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Olivia McCann Nov 2018
I slurp down
a salty golden liquid
full of lacerated noodles and flakes
which glisten in their own yellowed oil spill.

I tip the bowl to my mouth
and it fills my stomach from the bottom.

She's made it just for me,
just in time for my despair
although she didn't know that
when she made it.

I'm sick!
I tell her.
I was.

Fever, achy joints,
pits of nausea, and silicone pain,
the works.

I'm getting better.
there is just a dull ache left
but I am still sick
in the head.

A head where plays
a tug of war between
anguish with a goofy hat
and comedy with a noose.

My body gets dragged along with
my chemical eruptions
both biological
and habit-forming,
and my body grows tired.

The soup goes down quick;
the main course after leftovers from lunch.
And all of it fizzles in my belly.

A cigarette might help all of it a little.
Except for the despair.
The soup is for my despair.
Olivia McCann Apr 2015
"Death and Love,"
he said. Something caught
between his lips killed me
as he spoke.
His eyes were ashy,
clouded by a puff of smoke.
I could see them though,
dead centers,
in love suspended.

And then he said,
"They mean the same thing."
"I know,
I think I'm
Starting to learn."

A chord trembles in his voice,
and I can imagine him
hear him even,
when I see the words.
He's exposed and hidden,
choking on all the things
he can't write fast enough.

But they go to the page
and radiate from
his throat,
as his eyes go wild-

He's on the verge of death
and curses love.
The cigarette is
burnt down,
but there are
other things to do.
and he runs off,
leaving end smoke
on my clothes.
Olivia McCann Apr 2015
That's what he told me
years ago,
when the hills first
started to sprout
in my head,
beneath the sandcastles,
and under built fairy huts,
when I knew the world was round,
but thought it felt like
a marble in my palm.

He told me,
while I wrote a poem about
a plant,
and then one about dirt,
because I thought
all the growing things were beautiful.

He told me,
after my multiplication
worksheet came back,
bearing 100%
and I couldn't have been
any more proud.

He told me,
after he showed me how to tie shoes
without bunny ears.

And I believed him.

The hills grew into mountains
I promised to move.
But the fairies left the hut when
I left that house.
And the world was round,
but it looked awful flat.
The marble grew heavy, and
got too **** big to hold.

My poems changed,
I'd **** the plant, and the dirt
was only *****.
I thought sad was starting to
Look beautiful.
Math got hard, and I
always wanted new shoes.

Nothing grandpa said
made sense anymore
and his dementia-soaked brain
went too crazy for my company.

Still the mountains in my head grew,
but it was starting to be too late;
they were growing around me,
and I couldn't move myself,
let alone the mountains.
Olivia McCann Nov 2014
Ink pierced skin,
Image in
Thick black lines.
Skin bled
Adding red pigment
To all the haphazard
Gun shook,
******* up,
As he downed the liquor,
And smiled,
Admiring his work
Through proud
Drunk eyes.
Olivia McCann Nov 2014
Exquisite was the
Smoke on his lips.

Exquisite was his body,
Drawn in
Careful lines,
Forming sturdy,
Slender build.

Exquisite were the
Nicotine pipes,
That held the chemical,
As it raced around
Inside him,
Lifting that weight
That brought out
The frown lines.

Exquisite was the
Lit and burnt,
Disappearing down
The throat.

Exquisite was how it
Clean coming out of
Crisp pack,
And then burning *****.

A continual paradox
Because one
Blurs into five
While we talk.
#cigarette #him #beautiful #habit #sad #paradok #exquisite
Olivia McCann Nov 2014
I'll write to starve
She said.

I'll eat words,
Develop a bulemic
Purging the words
To the page in
Nauseating bursts.

I'll force it
When I have to.
I'll write when
The hunger pangs
Start to eat me.

I'll sum up calories through
Raucous poetry.
I'll grow weak
As my pen grows strong.

I'll write even when
My hand shakes
Because there's not
Enough sustenance.

I'll deny my body,
And cultivate my mind
With measured abundance.
I'll shrivel up and
Waste away.
But the words will stay
On the paper.

You'll see and say,
How can a skeleton write?

I'll grip the pen
With bony fingers
And I'll show you.
I'll feed you too.
Olivia McCann Oct 2014
He gave her a flower
And it multiplied
In her mind.
Lone petals millionizing
In exaggerated,

He gave her a cigarette.
It caused
The chain reaction
They call addiction.
It multiplied in her lungs-
She couldn't stay satisfied.
And she never quit.

He gave her a kiss.
Or maybe she stole it.
Those multiplied too.
Passion learning
Her lips aching and raw
When it was time to speak.

He gave her an end
When he left
And the second
She took down
Too many,
They multiplied
Death in her stomach.

Until the seconds ticked
And expanded onward
Because those seconds gone
Were infinitely gone,
Multiplied too much.
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