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Taylor Marion Oct 2016
It was the turning point of my youth.
The age I realized,
“If I dig far enough into my mind, I can eventually find gold.”
So I stood in the middle of the street of my hometown, stared into the sky and begged for answers.
(Answers I was too affected to search for in front of me)
It didn’t hear my questions, of course,
so I made up the answers myself and made those answers my religion.
I guess I wanted to feel responsible for my maker’s omnipotence.

Always feeling misunderstood, I ignored those who opposed me and opened my ears to those alike. I sang along and sang into a mic like I was atop a podium.
I felt special and entitled.
I wanted to be heard like the rest of them and die with my shrill cry echoing for all eternity until eternity died.

Now, I’m beginning to see my skin fold and my eyes inflame.
I look back on past thoughts and deride.
How embarrassing it is to have zero experience and claim to have lived like you’ve lived nine lives.
Since, I’ve thrown out many records along with my many bloated ideas
because my neck has become exhausted from holding my thick nose in the air.
And my religion keeps shrinking the drunker I get with loneliness
and now I finally have room to see who my maker has made: a faker.

All my idols are *******
Dressed as angels
All my idols are crooks
Dressed as victims
All my idols are artists
Dressed as… well… whoever they want you to see.
Almost as well dressed as me
Taylor Marion Oct 2016
If you find yourself still bleeding, open your diary and reevaluate the moth-eaten story of your heartbreak. Reconcile where it all went wrong and follow this perfect recipe to cook up a new anxiety:

- Flip-flop blame onto you—onto them—back onto you

- Stew in all 26 emotions you never had the chance to express

- Brainstorm every possible outcome you could’ve conducted

- Choose the happiest ending

- Let it simmer overnight

- Set it in the freezer so it will never get old

It must first be thawed before it is dined, but I should warn you that when recooked, the odor is foul, the taste is stale, and you will unavoidably lose your appetite.  

You can either starve or swallow the pain.

The choice is yours.
Taylor Marion Oct 2016
The patient came to me with a plea I couldn’t refuse, so I placed my hand on his cold spine and warmed up to him, I the fire and he, suffering a harsh winter. With the rapid beat of his heart drumming against my palm, I doctored and diagnosed him. I fed him medicine and he was fine for a temporary time. A temporary, potentially affective, time. So warm, so brief—full recovery could’ve been conceived during the month of July if it weren’t miscarried, leaving that promise as a seed forever forgotten during harvest.

The patient would come back monthly for his check-up, claiming a new illness, begging for a new medicine. I’d give it to him willingly. After all, he needed help.

After about a year, I gave out so much to him there was hardly medicine left for my other patients.

Considering, I reduced his dose to even the imbalance.

“Can you not see how I need your help?” said the most desperate wrinkle of a face, “Did I do something to deserve this?”

“No! No, of course not. There is just limited supply and high demand. You are one of many mouths to feed!”

“Do you not care for me anymore?” Was the worst one. Of course I cared for him. Admittedly, I cared for him more than all my other patients. I know this is not professional of me to disclose, nor is it fair, but it is an honest guilt that tugs at my hair like a gluttonous infant.

Blame was thrown at me like cannonballs. Suddenly, I was the cancer he tried so hard to fight. That thought alone was too heavy a burden to bare, so I reluctantly gave him the entirety of my supply.

Day in and day out, I began to hear the other patients drop like thick glass behind me, where I would never look back. I kept a steady eye on him, as he was my child in a rackety crib I was too afraid to leave alone for the fear that he’d stop breathing at any moment. I am a miserable, exhausted mother of a child that never matured.

And it’s just he and I now, forever in frozen time.
Taylor Marion Oct 2016
Such a solace that comes with the world at its brightest
and its brightest moments.
I find myself fleeting from one moment to the next,
taking what I can from it and passing that along like a butterfly.
But the more my heart ages, the more difficult this becomes.
When you’re young, everything is colorful and hardly lucid.
Incomplete, in a way that lets you fill in the blanks
with whatever your heart feels is necessary.
Your world, and the worlds you create
with crayons on coloring books or chalk on the pavement.
Costumes in a bin with the scent of one hundred fairytales exhaling from their threads,
tickling your nostrils and swimming downward so you can taste the sweetness of imagination
dancing on your tongue.

Most flowers I visit these days are damaged,
their petals weak, their luster lacking.
They give me what they can, but it is seldom.
I pass it along gratefully to starving mouths and leave them disappointed.
Times like these, I wish I still had the bravery to grab a marker and color the walls,
splatter them with paint,
stain my environment
in the most innocent form.
Supposing I tried anyway, nothing would show
on top of the deep black paint
that’s been there since the day I moved into my new home.

My new home
has magazines on the coffee table dated earlier this year.
The curtains are closed to prevent glare from gleaming on the television,
which is paused on the screen of yesterday’s news.
The ***** cabinet above my bathroom sink
is filling to the brim with orange bottles and blue capsules—
the only constant that reminds me what day of the week it is,
and sadly, the lonesome reason I chose to awake.
And the only time color flows through my own hands anymore,
is when it bleeds from a black, ballpoint pen
in perfect cursive signing off my many debts
piled on top of my many to-do lists
I’ll never have time to complete.
  Oct 2016 Taylor Marion
Sarah Spang
Unclasp your fingers
Your clenched fists
And know the release of
Giving in

Let him drift away
Let the ocean stand between you
As a testament
To the vast expanse
That exists there now.

Stop fighting the waves.
Stop braving the icy waters
Arm over arm
To reach him on the other side.

The water will always win.
And you never were much of a swimmer.
He's just a distant island now
Shrouded in fog
Somewhere over the horizon.

Rest now,
The fight is over.
Your mangled, frantic heart
Can slow
And begin another tempo
When it's no longer bleeding over
An unreachable coastline.
  Oct 2016 Taylor Marion
The only part of my day
That I look forward to
Is when I go to bed
And lay there making up scenarios
In my head.

I think of comebacks
To 8th grade bullies.
I think of witty retorts
To my mother's snide comments.
I think of intelligent things to add
To conversations I had months ago.

I think of all the things
I was too scared to say.

And in my mind
I say them.
And pretend how things would be different
If only I had the courage to speak.
  Oct 2016 Taylor Marion
a m a n d a
i find it vexing

when you decide
not to
use words.

...and there are
so many to
choose from.
string together 9 or 10
and you begin
to bridge the divide.

you can even
sing them
scratch them
type them
take photographs of them.
there are ways.

you slam down
strange, wordless barriers
choosing a route
sure to cause
and disarray.

i don't know
how true it is
to say
that actions
speak louder
than words...

it is hard to
glean intent
from an action...
one does not
necessarily always follow
the other.

it is in this state
of guessing,
of chaos,
of fragmentation -
that i constantly
find myself
entrenched in.

it causes a glitch
in my system...
this endless

and i can't help
but believe
if i had the words
if you
gave me the words
i could construct
a story.
an understanding.

and there is nothing
i want more
than a
good story.
a connection,
an awareness of
the way
things are supposed
to move together.

i keep getting stuck.
i keep having to
construct all my own stories,
and reinventions.

i don't want to
have to work so hard
to piece together
this disaster
of human

this exquisite search
for meaning.

this heartbreaking
each other.
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