When the wind
Shouts down the leafs,
I hear.

If clouds mass
In formation,
I see.

As the ground
Rolls its fat,
I feel.

Should the rain
Reach my lips,
I taste.

After  bees
Give birth to scents,
I smell.

Near you,
I'm senseless.

I have never written a single poem
that my lovers could understand.

In truth, all my romantic verse is simple,
self-congratulatory applause

for not falling victim
to the virus of sentiment.


I am a gifted liar.

Dearest Reader,


My name is Margot Dylan, and I'm a pariah.

On the 16th of April, I told my mother that I was gay. She threw the clay mug that I made for her before she found out I was gay, against the floral, peeling wallpaper mess of a wall, in our kitchen. The decaffeinated peppermint green tea left a wonderful aroma that almost cleansed the room of the stench of 'lesbian'.

I met Dylan Dunham a few days after that, and, a few days later, she was the first girl that I ever loved.

Dylan wore a red flannel jacket, and was a butch and sometimes a *****-but I loved her even at her tomboy cruelest.

Dylan smoked a cigarette that smelled like lonerism, and she looked at me like she didn't care. My heart skipped a beat, as cliche as it sounds, whenever she would remove the cigarette from her mouth, exhale, and look at me as smoke traveled up her face. I looked at her and knew that she was everything that I wasn't, and everything that I wanted.

Dylan was Dianne, before and after school. Dylan was Dianne, who wore floral dresses and lipstick and who ditched her butch clothing in her locker before leaving. Dylan was Dianne, who was straight and who thought Tyler Wesson, from church, was cute. Dylan was Dianne, who had a short hair cut because of track and field, because she explained that she ran a faster time with less hair. Dylan was Dianne, who didn't associate with me before or after school because her parents knew that I was gay.

During school hours, the only thing Dylan did keep from Dianne was the lipstick. I was envious of the cigarette because of it's burgundy stains. We would stand in a stall, as she looked across from me, after each drag. She frequently offered her cigarettes, but I refused because I only let love **** me. If she ever brought alcohol, sometimes she'd kiss me. I told her that I loved her and she said, "I know."

The only thing that Dylan kept from me was my heart, before she started to smoke cigarettes in the bathroom with Annie Way.


I wish you the best moments so they can overcome the worst,

Margot Dylan

Mother, Father
I am six foot one and I can see over the trees
I can **** mountains and bury my bones in the soil
I am six foot one and I am just tall enough to see the truth
I can look over others but I can't look over myself
My shoulders bend like a bow, waiting to break
And I can feel it all. I can feel it all.

And to you,
May your temporary smile be a golden forever
And your heart existent with or without hope
Let your brain open doors your hands cannot touch
And your chest not collapse when the smoke is too much
To live and to love with you is the grandest adventure
And to cut myself on your edges, bleeds into itself
And to live in your heart, is the biggest place I've ever found
And to kiss you until my hands break and there is no sound

And to all of us,
We're a dark piece of trash
Ribs are a cage and holographic souls sing
Disenchanted by the human experience
We're pretentious and objectify everything

And to all of us,
We're all light, we're all eyes wondering wide
And we all shine bright, some of us cannot hide
May your hands slant, slowly slinging
towards the bells that are slowly ringing
and may you strike a chord in all of us.
May your existence be a temporary forever.

Out of body, out of touch
If I feel at all, then I feel too much
This poem is as shallow as my grave

But I'm still digging

If I want a God then I'll misbehave
If I want to be sad then I'll entertain
Just because I'm found
doesn't mean I'm around
Just because I'm growing up
Doesn't mean I can't be down

I'm sorry, mom and dad,
but if I want to be happy then I'll have to be sad
I'll write until my fingers bleed
Until my words are the blood that the readers need

I'm in love with someone's daughter
living in the shards of a broken home
Cutting herself on two year-old letters
These are moments she can't fake;
reasons to feel alone
So used to abuse, her tears start to shake
I hold her close as her head starts to ache
"I love you too much,
so I can't let your heart break."
She said, "I know you love me,
but you've made a mistake."

I never meant for anyone to be my pulse.
I promise not to step on your feet
if you teach me how to waltz.