#spilled journal
‘put a woman together, the dream-man said.
I took the pin
and rolled her skin thinner.
put the woman together, the dream-man said.
I weighed the brain and heart as one
but left the lungs and liver.
put the woman together, the dream-man said,
and I chose eyes for her;
now put her together, he repeated, voice irritated, now—
but I had no clue how to stitch her.’
'the woman together,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1261
‘she wants
that which she does not show;
she has no desire for that
will merely melt the iceberg—
dive deeper, dive deeper, the depths
scream and cry;
but that is where her monsters are
so explorers should beware the bite.’
'true love,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1260
looking into a heart-shaped mirror,
seeing ringlets and lace and long long lashes, thinking.
thinking,I’m the prettiest doll
that I’m ever going to be.
my doll-house is where I keep my victories.
over-achiever, people-pleaser;
I spend all my time
before some kind of mirror –
it’s easier to believe you’re a pleasure to teach
when you’re a pleasure to see.
I wonder,
just how long
before my china shoulders shatter?
I won’t be fuckable forever.
what if I end up as a grave
that no stranger will never admire?
go at your own pace,
says the old woman
who lives in my head.
she rocks, on a rocking chair;
I rock with her, try and listen
when she says, calm down.
you have so many years ahead of you.
open my jewellery box. a thousand baubles
for a hundred achievements –
and which one of them is enough?
flowers blossom beautifully and die quickly:
maybe I’m done. maybe my season’s up.
choker of pearls. aren’t you a pretty girl?
I’m not so special as they said,
and my luck will not forever last –
I’ll fail, soon. and I’d rather be dead.
we are rocking, still. harder, now:
my nails bite into my calves.
my breathing is shallow, sharp:
a sad stream, shuddering through
a Winter wall of jagged rocks.
fall, my old woman suggests, voice soft
like a skipping stone. cry. I’ll catch you.
I don’t.
‘I wrote this instead,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1259
‘look, look: the hearth is warm;
the beds rest on clouds, your spirit on stars.
do you want the door to open? if so, then speak!
you are but one step away— you lock yourself behind bars.
are you not starving here? do you not weep?
take on the lion’s courage, and be brave:
conquer your fear of the door, my darling,
and you will be warm— you will be saved.’
'1 chronicles 17:25,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1258
‘I love like I eat:
in dainty bites— I’m all downturned desperate eyes,
never wanting the chef to know that I’m still hungry.’
'hunger,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1257
‘light exists not in passivity;
light burns, and brightens, and purifies.
tame not the anger that rises from compassion;
never dull the shine of loving eyes.’
'isaiah 58,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1255
‘I do not deserve all your roughness
simply because I will not break;
my bleeding is not yours to give,
when it is mine to take.’
'gentle handling,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1254
‘He sees the world all filled with mirrors: he sees not others, but how he feels about others; he loves not me, but his love for me.’
'the self-centred man,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1253
“well now I understand, how a mother’s heart
can boil into such a brutal cold;
I have thawed my rage, as I am without command;
weak as I am, I fall before your demands. I am subjected; I am told.
Hades too shall have my babe, should
this predatory Winter’s swollen stomach grow –
I give you my ring in hopes that it birth
no more— that the frozen rivers will start to flow.
Fill our fields with cornucopias of corn,
bright and golden as that which I have bequeathed –
how we shall chant your praises, then!
You shall wear our bounty as a victor’s wreath.
I fear for my love. I do not cry, nor rest, just rage;
believe truly, goddess, that I understand your pain –
for, if it were I that could grip the Sun, I would care
for no burned fingers:
I would starve you all— you too, fellow mother—
and starve you still again.”
‘a mother’s offering, designed to move demeter,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1252
