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Monica Abigail Jul 2015
The seat creaked from age
as I nervously sat and rocked
b           d   f                    b           d   f
a        n       o                   a        n       o
  c     a            r                  c     a            r
   k                    t                  k                  t
    ­                       h                                      h
awaiting my fate.
"You're out of here
until your head is right.
"
My mother's words fell around me,
showering me with relief.
I tried to hide my smile
when I got up
and walked to the door.

I knew I would be in Kylie's arms soon,
naked and drunk.
My head was only ever right
when it was with hers
so I cut myself open
and let her crawl inside.
I still find pieces of her in here
sometimes.
Monica Abigail Jul 2015
The religious fanatics in my town
replaced the *** toy store
with a business that sells headstones.
No longer will you find
things that vibrate
or 12 inch purple dongs.
No more double sided ******
or crotchless *******.
Instead you'll find big slabs
of granite and marble
engraved with birds kissing
inside of grey hearts.
It seems appropriate
that religion would come in
and wipe out curiosity and *******
with death.
Monica Abigail Feb 2015
On ******* nights
she chased her lines
with feverish kisses
and ******* during the come down.

On acid nights
she played Animal Collective
while she searched for galaxies
in my eyes.
We would kiss through laughter
and **** like goddesses.

On whiskey nights
her kisses felt like punches
and we ****** like it was ******.

We rarely had sober nights.
Sobriety has never suited me
and she looked so ******* dead
when she wasn't flooding her brain
with fake emotions
and impaired *******.
Monica Abigail Feb 2015
I miss the days
drinking beer
alone
watching my sanity
slip through the cracks
of my skull,
laughing at the face
looking back at me
with such disgusting pleasure.
Surely I'm mad.
You're even madder
for loving this train-wreck.
I hope for your sake
you're prepared for the
C     R     A     S     H
   *c     r      a     s      h
Monica Abigail Jan 2015
I have a bottle of your perfume.
Sometimes I spray it
when I don't want to think of you
as the woman who ruined me,
who stole my name,
my identity.
I spray it when I miss the woman
who used to make me believe
that I was capable of anything,
the woman who hated  to see me hurt
(oh, how you hurt me now...)
so she would send me flowers anonymously
to restore my faith in magic.
I smell your perfume
and I go back to a time
before lies and hateful words,
when it was just you and me
and you'd play with my hair
after you let me paint your face
with makeup you'd pretend to love.
We were happy, inseparable.
I hate myself for missing you.
What I hate even more
is that I'll never have you back
because the person you've become
is an evil stranger I can never love.
One day this bottle will be empty.
I hope by then
I've forgotten how to miss your ghost.
This poem is about my mother.  We don't really have a relationship anymore but we used to be extremely close until she became very physically and mentally ill.  We don't speak anymore for many, many reasons that I don't care to explain.  This was a really hard piece for me to write.  I hope you enjoy it.
Monica Abigail Dec 2014
If you ask me,
hell is just one never ending loop
of every awful thing you could imagine.
You try to leave the room
where your heart is being crushed
but when you open the door
you walk right back into the same room,
forced to live it over
and over
and over...
until the only option
is to paint the wall with your blood
but no one can really die in hell
and that's what makes it truly awful.
Monica Abigail Sep 2014
I'll never forget
the day you left
as it is etched into my mind
and into my body,
forever,
constantly reminding me
what not to do.
Like don't buy your girlfriend
lipstick from the clearance aisle
and then tell her,
"Look, you're my 75¢ *****."
because you will get slapped
in the middle of whatever ungodly store
that sells 75¢ lipstick.
You will wake up alone and hungover
listening to the crushing silence...
Come to think of it...
Maybe you're the list of things to do
when you need to find peace and quiet.
I'd just like to say that I'm the person that called the girl the 75¢ *****. Some people read it as if I was called the *****.
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