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 Feb 2018 Melanie Melon
i. the curly, green-haired
leo with the cry-baby tattoo
on her left calf; fish net stockings and
loud guitar playing and
menthol cigarettes. driving through
the park at 9 pm, ***** shots,
the white house with the a-frame roof,
hugs that made your heart feel as warm
as she did

crying as i left my room again to be
intertwined with a girl who did not love me, but i wanted to;
months pass, lonely car rides with
one-sided conversations and
seven years gone,
quiet disconnection
that made you feel as cold
as i did

ii. brown eyes, brown skin,
round glasses and chicago streetlights.
holding each other close on the subway
lakehouse parties in the beginning of spring and
pisces season and tarot readings and
soft kisses on the train.
holding hands at the aquarium,
sweet poetry and calm and
a sense of oneness that made you feel

hurt for the third time
a panic, a loss
i held their heart in my hands and
let it fall
i still carry the guilt on my fingertips

iii. short hair. freckled cheeks, i
fell in love with the way the skin
crinkled around her eyes when she smiled.
an apartment, a home built
around our lips touching
wrapped in blankets on the couch,
dense smoke and her hand on my leg while she
drove. chinese food and
waking up against her chest and
laughing so hard
my ribs hurt

crashing. her anger withering away my
heartstrings; pain and
crying alone in the bathtub
moving away
drunk tears on the interstate
punching my thighs
in place of the way her
words made
me hurt
feeling extra lonely these days. they come and go.
Insatiable itches
Become demanding *******
You used some entirely too obscure words in your poem
I wasn't compelled enough to look them up
I believe
It's easier to admit you think you're terrible
Than it is to admit you think
You're great
 Jan 2017 Melanie Melon
your absence is
like the aftermath
of the storm

i'm left to wonder
whether i prefer
the desperate
insanity you blew
into my life

or the deadly
At least I know where I stand in a storm.
© copyright
 Jan 2017 Melanie Melon
this is not a death-wish
this is a resurrection.
on nights, you grow
weary of the sound of
your own breathing,
there is a fierce sun
burning inside you,
you must use it to grow,
not to scorch all you have.
you have tender hands,
why do you use them
to peel away your
there is a thunder in
that insipid heart of yours,
go, forage it out.
For a friend.
© copyright
 Jan 2017 Melanie Melon
i like angry poetry
the kind that churns
in your gut,
with razors for teeth
and gums bleeding.
i like the violent sound
of verbs clashing
on a decaying page,
like the shot of a gun
on a quiet day.
i like the poetry that stays,
that lies in waiting
like a dog in a cage,
words that creep like
voided birds into the
wired tress of my brain,
that pay their rent
like drunken travelers
and trash the place.
i like angry poetry
the kind that sears it's
screams to my lips,
which spirit echoes and
moans for eager,
****** eyes.
words that hit like *****,
giving their reader
a killer hangover.
i like angry poetry,
the kind that leave you
with a smoky exit.
© copyright
 Jan 2017 Melanie Melon
he only thinks you're
pretty when you cry
when the aching
vulnerabilities sting
like red welts along
cheeks that are
white as teeth
only then are you pretty,
when the red blood
tears fall like soldiers in
the war of peace and
he kisses the place the
bullet exits
he promises he will
still love you as the lion
that murders the lamb
when the sky bleeds,
crimson echoes down
mountains of death
his viper hands
snake round your
hips and you just
don't mind, you just
don't mind anymore
© copyright
 Jan 2017 Melanie Melon
it's the emotional
the tingling,
depressions hand
on your thighs,
his skin is soothing
enough but his
nails curve red moons
into those pretty
little girl tights.
they ******* so well,
anxieties got a
mean eye,
for the girls with
they're the most fun,
swallowing back
their screams, saving
them for the
bedroom at night.
you find them in
the morning teasing
the pill bottle,
they got a will to live
stuck in their throat.
doctors say there's a
heartbeat but
no heart.
all their red dresses
over the floor,
the first of many
warning signs,
red dresses to funerals,
red dresses to slide
down the underbelly
of dissatisfaction.
they sleep without love,
exhaling demons on
the balcony, until
they burn like stubs
in their eyes.
© copyright

i was kind of thinking of mental health as these abusive figures in a girls life. red is often said to be the angry/passionate colour, i was thinking about a girl wearing it a lot as a warning sign, a sort of cry for help, that keeps getting misinterpreted and leading to more abuse.
trying to fix broken people isn't romantic
hoping that with enough love and compassion you will be able to end a viscous cycle of addiction isn't romantic
there is nothing pure or golden about it
neither noble nor valliant
it's just stupid and selfish and idealistic
so let them drink
and drink and drink
because no matter how hard you try
they won't stop
till it's too late
written about a current lover while also blackout drunk
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