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As It Gets Thicker

Poetry By: Kathleen Megquier

I need to stop letting him do this to me.

Submitted:Jun 23, 2012    Reads: 6    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   

Eyes craved and taken from my sockets.
Nose chopped up into miniscule pieces found on the ground, the lips left chapped and neglected on a summer's boiling afternoon.
This is the corpse that wears no frown.
It's seen better days of course, laid in softer, more promising arms than these.
I haven't moved.
I won't take a single breath without the reassurance of your company.
As the weather continues in a sped up montage in nature's majestic realm.
I only turn around to find you standing next to me.
We clasp hands, hoping that this time will be more potent to the world, and all that wants to shred us apart.
Brief hand holding unfortunately does not sustain all that's come our way.
I've tattered up the only remaining pulse left that pumps out the thin liquids throughout your veins, the only persuasion to show that you could be human again.
I took that, greedily and mindlessly.
Now that my senses are back, now that I know what I want, you are only a zombie like thing, going through the motions, using the pretty words you've learned from previous encounters with women.
I can't blame you, really I can't.
You're soulless, powerless, and manipulative only when I allow it.
Somehow, as demented as it may seem, I can't help wanting your poisonous ways covered, under, near all around me.
When I feel your coldness, my body shakes, the only vibrancy it can concoct these days.
The bells are not ringing for me, nor are the flowers blooming their colorful hues, privately and exclusively for my own seeing.
So why would I think I'd have you all to myself?
What would make such a public offering fold into itself.
You aren't real, anything that is sculpted professionally from that exquisite mouth is all false.
You can't love me, though I want that more than anything.
You can't.
Maybe, that's what holds this dangerous appeal towards the thought of receiving your devotion.
It's easy to commit when something like that shall never come.
Atlas, I sit here, weeping over my own self prone sorrows.
All the mistreated actions that bestow themselves upon me, have all been asked for.
I wanted this, curiosity did in fact kill the cat.
I'm the pussy that keeps whining for me.
And after I receive it?
What then, what now?
I sit and loll, waiting for an opportunity to present itself once again.


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