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Molly Pendleton Jan 2014
I am not in love with her
Or lust, or infatuation
But nonetheless;  
She leaves her mark
Traces of herself all over me
Mahogany stains bleed through on my fingertips
Streaks of purple smudgings are left in my ear canals
Trickles of red wine are swept along my tender neck
Oozing down, down, down, down
And I cannot scrub this from my skin
No matter how many hours I waste
Lathering myself up into a foam of obliviousness
Still at the end of the day she is there, intriguing as ever
Trapping me again
In this foggy purple haze
Molly Pendleton Nov 2013
I need you
I need you like oxygen
Or food or water or sleep
Though I’ve made it through stinted periods without you
I always come crawling back in withdrawal
I could call you an addiction, but you aren’t; you’re a blessing
Like I needed the razor I kept in my hoodie pocket
You cut through life’s ******* the same way that blade did
But without bubbling blood up through my skin
The crawl space I used to cry in could never comfort me like you
You pry open my eyes to harsh, enlightening reality
That space was a blanket of blissful ignorance over necessary truth
I could call you an addiction, but you aren’t; you’re a blessing
I always come crawling back in withdrawal
After stinted periods without you
I’ve made it without food or water or sleep
I’ve made it without oxygen
But I need you
Molly Pendleton Nov 2013
This is a tricky game
Infatuation floods the chest
Instantly; but it isn’t water
Far too vast for that
It’s warm, syrupy and thick
Wreaking havoc and
Producing symptoms
Glazed eyes
Flushed cheeks
Formed through
Indulgent nights
Giggling softly
Instead of sleeping
It all feels so good
Within your chest
You would never want to
Rid yourself of it
But infatuation is disorderly
Overwhelming and easily spread
A molasses mess of fantasy
Of everything you think you feel
Once those feelings
Curdle inside your chest
Into a hardened truth
You will not be able
To breathe
Molly Pendleton Sep 2013
Hey, listen.
You hurt me
Really, really bad.
But it’s okay.
It happens.
**** happens.
We don’t always
See the consequences
Of our actions
It’s okay.
If you ever decide
To speak to me again
I’ll be right here
Molly Pendleton Aug 2013
I like to throw parties
Atypical of most sixteen year olds
With nice homes or
Any semblance of social lives

I like to throw parties
Without that horrid throbbing bass
Free of that hormonal chaos
That reeks on the furniture for weeks

I like to throw parties
The way that God likes to write our fates
Pulling strings to drag the misfits and the dorks
Together in one place

I like to throw parties
Where happiness is what is expected
Laughter is what is anticipated
Cause everyone there is meant to be
Molly Pendleton Jul 2013
I want to protect you from the storms of life
I want to be your umbrella in the torrential downpour we call tough times
Though my fabrics may be porous and the water I shield you from may cause splash back
I want to be there
At times it may seem that no one loves you
I’m **** sure that’s not true
But I am not always sure that anyone else has a good enough grasp on the word to know
That it by definition means you have to be there for the ones you claim to love
Otherwise it doesn’t mean a thing
Otherwise you’re just the dope standing in line at the store trying to get a return without a receipt
But why would anyone want to return you?
You may have come straight out of the package only to be a busted toy that fell into bad hands
But as a porous old umbrella I can assure you
In my life you are the best that I have got
I’d rather shield you from the rain than any naïve, gleaming package
Whom has no comprehension of how ****** life is beyond the store walls
And you are far more beautiful anyways, with those missing bits and nicks in your plastic
In fact I thought you were so beautiful I wrenched myself from my owner’s hands
So I could protect you from the pain within the rain instead
You were just a toy that had been trashed but I was willing to lose myself for you
Willing to lose my time inside my cocoon of ignorance in someone else’s hands
Just so that I could be blessed enough to call you my best friend
I wanted to bear the weathers over our heads so that yours wouldn’t feel a drop
And the only weather I can’t protect you from is the flood of your tears
But when they surge upon us in times of trouble I prefer to invert myself and collect
Allowing them to pool in the basin of my memories so that one day when you’re stronger than that
We can take the time to look back and laugh
At the broken toy that couldn’t see that her worst problems
Could be fixed by a leaky old umbrella
A poem for my best friend.
Molly Pendleton Jul 2013
I am a sheep wrought with steel wool that’s coarse and painful to the touch
It erupts anything that touches me into a throng of agitated skin disease
So I habitually avoid anyone and anything that nears me with my terrified animalistic eyes
For fear of watching some curious creature bleed because of me and my dangerous idiocy
However as a sheep with sheep tendencies I can’t help but follow after the herd of my family
From a distance; trotting over trodden grass that’s easier on my hooved feet
Than other paths that are less traveled, more dangerous and more interesting
Instead staring at my family’s tail ends with an envy too poignant for my age
As they baa and cackle and coo over their own amusements and mutual understandings
And I find myself wishing woefully that I wasn’t just a sheep with steel wool
But a ferocious wolf, independent and beautiful; merely hiding within an ugly costume
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