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I'm stuck gnawing on this umbilical cord
Attached to Appalachia
Coiling around my neck

I came into this world, adrenaline coursing
Held eye contact with the Doctor
Stared my father in the face

A boy fell in love with me because I always won staring contests
He cried blue ridges,
Pressed a chess piece in my palm
I can feel that night(knight)

Things change -- the mountains don't.
I nod in perpetual agreement, eyes dry.

I'm sewn into this earth
Eroding and growing
Stagnant and moving
I didn't really know much about whirlwind love
or shotgun weddings
Until I went out with a forbidden boy in my new city
almost immediately we were struck by lightning
electric and on fire
with his hand on my face
dancing and kissing and sweating and laughing
someone thought we were married
so to make it right
he got down on one knee and I spent the week as Mrs. S
I broke all my own rules with him
*** with the lights on, holding hands in public
giving up my jaded and calloused heart
my favorite moment?
standing in the shower with him
listening to Beach House
hot water falling on us like sweet honey in the summertime
the soft glow of afternoon sunshine beaming in from the window
we took turns washing each other's hair
and kissing each other's necks
nothing has ever felt so pure
so safe
so beautiful
 Apr 2017 Miss Honey
bobby burns
take one

gotta make sure the lighting is just right
that silken glow perfect for when the other
first graders take off your dress for you
because dress-up is one thing, but this, another

take two

adjust the camera angle, you wouldn't want
to show your tummy. **** that gut, boy!
no streetwear allowed in the public pool;
you can't keep your hoodie on forever

take three

i cast coal and cherry juice over myself because i'm scared
scared to show it all for what it is on camera but the truth is,
i was clueless, she was strong, and what's the harm in a little
******* when she'll bruise and asphyxiate you otherwise

take four

i knew this time, but i liked that way her teeth raked over
my bottom lip, it satisfied that near-catholic compulsion
i had to atone, to hurt myself to better myself, it was sweet
the sweetest bloodwine my adolescent pre-**** self would ever have

take five

my god i deserved you. we deserved each other. until, of course,
the stones you used to give me -- agate, citrine -- landed on my
dusted cheekbones, in the middle of love, sometimes because your nose was stuffy and you felt you couldn't breathe and it was cathartic to take out your frustration on objects (hello, hi, i am not one)

take six

and the truth is, i'm too tired to write a take six, and i've long abandoned this metaphor, and take six will be a poem of its own, in ways, take six is my teenage finale, my rite of passage, my understanding of myself as a vessel of men's aggression
and far too few sunsets have passed for me to write it, anyways, and far too few footsteps over the land below the car where i was *****, and far too little writing on how this has affected me, my psyche, my masculinity, any sense or semblance of self outside of victim, and ******* i'm not ready i'm just not ready so don't push me with this take six, business, alright?

getting there
every single day there are things that make me think
"huh, I should write about this"
and I make a mental note of it
and then I forget all about it
until the next day
when I see patches of green moss creeping along the cold cement sidewalks
or the warmth of his hand against the small of my back as we boogie down on the dance floor at the Mineshaft to Come On Eileen
playing spin the bottle in a haunted hotel room at four in the morning and hoping to land on the same girl over and over and over again cause her lips taste like cigarettes and Burt's Bees peppermint chapstick and I just ******* crave that **** ya know?
I crave the things that make me want to write, that make me feel inspired, that make me feel human
and at the end of the day it doesn't matter if I write any of it down because I still felt it and I still love it and it still happened and it still counts
life still ******* counts
 Oct 2016 Miss Honey
Andy Hunter
Let me not forget
The magic of days
Gone by

In love
And in loving

When I'm old let me yet
Be young in my mind

And in love
I am so much better than I used to be
in every way possible
I don't cry as much anymore
I don't scream as much anymore
I don't let unworthy men put their ***** hands on my body anymore
Recovery comes in waves, big and small
and sometimes it is hard to celebrate the little victories
so here's to those triumphs, the forgotten ones
Here's to getting out of bed before noon
here's to not calling in sick to work
remembering to return the dvd's on time
eating food that will make me feel good
eating food in general
bringing my inhaler with me when I know I'm going to smoke cigarettes
not beating myself up for smoking said cigarettes
here's to a summer in which I am actually comfortable in my own skin
and here's to daily progress
 May 2016 Miss Honey
Mike Adam
Not i
 May 2016 Miss Honey
Mike Adam
The man who
can barbecue some
poor dumb animal

Fix your car
put up a shelf
for the romantic books
piled on your floor.

I am not that man.

I am not that man
to carry you over
thresholds garnered
in new gold and tiled
from byzantine shores.

I am not that man
you dream of
dripping money and
flashbulbs popping
your every red woven
glide coiffed and coutoured

I am not that man

I am real
there is a whole bunch of steps,
maybe more than you can handle,
but you can't stop climbing
because That's The Way It Is.

the first floor is labeled BIRTH.
it's covered with sweet smelling blood,
you roll in the blood until you've ****** enough nourishment from your mother, then you begin to stumble.

the second floor is labeled TIKE
and this floor is fun.
the walls are covered in bicycles and scabs, grass stains and ketchup, and you don't tire of climbing the stairs this floor holds.

the third floor is called MIDDLE SCHOOL and you experience anxiety for the first time. climbing the stairs begins to feel like a chore but at the end of each flight you are rewarded with letter grades and a feel or two up a skirt.

the fourth floor is called HIGH SCHOOL and it smells like beer and vaginal excrement and you spend half your time crying and the other half doing homework and yet you somehow manage to remain Hopeful.

the fifth staircase us called GAP YEAR and it's reminiscent of the second flight of stairs except now you have Privelage to go along with your Responsibility. These stairs smell like your favorite lake and magic mushrooms and Monty Python. They feel fulfilling yet wasteful, encompassing yet misdirecting.

attentive reader, I just signed up for college 600 miles away from home, I know the next staircase is called College and it smells like beer, but I know nothing else. Wish me luck, please, I think I'll need it.
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