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All Loss for Humanity

Poetry By: Kathleen Megquier
Poetry



I'm dying here.


Submitted:May 30, 2012    Reads: 77    Comments: 1    Likes: 0   


I close down the shades, I keep quiet until I know I'm safe.
I don't want your eyes burrowed in my soul.
I keep distant from anything that's warm, the cold is all I ever needed.
The callous fingertips of lovers.
The intentions from all the others.
I keep my legs and mind open.
I want to think that having something like this inside me will push everything decayed and rotting out from me.
I don't want to be here, in between nothing and somewhere.
If I take the hit, if I allow myself to inhale, it only takes me to a prettier place until I return back to the pale universe I was birthed in.
Where every dimmed out scene seems everlasting.
He kisses her, she kisses him, they make love, what a happy ending.
The babies grow like wallflowers, watching everything around them till they inhabit legs and arms, climb down from their innocent towers to walk among the unpleasant and distrustful.
I use to be that pristine, that lovely.
Now I'm this grotesque mess.
He's been, they've been, they've all just been.
No one wins, I want to be on top but I'm normally at the bottom of the list.
His kiss is tainted with another's lips.
I don't want this, I don't want this constant reminder of my mistakes.
His curved lips and knowing eyes, his thick lush of hair, his demise.
I want it back, I want it all back, but having it will only contract something awful, a product of dysfunctional components to construct themselves into my life.
I'm sick of always being right, if someone could prove me wrong just this once.
The my world would own the sun.
The green in the grass, the blue in the sky, all of it would sing loud for me.
Atlas, things are not that simplistic yet, I have to retrieve myself from this awful dessert of waste, where a windy storm blows around self loathing and hate.
When I reach the beaches of pleasantries, I know then that I had survived that awful part, that dubious place, never knowing a single out come, hoping to spiral into grace.
Inevitably this isn't all fact, I lie to myself to make things look more appealing, appeasing to the eye and my own peace of mind.
I'm not sure what will become of me, as the kitten licks my fingers, I only hope it's pint size bottom will forever stay the same.
It won't, everything grows, everything ages.
I crawl back into the sheets, closing my eyes, demanding sleep.
If he doesn't return by the time I wake, I hope the garbage men take me out to the waste.




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