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

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

There was an army of ants in the plastic plants
So I poured light through a magnifying glass
And I created a fire on the artificial grass

They scurried and hurried
with flames on their backs
Like soldiers on a hopeless plain,
searching for invisible barracks

And I sighed as they died,
because we are all the same:
Scurrying and hurrying from invisible pain

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.

Sing with me,
I've slept with bloodshot eyes
I've dreamt of a sunrise
that erases everything  
Oh, every thing

Move with me
You won't have to be alone
Wrap your hand around a microphone
And sing with me until the sun comes

Sleep with me
Talk to me about yourself all night
We'll grow tired as the dawn bites
And lay side by side,
with no where to hide

Too tired-
we can pretend to be dead
Too bad it's all in my head
It's all in your head
We'll never be dead

If you can impress without effort,
you're likely doing something right.

If you can't impress with effort,
you're likely doing something wrong.

mercy-
left town
on a late night train-
running again
with no place left to go

and all tracks look the same
when the lights are burning low

mercy-
don't come knocking
'round my door
-anymore

mercy-
I need mercy-
I need some more

and all tracks look the same
when the lights are burning low

mercy-
where she's gone
i don't know

-mercy.

r ~ 9/14/14

Put on another record
Now let's lay together
You say it doesn't matter
Yet can't you hear the faint shatter?
Count back from ten
Please let's start again
I'm sick of this constricting quarantine,
baby can't you see?
You're my dopamine.

When he talks, I can hear it.
Every syllable, I can hear it.
Every time his tongue whips the back of his upper teeth I hear it.

When his lips are shooting arrows, slicing crimson haze I hear it,
hear the anguished rumble of Venus birthing stellar symphonies,
and when his vocal cords are trembling do I hear this convocation.
As the sun begins to cry, do I hear of merciful heavens.
When fiery lips blast melodies that stun my ears and sear my tongue,
do I hear the distant quell as nebulae shiver crack and burst.

He slaughters constellations with prose.
He ignites the universe with murmurs.
He pulls Andromeda in speech,
every astral breath and screech.

One: I am born, brown eyed and screaming
Two: I am four years old, people compliment my sisters exotic green eyes. Are mine ugly?
Three: I am seven, and I am thinner than her. I win.
Four: I am eleven and I lie about my weight. I wish I was skinny.
Five: I am thirteen, refusing to eat
Six: I am fourteen and empty. I cut every inch of my body
Seven: I am fifteen and miserable. I contemplate suicide
Eight: I am sixteen and medicated. Meghan killed herself. I am bones. Am I alive?
Nine**: I am seventeen and I ache, but I am healing