#spilled poem

I hate myself for loving him
I fall a victim of his idle grin
His jokes are tasteless
His words are vain
But when I’m with him
There is no pain.
Just the subtle sting of wanting him mine.
I hate myself for giving him all my time.

I’ll write a letter to you every day that you’re gone
The words flow like blood dripping out as they’re drawn
A letter to you
Every day that I miss
A confession of heartbreak
Sealed with a kiss

r.t.

“no longer swimming in water that shallows my depth. no longer assuming responsibility of calming waves that i never started. no longer diving deep to reach anyone who’d rather see me drown than see me reach myself. no longer tending to what’s convenient, but only what’s for me.”

— iambrillyant

‘Inside I am all hollow, winding—

how I imagine a turned-out seashell—

and in the very centre there lives a china woman,

gathering water from my inner well.’

'break,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1280

‘guilt is a flower; it takes root, tangling

down the spine and round the lungs—

it waits, snake-like, for its chance to blossom;

today, it is done.’

'guilt,’- Megan’s Poetry #1279

‘I was born into a thorn-bush;

now, as if I were the one to fall,

I must find the thorns lodged in my breast

and remove them, one and all.’

'the thorn-bush,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1278

‘strip the fruit, but do not tear the branches;

leave me my roots—

I will flower again.’

'in time,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1277

‘replace the puppet strings with ribbons,

tie them in a little bow—

now you can yank as you like

and she will never know!’

'puppetry,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1276

‘I ​see her in my mind’s eye, that sweat-soft starlet. ringlets clinging to her swan neck,

dark hair bleached gold

beneath the soft glow of the morning Sun—

lips stained purple, dress bruised red.’

'life of the party,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1275

‘is love winged bliss, or steady ground?—

maybe not;

but, I know, it is not so

an unstable path as this.’

'falling,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1274

‘I am proud to have practiced loving;

I am proud to know you to your bones—

I am proud to know which tendons to pull

and which to leave alone.’

'to be known,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1273

‘I know not; I kneel still;

surely there is direction

in a pleading posture’s lines?’

'ayin,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1272

‘I am pursued by a formless being:

it gives constant chase, so I live fleeing—

first plucking the Sun, as I might fruit to eat,

it strides across the sky with a hunter’s feet;

its Brobdingnagian limbs now cross the land,

where it catches the moon in one clawed hand—’

'time,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1271

‘I cry the tears you claw from me now

with knowledge that they are my pre-emptive mourning;

my eyes, you say, cannot see—

but at least I am not blind to where our story is going.’

'pre-emptive mourning,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1270

‘we stand here in this wreckage—

scraps of plaster, shards of china, four walls echoing

with rage, and imprinted

with fists, torn as you stand there and tell me

that the dropped tears upon the floor

prove that I am too emotional.’

'anger, the non-emotion,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1269

‘love, meat-like, only serves to make us sick in the rawness of it—

tame your feeling; for I will not stand to be bowled by the strength of it.’

'love, meat-like,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1268

‘the days uncoil;

strips of rain—

I will not shiver under this 'slaught again;

I will miss not the times, but Time—

that great beast— I have never trapped him;

still, I do not let him go with ease.

—what happens in the dryness?’

'the days of the desert,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1267

‘and I love the portrait

but never the man—

when away,

I keep it in my pocket,

cased in an ornate golden locket,

and look at it,

whenever I can;

when finally the journey is over

and no longer we are parted—

I remember how much I longed to leave,

that his presence leaves me broken-hearted.’

'the locket,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1266

‘you weigh yourself out in pieces—

tiny morsels, bites of nothing

that regardless make you bleed.

just when you’ve rationed enough to make the scales even

they change the recipe.’

'day to day,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1265

‘and I’d sever my right hand

to have you kiss the left—

I’d burn in flames

if I thought you’d love the ashes.’

'unloved,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1264