wasn't sure whether
I was running from something
or toward something;
all I knew was that my blood
was pumping,
my mouth was inhaling fresh air
into my lungs,
my skin was sweating and shivering
as it kissed the wind;
all I knew was that I was
running,
all I knew was that I was
alive.

As my
heart pounded against
my ribcage,
the start and the finish line
suddenly mattered so much less
than the seemingly endless
stretch of sidewalk
underneath
my
feet.

I knew that I was running;
I knew that I was alive;
and that was all I needed
to know.

Months have gone by and still
you echo in my black hole,
your lips still brushing mine
in the wind that caresses my face,
your voice whispering through
the riffs and chords of songs,
your body visible in the contours of trees,
your face in the curves of the clouds,
and looking up desperately at
the night sky,
I envision you glancing at the same stars,
your soul having been imprinted permanently
on the Earth's ceiling,
so even when I close my eyes
you linger in the corners of my mind,
a universe of
constellations and planets,
galactic clusters of
immortal memories and undying
desires.
Months have gone by as I
continue to orbit around
the memory of you,
tilting onto your axis,
spinning round and round as
I try desperately to get back
to you, but you're
galaxies away.

And into the wee hours of the
morning,
struggling to slip into slumber
before the onset of dawn,
I wonder if you meant it
when you said you still
think of me
all the time.
Are you thinking of me now?
Is your body frozen,
back flat against your mattress,
eyes glued to the ceiling;
are you laying motionless
with a brain wide awake?
Oh, how I imagine
our bodies trapped in parallel framing,
equally restless with
parallel thoughts
interwoven in the space between us.

Green
is the color of the trees,
the luscious spring grass
that sparkles in the
creamy April sunshine
as I gaze outward
from atop the
monkey bars.

Sweet nectar of
honeysuckle and lavender,
a chorus
reverberating in my eardrums
of children giggling,
swings creaking,
runners thumping by.

I think of you,
your delicious warmth
that abruptly turned cold,
the chill and goosebumps
trickling up my arms.

I blink hard in the light,
brain processing thoughts
jumbled with
sadness
and
strength,
muddled with a dollop of regret,
sprinkled with
perpetuated curiosity.

The almost-turqouise sky,
toward it I stare,
longingly
in attempts to solve
the mysteries circling
my ever-chattering
mind.

Such simplicity
I see in this spring day,
at the playground
where I search
for my own
tranquility and ease.

Will I find
the answers
in the white buds blooming
on the bushes?
Or in the innocent smile
of a girl, no more than one year,
legs kicking jubilantly
as she swings high,
back and forth?
Perhaps then
hidden behind
the trunk of that tree
where a young couple
shares a secret,
sealed with a tender kiss?

Green are the trees and grass,
flowers dressed in beautiful
shades
of pink, purple, and blue,
sun bright yellow,
orange too;

my insides bleeding red,
your name
etched still,
carved into my
wooden heart;
I
bleed
out
all
last
thoughts
of you.

Closing my eyes
to all shades
of rouge,
I reopen
and take in spring,
take in the scent of the air,
take in the green.
You are gone.

warm, strong hands;
the delicacy of his fingers
softly racing
d
o
w
n
the small of my back
losing my breath
heart beating;
lump in my chest.

a world unknown,
I have yet to feel for
someone
new,
my world spinning endlessly
as we lay
on the azure blue of his sofa couch;

feels so soft,
soft as the heaven and the clouds
as they wrap
             their arms
                          around the sun
and it slips into Darkness....

Darkness.
days of it.
nights of it.
yet the most remote light found
in the darkest of places

a cold lonely night,
riots; tragic news; insecurity...
he turns them into
radiance,
to the white of a sandy beach;
his soft skin, his beautiful gaze...
I get lost in that blue-green ocean
that bores into me
with all of their innocence.

I let him take me away
away from it all;
in that moment...
and as my skin brushes melodiously
against his enchantment
I know somehow that everything
has
changed,
and it is so far
from
                                                              undisclosed.

if only I could keep the sunshiny Darkness;
the togetherness of our loneliness;
the stillness of our fast-moving passions...
locked away secretly,
                                        a secret between (your lips and mine.)

I'm just going to start writing because
it's been so ****  long.
It's January and 70 degrees,
which is strangely beautiful,
something to which I can relate.

I wonder whether you can consider yourself
writer's blocked
if you haven't even tried to tumble the blocks over.

I'm not really sure why I stopped writing
or when exactly.
Maybe it's because I fell in love and found happiness.
Or maybe it's because I didn't want to
write out admissions that a perfect relationship doesn't exist.
Or, better yet, that even at my happiest,
my most in love,
there's still so much untouched darkness within me,
darkness that writing pretty words can't even make pretty
in the melancholic sort of way.

Maybe I haven't wanted to write because it's painful.
I can fake the lightness when I bury
myself
in  the world around me.
Saving problems for everyone else keeps me
from having to admit my own.

Maybe I've been blocking myself
from myself,
like if I go too deep,
peel enough back,
I may not like what I see.
Maybe I'll realize
I've been the one to blame all along.

If I write,
if words spill onto crisp white pages,
if ink bleeds from the tips of weathered hotel room pens,
if I release thoughts and feelings frozen
beneath strategically built, icy castles,
if I let go,
I may burst open too wide
and feel too much
and relive it all.

Even my newer, shinier,
stronger self
might not withstand
the force of that.

Perhaps I'll open the gate
and pray the reinforcements hold.

I don't always like
(the taste of)
bourbon
but **** do I like
the way it can make me
feel;
that sting of warmth
as it slithers down your
esophagus,
and suddenly you know
all the best dance moves,
your voice hits smooth on
all the tunes,
your jeans hug ya just right,
and somehow the night
has become yours.
Too many bourbons and
**** I might get a little mean,
but just one or two
and I'm the most
proud-to-be-from-Louisville-
Kentucky girl you've ever
seen.

I still can feel it when I close my eyes.

When I sleep, I am
trapped in a translucent space
where memories meet nightmares,
and it always lingers when
I wake.

The shame burns my insides
worse than any anger could
because even the nightmare
version ofyou
still gaslights me.

I have spent years building a persona
that projects strength so that
I can convince everyone
I would never have let that happen to me.

I am still trying to convince myself
because it's too painful.

Abuse is a ***** word and the others
that follow feel
       even
                dirtier than what
                                         you did to me.

I feel complicit.
I'm a co-conspirator in my own worst
living memory nightmares.

I was weak.
I said yes when I wanted to say no.
I gave in
      again and
                again and
                            again.

If my nightmares were a scene from a movie,
I would, on split screen, have
grabbed my own hand
and tugged myself into my own
horror, "it'll be okay, Meghan."
My subconscious is unrelenting,
unforgiving,
incomprehensible, undeniable
            you are a
    [stupiduglyworthlessspineless]
                        vict­imscratch that
                 survivorscratch that
       human ^tortured
         by            yourselfscratch that
                               him.
Ididthistomyselfscratch that
                                                      He did this to me.

I recall how sweet
my name sounded
as it gently rolled
                              off your tongue,
each syllable
playing a note in the harmony
you created
in calling to
me
gently;

can't you just,
one more time,
put the vinyl on,
crackling and
popping
six
simple alphabetical
chords?

I would play
it on
repeat.

Plush beads of summer rain gently kiss the windows,
pitter pattering steadily in contrast
to the low hums and stutters
of the red coffee ***
that saves many souls
lost in a daze of former slumber;
a lengthy stretch,
she leans back against the cream,
or maybe more ivory,
sofa couch,
wiggling it up and down her frame
and in its last push
released with a crack through the tips of her toes.

scrumptious smells of eggs and breakfast meats,
brunch is always her
favorite hour,
balancing the crisp texture of toast
against the delightful spritz
of OJ,
sometimes blended with a splash of something
sparkling.

the chords and rhythms that thrummed and purred,
the puttering, the humming, the stuttering,
a baritone chuckle
escaping his smirking mouth,
the moment so inescapably
charming,
how satisfying their ritual felt.

It absolutely amazes me,
the dichotomy of how
you can make me feel so special and
unique
and simultaneously
leave me feeling so desperate and
cheap.

You are the best and the worst,
the source of my greatest joy and
deepest sorrow,
and I am sick in my desire to
not feel these extremes;
I am sick in my desire to
not
feel
anything.

It's time
to get off
this ride.

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.

The sun hung low,
sliding down below
the trees,
whose leaves had turned a golden yellow
from autumn's adoring
kiss.

The clouds looked gray,
seeming to bring in
thunderstorms
that weren't to come,
at least not today.

We spoke of
mysteries,
created poetry in our
realizations,
harmony fostered with the gentle
breeze
as we laughed.
The aha's and uhuh's,
the self-discovery and
conceptualization,
they were the sermons,
the creed,
the metanoia.

The rooftop sunset was
the sanctuary,
the gust of wind the hymns,
the moments of silence were
moments of reverence,
our spirituality
birthed in the
gravel
under
our feet.

The world is
our religion.

I
looked on at a
yellow sky,
creamy meringue;
peppered with
feathers and wings,
the lemonade stage
for the black bird dancing.

Crisp November winds and
overheated toes,
I lost my head in the
music on the
dimly lit road.

How am I to know
when it's okay to surrender?

My body begs me
for sweet relief,
to let my limbs, my digits,
all of my organs,
to let them go numb,
falling deep down
into a dark place
where I have vehemently
refused to
stumble
for many moons.

I keep my carcass
a hollowed shell,
swearing off any inclination
of relaxation,
of letting down my guard,
forbidding myself
to wander to the place
that frightens me most.

My beating chest,
it fights back
with fierce vigor
against my head's resounding no's
as your lips,
soft and succulent,
beseech my own,
our tongues
exchanging salutations
in a hushed, velvety
vernacular
that seems completely
of our own creation.

As my brain runs hurriedly
a million miles in a direction
somewhere southwest of here,
my figure melts,
      oozing
into your muscular hands
as they caress my face,
sweeping my hair
behind my ears.

Panic sets into my mind,
my breathing grows heavy,
but instead of bolting for
the door,
I draw your frame closer to mine,
wrestling a copacetic convulsion of angst and jitters
as your fingernails
gingerly
scrape
down
my
spine.

I love the sound
of fresh papers
as they come
crinkling and
crackling out of
the package,

the aroma
of citrus and earth,
sweet smelling grass,

the sensation
of stickiness,
dulled spikes
of fresh stems,

the sight
of red orange flames
lapping up
crisp white paper,
of translucent
gray smoke
whisping
out of the small
opening of a pipe's mouthpiece,

the taste
of wisdom, sage, and ash,
vaporizing my insides,
filling my lungs
and brain
full of poetic fumes;

I love to break
you
down,
roll you up,
set you ablaze,
and
inhale
you,
vaporizing my insides,
filling my heart
and brain
full of poetic fumes.

I love to
get
high
off you;

I don't want
to
ever
get
clean.

Let's
roll
another.

Every so often he
swings through town and makes
his way into my bed,
broad trunk filling the void this empty mattress
reaffirms on the nights I sleep alone,
which is most.

I appreciate the infrequency with which
he comes to visit,
my door kept ajar,
my heart kept  comfortably closed,
as he strolls in in his designer
sneakers or boots,
the noncommittal conversation flowing freely
between us.

Once I recall he rolled over,
his hand sliding up my forearm,
wrapping himself around my
frame as I pulled out my phone
to show him a photo,
and he noticed his number wasn't saved,
guffawing at my nonexistent concern for his
permanence,
or lack thereof.

I like the way he laughs
and the rare moments when we exchange
something deeply
personal about ourselves,
complicated words and phrases transplanting
simplistic nonverbal communication.

He is handsome
without being too ****;
he is smart
without being argumentative;
he is wealthy
without being ostentatious;
he is shy
without being withdrawn;
he is a lot of things,
my finely filed fingernails not even
beginning to scratch the
surface of his otherwise
intriguing layers,
having tied my own
hands
behind my back.

I need the way he doesn't
need me,
and him I.
Sometimes I need his body heat,
the gentle weight of a
man's arm hanging on
my curvy hip.
There are moments when I need
one of our witty but empty
texting conversations,
simple enough to read after
too much Bordeaux.

I need the something that
exists in the nothing
that he brings
me.

Sultry sentiments slithering
through my mind,
dripping beads of wisdom,
splashing into my pond
of curiosity;

Plant the seeds,
my water bodies
make it grow,
my body fading slowly
from focus,
for in this moment
I'm not on the ground,
my shell overtaken
by a gust of wind,
sweeping away the sound
of doubt,
of matters of only earthly concern;

Whimsical daze,
my eyes rolling to the back of my head,
ecstasy manifested
in forms unexpected
for the irony lay
dormant with the rest
of the realizations,
the creation of
elation, salvation, transformation
encapsulated in
my thoughts.

Sometimes I am so logical when I wish for nothing more than to be illogical.

Sometimes I am so illogical when I wish for nothing more than to be logical.

And so on

And so forth.

Gazing down
on sleepy towns,
transparent sky,
high above

Down below are the workers,
the daughters,
the smokers,
the bank robbers

On I soar,
hearing the jet engine roar,
and thousands of feet beneath,
the partiers are still drowning in
deep sleep

Flying by
as lovers exchange a kiss,
a lonely man cries,
a doctor mending a broken wrist

Downward gazing,
burnouts blazing,
artists creating,
blooming vegetation,
streets full of
imagination, fascination,
devastation,  miscalculations,
faces, races, places, nations;

Peering down from the heavens;
the view is
amazing.

The rain exploded from the sky,
water soaking the trees,
reds, oranges, and yellows
bleeding from beneath the leaves,
branches bending and swaying,
puppet-like under the great strength
of the storm.

I sat in silence for half an hour,
maybe longer,
mesmerized by the catastrophic dance,
the matinée performance unfolding outside
my living room window.
A brutal ballet,
trunks of trees moving ever so slightly
as the wind did its best to
pirouette and sweep the landscape
up in its rhythmic mastery.
Claps of thunder, whistle of wind,
a chorus climbing to its crescendo,
as I remained planted to my seat
when, at last, the raindrop feet
dulled to a stop,
only an occasional pitter patter
as the dancers made
their way off stage.

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.

It was a Sunday night,
a Sunday night that was
truly a Monday morning,
but the darkness,
coupled with
the heaviness of my body's
desire for rest,
to me it still felt like
nighttime.

The sweetly scented candles
flickered silently,
their aroma
filling my nostrils
as the sounds of
a
cliché romance movie
filled my
eardrums.

The dry red wine
poured smoothly
from
        the bottle to
                             my empty glass
        for the fourth time
   that
night.

Yes, it was a Sunday
night,
the pain and miscomprehension
clouding my mind
more than
another glass or
another hit
ever could.

How heavy
it all
    weighed


down
on
me

that
Sunday night;

That Sunday night,
I knew
I loved you,
but you never
loved me
back, and

That
Sunday night,
in the
darkness,
I sipped slowly,
blinked softly,
and
out
came
the
tears

that
I
had
resisted

for
many
nig­hts
just
like
this.

It was a Sunday night
when I finally
cried.

Again.

And in letting you go,
I have been struck with perhaps
the greatest melancholy
in that I have started to forget
the sound of your voice

Dear America,

I’m really disappointed in you. It’s a harsh way to start a letter, I know, but that’s truly how I feel.

Our leadership (if you can call it that) has unveiled the deep rooted White supremacy and sexism that this country was founded upon. And that means that there are enough people in this country that feel this way that a man like Trump was able to get elected, that a man like Mitch is able to run the show in Congress.

America as the land, it isn’t your fault. You would’ve been happy to never have been invaded, carved up, forced to be witness to slavery and war and watching your beautiful indigenous people die and be culturally erased (in many ways still today). You are beautiful, with your mountains and trees, your beaches and oceans, your rivers and streams.

You are ugly, though, with your systemic oppression, kids in cages, Black people shot by police, housing segregation, gentrification, fatphobia, mass incarceration, capital consumerism, transphobia, misogyny, lack of mental health and addiction support, no healthcare for all, no equal right to education without stock piles of debt, and you always make a way for the wealthy and White,  but you box out anyone Brown without extra expectations or attempted White washing. You pave ways and repave them, neglecting potholes and broken bridges for those that need, deserve, should have them more. You are the birthplace of internal wars, internalized sexism, colorism, homophobia, racism; you’ve made us hate ourselves as much as you hate us.

America, I expected better with the version of you I read in textbooks. But then, that version of you was written by those whose roads were paved with gold, and they profit from its retelling.

I don’t like you, America. I don’t know what hope there is for us, but I do know that I love my brothers, sisters, siblings of all genders, colors, and creeds who too want to unravel you, America, and build you back up into something better, something equitable, something for all of us.

Maybe there’s hope for you, America. Maybe there’s hope in your (r)evolution.

-Meg

I tasted a lingering shot of ****** *****
on my tongue
before my mouth tasted
the rest of the night.
I pretended that I was
much drunker than I was
because I thought that would
make it easier,
less painful.
I gave myself a pep talk
and should've understood
that nothing wanted
needs convincing.
I've suppressed the act so much
in my subconscious
that I only remember it in flashes,
like a slow motion replay of a life-ending
car accident you'd see in a movie.
In some ways,
that scened ended me;
the world was fuzzier
than it had been the night before,
when I woke up no longer wearing
my agency.
The normalcy with which I picked myself up
from the dingy navy couch
was underwhelming
and haunting all at once.
I left with my dress and my shame clinging to me,
fearing not for myself
or how I had said no so many times before,
but instead that
giving it all still wasn't enough for you;
losing myself,
unraveling my soul wasn't worth
what I thought it would sell for.
All I saw was
the satisfaction that I had given that didn't satisfy you.

An emptied shell;
you took it all,
and I've been hollow ever since.

I put on my glasses to
refocus my vision,
but I realize it is my distracted mind
that hinders me,
work documents transposed with your face,
my mouth still filled with your taste,
your body still bruised into me and
your skin still stuck to my fingernails;
my body aches for your touch,
my ears yearn for the feeling of your teeth,
my mouth hungry for your lips;
my eyes stare blankly at my computer monitors as
my brain remains transfixed on the way
we intertwine and
how you make my limbs shake;

I'm not sure my boss will understand
that 8 hours a day has gone by,
and all I have managed to accomplish is
the perpetual fantasizing of the way you make me sweat,
the way you take away my breath,
how you disassemble me.

All these years later,
All the sunrises and sunsets,
All the sleeps, deep and unstirred,
And you still make your way
Into my dreams,
In razor-sharp focus;
I hear your voice as clear as
The last time I saw you,
The outline of your lips still drawn
Perfectly as I remember them
When they touched mine.
So long it has been,
But no time has passed in my subconscious,
Your appearance a steady and constant
Stream of subconsciousness
That my mind refuses to forget;
Or is it my heart
That won’t forget you?
I wonder when, if ever,
You will fade,
But then I also hope for never
As I rush off to sleep so I can
See you again,
Where you never left,
Where we never said goodbye,
Where you look exactly as you did
And make me feel as exactly as I felt,
Exactly as I feel.

I try to keep myself distracted,
Try to stay busy,
To keep my mind from wandering
Where it shouldn't.
But I look out across the
Vast expanse of water,
And my mind rides the ripples,
Catches the current,
Flows right to you.
I'm drowning,
I'm losing myself in this river
Of heartache and confusion.
I can't keep afloat
With the thought that
I would rather sink to the bottom,
Lay dormant at the water's depths
Than be without you,
And even so,
You couldn't fight to keep me
From sinking,
Couldn't breathe the air
Back into my lungs.
You couldn't make the plunge,
Swim in after me,
Sweep me under your tide.
Instead I'm left alone,
Treading the waters of love
Without you.
As the water rises higher,
I plead for you
To catch a boat,
Sail toward me,
Throw out your lifeline,
And pull me back in;
To realize all along
That you didn't want to swim away,
That even though the shoreline is safe,
You would rather be swept up
By my love
And drown in my riptide
Than sail the seas
Without me.

(Y)our
v - O - ice
so melodio[U]s

.A. s it
whispe _ R _ s
sw (E) etly
in my ear;

[B]ewildering
c...E...ssation
of logicAl
tho U ghts,

\T\oo overwhelmed
to
fa'I n
neutrality;

inhaling F-ascination,
i am
high off yo -- U r
fumes;

/L et me
exhale.

My body
feels small as I
stare at the the cracks in the
ceiling and
I am so small in my
loneliness,
my body shrinks and my
eyes glaze;
sandpaper tongue
and dry eyes
breathing stale air
and the cycle goes over and over
crumbling and
cracking and
splintering,
stumbling in darkness, my
body numb and also

Aching.

I'd ask where you are but
I don't even
Know who You is and that
is perhaps the most
painful part.
Or maybe it's that I'm so
        alone
in my loneliness(no one quite
seems to recall
t heir I solation)

Trees and grapes
I resolve to not need to
solve it;
I need no u's and
know you's

I enjoy the way the pink spring breeze
grazes my rouged cheeks.
Though a little chilly,
a thrift store sweatshirt squeezes
back against my body,
shielding overwhelming brisk.

Jermaine's voice trickles between my eardrums,
but I pause a moment,
words of howdy, hello,
"Oh," I breathe, "yes, I couldn't
remain inside another minute!"
The hey's and hello's,
those are the chords of C, of G,
and, strange though,
how sometimes I prefer a flat or sharp.

Some chords though harsh at first taste,
they stew on the tongue,
relinquish sweet, succulent juice at last;
sweet reward,
satisfying relief.

I feel the grin stretch, slink
across my canvas,
the reverberations of a cackle,
boisterously beating against
my far-from-hollowed chest,
for full it feels,
full it is,
filled with filling full
of warmth, light, fulfilling fulfillment.

There is merely of tiny moments
a collection,
most prized,
as if I had begun many moons ago,
knowing did I do before I knew,
gathering each grain to
make a beach,
each blade of green,
making a lawn of bluegrass,
with a sprinkle of a flower or two;
deep within self,
collecting,
gathering
to now feel stillness,
& admire that treasure.

I gaze intently ahead,
streaks of magenta, a citrusy jaune,
(yellow of course),
juicy orange,
dripping into a soft
periwinkle,
reminding me of play dates,
chocolate chip cookies,
only the special, secret recipe
on special occasions,
today, could you be one,
every day, an occasion
to taste the secret recipe,
soft chocolatey, dangerously delicious,
melting into my tongue?
This sunset,
tranquil spring night,
oh how it tastes,
smells of the endless possibilities,
special occasions.

So wise, rich with knowledge,
how the recent past has left
me
saged with experience,
yet energy & zest,
of youthfulness,
I sigh outwards,
hard;
breathe in the wonder.

Family, friends, lovers,
neighbors, coworkers, classmates,
father, mother,
sister, brother;
the world uncoils, unfolds
like watching from the outside,
yet exploding within,
I burst outward.

My mind, oh does it race,
faster I am sure than
any body could carry.
It bends, twists,
molds, sinks, festers,
bubbles,
boom, pop, trickle,
it goes.

Creating art,
that is all we do.

I hear that sweet voice,
a melody of its own,
whispering secrets of past pain
and future plans;
I hold them all dearly, as
dearly can exist.

Strum my emotions,
pluck my thoughts,
slide down my dreams,
pick my desires,
bellow my fears,
harmonize my anguish,
release the echoing,
play the notes found
in the deepest chorus,
the sounds I can make
from the beating of my own heart,
the rhythm of heavy breathing,
giving birth to a story.

Still I am writing it,
but of course,
black pen smudges against
my tiny fingertips;
Mother always did tease,
for how I hold my utensil for
words, well, "That's just like me,"
she would giggle right now,
if she were to see,
that giggle just like the one
someone loves
coming from me.

A pen to a blank page,
again I go,
in due time the world will know,
and back to me will It boomerang.

Where there was once a sense of
apprehension,
the way this slow, meticulous wind smells,
tastes,
feels as it strokes my face,
all I may now ponder
is a simple, tasty desire;

The journey, how delightful it is.

There are tunes to play, sing;
oh how there are jigs to dance.

Mouths that can open wide & scream loud, but not shrill,
toward the heavens.

Smells to create with fresh baked goods,
peaches to burst open with teeth
hungry for its, their juices.

Flowers yet to bloom,
more in the tender April 'noons ahead.

Steps to stomp on a run in new kicks.
A soft pair of lips to kiss.

Jokes to be told.
Laughs to be shared.

Lines to cross.
Fast pulses to feel.

Claps of thunder to steal the blue sky.
Silent tears to slip down cheeks
worn from years.

Philosophies to analyze.
Friends to meet, greet, make, take; bonds to create.

Games to play.
Long, strung out giggles
from little ones,
innocence so pure & poetic.

Dreams to make realities.
Loves to have, but loves too to lose.

CIties to visit.
Language to speak, share,
stutter, misunderstand,
exchange,
accomplishing dialogues,
communicating in hushed
whispers,
sweet nothings nuzzled,
brushed
against my ear.

I've got some living to do;
living with me, but also
living with you.

White.
Female.
Middle Class.
Heterosexual.
Agnostic.
Libertarian.

Yeah.
That's me.
That's that first layer,
thin as the paper you could
read it on.
Just a
Jane Doe,
a nameless, faceless
demographic.

But peeling back the layers,
ripping through page on page of a complicated novel,
digging
down
into
a
bottomless
hole
to
China,
unravelling
­the intricate
web of
stereotypestruthsliesassumptionsprejudice
and
there you will find
me,
a colorless genderless asexual
spirit whose frame
is crafted and molded
not with how the world
chooses to see me and
who "they" deem me to be;

no.

A guy that didn't know me well
once told me that I
spoke more urban than he
expected,
and I couldn't help but wonder why
someone from an urban area
couldn't speak like they were
from a city,
like somehow what he saw in my
whitefemaleheterosexualmiddleclassagnosticlibertarian
prolog­ue forbade me
from speaking in colloquials and
abbreviations.
Oh, I apologize,
I laughed later to my friend,
law students are supposed to speak
with an ostentatious vocabulary and
an heir of
(superfluous) arrogance.

I am rarely a prototype
of what it means to be
White,
of what it means to be
female;
middle-class* or not,
my parents insisted at age 8
that I begin to understand
the value of a dollar;
my sexuality indicates little
about my level of attraction
to the world around me;
agnostic is really just a term
I put because I'm still trying to
figure out whether I really
believe everything I was forced to
learn at Catholic school;
and isn't Libertarian just a fancy
word for I don't want to
choose liberal or conservative?

It's insulting to
ingest how much is
insinuated about
my depth in
the shallowest of pools.
My cheeks burn hot
with frustration as I
try to balance on a beam
cracking underneath the weight of
a world that is constantly begging me
to go back in the neatly
wrapped package from which
the world would prefer I
came.

I'm not someone
you can put in a *******
box and
label;
you can't contain my
shine behind
blackout blinds;
I will burst out of your bubble
and break your glass ceilings;
I will scream at the top of
my lungs in a soundproof room
until you HEAR me.

I'm not meant to be judged
by my cover,
and neither are you.

We are meant to be read.

I was in a
dreamy state
as we drove through the
mountains,
the bright
Colorado sun reflecting
almost too bright
off of the frozen creek.

The ridges of the
giant turf were
a little too brown for what
I had expected this time
of year,
but the snow had not been
as bountiful as
winters past.

My cell phone lost
service as we glided
along a windy
highway,
so I was left to nothing but
my earbuds and
the thoughts I had avoided.

I felt a strange sensation
of relief as
I realized I didn't have to
speak to anyone,
how I could be left alone
in the midst of a wide expanse of nature,
perhaps the humble surroundings
I needed to
recollect myself.

In the company of
my loving family and
in the presence of
my grandfather's wisdom,
I was bound to find some
sort of peace,
gain some sort of clarity,
for if you couldn't find
serenity in the
Rocky Mountains,
surely something was wrong with you.

I spotted elk in the far
distance beyond the car windows,
and, despite the frigid
single-degree-weather that enveloped them,
I was weirdly envious of
their tranquil presence in the snow,
their freedom to be lost in the wilderness,
their security in the pack that accompanied them.
In that moment,
I wanted to be one of the elk,
running free
into a realm of wild openness,
running free
in the mountains and valleys.
In that moment,
I wanted to be
free.

My body quivers,
the tips of my fingers
pulsating wildly,
beads of sweat collecting
on my furrowed brow,
teeth sinking into
my bottom lip,
breathing in sharp
heaves of breath,
echoing the fast-paced
pulse of my enthusiastically
beating heart,
limbs tingling,
lower extremities losing feeling
as my body becomes absorbed
in the ecstasy
to which it succumbs
as, in one last swift, graceful movement
you make me explode,
my mind orgasming in the
crazy sensation we have
created in the simple
exchange of our
encapsulating dialogue,
reawakening my addiction,
my yearning,
my craving
for another round
of conversation,
rapture unlike
any other I've felt,
in tangibly feeling nothing but your soul
and your words.

Cloud of nothingness
Smoke of emptiness
Haze of hollowness
Fog of desertedness
Smog of blankness
Vapor of vacuousness;

Chronic Apathy.

The forest green of the trees
contrasts so greatly
against the soft pastels in the sky;
Did someone paint this neighborhood?

The odors of garlic & parsley
wafting from across the
charcoal street.
Hums of today's news,
all the latest gossip,
ooh'ing and ah'ing;
endless snippets of candlelight chatter.

Occasional dollops of light
peering up from sedans passing by.
Sounds of zooms
blocked out by the steady pulsating
of white earbuds.

Dogs yipping, sometimes a real bark.
Neighbors come and go,
reciprocating cordial hello's.

Street lights slowly coming alive,
for at 8:37, the sun has begun
its transition to slumber.

They always say,
TGIF, thank god it's Friday.
As day slips to nigh',
the crackles and pops of vinyl come alive
behind a slightly rusted window pane.

Tonight's secrets not yet revealed,
a couple strolls by
holding hands,
sipping coffees, decaffeinated.

A man drunk with regret
and a 40 in his belly,
he breathes a clumsy, "Hey."
Malted liquor questions,
their smell & sound, unmistakable gurgling.

Street lights now fully illuminated,
glances exchanged from
passer-byers.

He opens the car door for her,
and into the dusk they drive.
Vehicles come by in even
greater numbers,
and still searches the young man
for $9, a toothbrush, and a shower,
even cold.

Just another night of
just another day,
in just another city,
in just another neighborhood
on just another street.

Silence, loud, ominous silence,
filtering the senses,
the stories,
the magic;
Isn't ordinary   extraordinary?

Sometimes I fear
I have become too good at
being alone.

I basque in the hours
spent locked by my
lonesome in the confines
of my apartment,
surrounded by nothing but
brick and cement and the sounds
of the television or my iPod speaker.
Tranquility seeping in through my
isolation,
I yearn for the moments I am
privileged to spend without
the duty to perpetuate conversations
or offer advice to someone I consider
merely an acquaintance.

Sometimes I worry I am
too comfortable with solitude.

I get a thrill off of
being needed without needing,
being sought out without seeking.
I let others let me in
without having to give a shred of
myself in return,
for people love to go on
about themselves
without inquiring about
the person to whom they
narrate their autobiographies.

Sometimes I am scared of
the ease with which I can
let someone go.

So often have people come and gone
that now I comprehend, perhaps
too deeply,
that nothing in life is guaranteed
and most people are meant to be
lessons rather than
permanent.
There was a time where I wept
with sordid frequency for the people
I was forced relinquish,
clinging tightly to the empty void,
wallowing in a glass half full of
skewed memories.

Sometimes I am terrified that
I only really know how to
be alone.

It is almost impossible for me
to recall a love not
unrequited.
I stare up at screens and strangers
all screaming that love exists,
and there I am fighting
insane laughter because I just
can't see it,
as if my eyes have become colorblind,
for it is black and white that
all I've ever had is
gray.

Sometimes
I am afraid
that this is
Always
how it will be.

Sometimes I prefer
sleeping to waking,
for in my dreams
our love is
without complication.

Twisted
Burning
Toiling
Anguish
Wrapped,
Concealed
Deep
Beneath
D­isconcerted
Contortion
Attempting
Feigning
Effervescence.