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Madison Y May 2017
white lace and
fishnet stockings, baby
soft lips and wide
green eyes. she ain't naive,
she's resourceful, using
what God gave her. burns
cigarettes like incense,
just to make dust
fall on the shiny redwood
dresser, float like
ghosts in the air. it's how
she knows ghosts
are real—how she knows
she's real.
Madison Y Sep 2016
I’ve been thinking about
How they’d find me if I’m the next
Set to sleep in a velvet-lined box.

Clear nail polish,
Wide eyes and porcelain skin,
But a tattoo hidden beneath my white
Ralph Lauren blouse,
Just below my right breast.
I got it when I was sixteen, searching
For reasons to breathe.

There’d be slits in my wrists
From a watch that was always too tight,
My hair would be knotted, frayed,
Out of place for the first time, in tatters
And freshly women patterns
Of thread, home
To a spider or two.

Maybe they’d look in my purse,
Hoping for some ID,
And they’d find the pack of condoms
Tucked in the zippered compartment,
Or the Lortab saved from my trip
To the oral surgeon’s—God knows
The pain didn’t go away.

My feet would be covered in dirt,
And there’d be scratches on my
Bare legs. They’d take pictures, shake
Their heads, tsk

What a waste,
But I’d say
Nothing at all. To me,
The alley behind the smoke shop
May as well be a velvet box.
Madison Y Sep 2016
“Love is short, forgetting is so long.” –Pablo Neruda*

close your eyes, keep them closed.
take an ice pick
and blind yourself to any reminders
of his flyaway hair or wrinkled jeans.
pour antifreeze on the memory
of the way he used to stroke your arm
before the kiss, and the cauliflower soup
he brought over when your dog was hit by a car,
and your eyes were swollen shut from crying, and
you wouldn’t get out of bed.
Keep a bottle of ***** nearby
to numb the area as you carve yourself
into a shape he hasn’t seen, skin
he hasn’t touched.
don’t breathe
until you’ve lost enough brain cells
to feel something again.
when you no longer see him in the face
of the cashier at the supermarket, when
you no longer recognize your reflection
in the tinted windows of an all-too-familiar white
sedan, you’ll know that you’ve finally done something
Madison Y Dec 2015
If open books suddenly close,
So the fears I've written can never escape
And the creases in my mind where you marked your place
Once again become whole,
I'll fold what remains
And carry it in my pocket;
I've never met someone who could turn a page so lovingly
As you.
Madison Y Dec 2015
Glass wasn't made to shatter;
Paper wasn't made to tear.
Fragmentation is a side effect of carelessness, not of life–
Not of love.
A rose is not meant to be crushed, pulled apart petal by petal, simply because it is soft.
The doe, graceful and wide-eyed, was not created to die at the hands of a man indistinguishable from a snake in the grass.
The monarch does not flutter with lithe wings to be caught, classified, and pinned to a page,
Nor do the leaves change hue, turn crisp, and fall to be crushed beneath an entitled foot.
I do not paint my eyes so that you can watch me bleed black and gold down my cheeks,
Nor do I wear my heart on my sleeve so that you can rip it apart valve by valve.
I am not your window pane, nor your blank page; your willow tree, nor your frozen stream.
I am the rabbit sleeping deep in her borough; I am the bluebird flitting between trees.
I may be fragile, but that doesn't give you permission to break me.
Madison Y Dec 2015
My philosophy professor posed a question:

Mary, an expert in color—

The way light bends through rods and cones and the use of electromagnetic radiation—

Is blind to it, unable to even imagine the beauty

Of your sea foam eyes,

Rose petal lips. 

Does she, knowing every fact, every formula,

Truly know color? 
It got me thinking,

(I guess that’s the purpose of philosophy)

Did I really love you?
(It felt real to me.)
Madison Y Nov 2015
You hold me tighter than you used to,
But I don't mind—Not at all.
Somehow forever feels like I could count it on one hand,
And love is a word that can't even touch its own meaning.
I'd thank God or the stars, but you are so much more than a miracle—
You are the drop of rain before the storm;
You are the wind that whistles through the leaves.
I find you in everything: you keep me sane when the thunder hits too hard or the air gets too thin.
I want nothing, except you;
You in every form, every breath, every light—
The only person who could see the fire before it burnt me,
The venom before it stung me,
Change it to a smile and a heartbeat,
And still tell me that I'm lovely.
I could have a thousand chances, and I'd choose you every time.
I could live a thousand lifetimes, but only if you were by my side.
You are the exception to every rule that I made,
Every breath I take is for you—You and your soft eyes, sweet disposition,
Love as powerful as an earthquake, but as subtle as a snowflake melting on the tip of my tongue.
I've spent all this time running,
But you caught me, made me believe that you're here to stay;
Sweetheart, I promise you the same.
I hold you tighter than I used to, but you don't mind,
Do you?
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