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Molly Feb 2015
XVI
girl goes to bed with makeup on, wakes up with sore muscles
girl goes to bed without locking the front door, wakes up in the driveway
girl goes to bed without saying goodnight, wakes up to brother shaking her shoulders
girl goes to bed with the phone off the hook, wakes up with mouthful of *****
girl goes to bed in the bathtub, wakes up with an armful of black thread
girl goes to bed in brother's room, wakes up with the tv still on
girl goes to bed next to boy, wakes up before he does
girl goes to bed without sleeping, wakes up the same time as always
girl goes to bed with a candle burning, wakes up to the sound of herself choking
girl goes to bed early, wakes up to obituary
girl goes to bed with her hand in the cabinet, decides not to wake up this time
Molly Feb 2015
Dear heartache,
I cannot say that I know you well,
I have never been in love
But I have loved,
Have loved deeply and quickly and without question,
Have loved quietly and cowardly,
Have been loved back.

Dear heartache,
I just wanted to know why you're still
Hanging around here,
Why you keep dropping by
When I have guests over,
They never stay once you show up.

Dear heartache,
I've only known you on the surface,
Have never known the right questions to ask
But I have memorized the structure of your being,
Can describe the color of your eyes down to every fleck of red-brown,
Can still feel every callous on your palm when I think about you,
You have become so commonplace.

Dear heartache,
I think I know what you're doing,
Think I have thought my way through your facade,
I think you are in love with love;
Think you have been following her around for so long
That you couldn't bare to let her go now,
Think you always show up too late,
Show up just as she walks out the door.

Dear heartache,
I cannot say that I know you well,
Cannot say that you have made a home for yourself
Somewhere within me,
Can only stand within your reach
And hope that someday while you are chasing love
She will find me.
Molly Feb 2015
Please understand that when I say these things it's not really me talking, it's the concrete in my stomach, it's the staples in between my toes, it's the zip ties around my wrists, it's the scars around my wrists, it's the coals in my throat, it's the liquor in my throat, it's the liquor in the cabinet my mom never had to put a lock on until I started hiding in it, it's the noose around my neck, it's the smoke in my eyes, it's the bullet in the barrel, it's the gun in my dad's closet, it's the gun in my hand, in my mouth, when I say these things it's not really me talking, it's all these things trying to get out.
Molly Feb 2015
Sometimes I wake up in the morning without the knot in my chest but I feel off balance so I try to put it back there, feel off balance like tilted bottles of triple sec sliding down my throat, feel off balance like waking up in a place I don't recognize.
Sometimes I smile when I'm sad but I'm scared my demons will feel betrayed so I try to hide it, scared to stare into the sun for too long, scared I'm not going to be able to feel anything anymore if I lose that.
Sometimes I decide I want to love myself again but I remember how I broke my heart before and I put walls up so I don't get hurt again, put walls up so I won't be surprised when I'm still lonely this time next year, put walls up so when I fail I can at least say I was never really trying.
Sometimes I think I'm getting better but I don't know where that leaves me so I think myself out of it, think myself into watercolor guilt, think myself into dying.
Molly Feb 2015
Jesus Christ I swear I'm trying it's just not working, everything keeps falling through, keeps slipping through, and maybe I'm not doing this right, maybe I'm just making mistakes, but I don't even know where to start, I'm trying to take it one step at a time but everything happens all at once and I'm not fast enough, I'm not strong enough to carry on like this, my feet are tired and I don't care enough to try any harder, I'm giving up, I'm sorry
Molly Feb 2015
I'm doing the best I can but I can't do this anymore, I keep crying in my sleep, keep having nightmares. I thought I saw a ghost yesterday until I realized I was looking in the ******* mirror, I'm haunting my own house, possessing my own body, I'm ******* the life out of myself. I tied a noose around my finger just to prove that I could do it, I keep a razor in my purse just to prove that I could do it, to prove to myself that I'm strong enough to not do it, but they keep whispering my name. The bottle of mouthwash with 5% alcohol keeps screaming at me and I can't use it anymore, it leaves that taste in my mouth, tastes like hangover and relapse and accidents, and they're all teasing me with promises of making it all just stop and God it sounds so sweet, sounds so sweet, I know it's not.
Molly Feb 2015
My body,

This overgrown graveyard,

This home for ghosts of the wrongly loved,

Doors open to broken souls,

Offering a warm bed,

Clean clothes,

A listening ear.



Most come in the winter

When the cold starts to ache and

The snow sinks through the gauze bandages and the wounds start to drip again,

There's never enough firewood,

Have to start chopping down trees,

Even the new peach tree at the edge of the yard,

So they can stay warm.

The blizzards shake the power out so they all congregate in the atrium,

Divulge tales around burning furniture

Of how they found this place,

This decrepit shelter

Turning more skeleton than home,

Their voices bounce off the hardwood floor,

Come to a resting point,

Fade out.



An old man with sad cheekbones who tried to drink his father back to life but only stumbled through the front door drunk,

A child in her Auntie's pearls led to the porch by a boy hungry for anyone,

The brokenhearted boy and the girl he could never hold tight enough who walked in on the same night but never called it fate,

The swollen lung man who choked on his words and fell blue faced in the entryway,

They all take up rooms here,

Mark their heights on the pantry door even though it never changes,

Claim ownership of these walls as they pull off the paper and paint over the scraps left behind,

The roof is starting to cave in because

They've started using the pillars for kindling.



They don't call this place home,

Don't plant any seeds in the garden that will take too long to sprout,

They call it an in-between,

Call it a place to spend the night,

Call it falling apart

As they tear it down,

Call it a place to hide while they fix their mistakes,

Leave their mistakes stuffed in the knife drawer.



When winter begins to melt

And the grass sticks up through the snow

They find their way out,

Leave with fresh pink scars,

Leave their used bandages in the bathtub,

Take a strip of wallpaper,

A peach from the tree by the edge of the yard

To remember it by.
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