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It's Not Like You'll Mind

Poetry By: Kathleen Megquier
Poetry



I have everything I want from him now, but some parts are being hidden quite cleverly. He doesn't care. I'm starting to find the same numbness within me.


Submitted:Sep 24, 2012    Reads: 24    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


A constant voice is forever prominent in the back of the corridors of my skull.

I can't escape the yearning of the missing pieces I gave so freely to those that didn't want to be involved.

Abandonment is a lasting effect, that burrows it's head into the gaping hole that's wounded me.

I can't say much else about the scenery of this fact.

Only that, I feel inadequate on most days, and lacking self sufficiency during others.

I'm the product of relinquished pride, and lost contentment.

I stare at myself through the looking glass and find flaw after flaw after flaw.

If I could sketch out a new person, redecorate my face and thoughts.

Transform into this invincible beauty, not the facade that was once wrapped around me, but an honest entity that allows no intruder, rejects the invitation to go closer, endure the kisses, and end the night with a demoralized grope.

I can't take what's been left with me, this materialized mental monster, that now has physical structures, the ability to beat me black and blue.

My words seem useless among the actions that receive these results.

I can elaborate a gruesome story about a woman and a man.

How she loved him feverishly, the passion dripping from her lips and lower vicinity.

How he looked at her with only alternative motive, and ruling.

He never really caressed her for the honest means of caress.

It was a lure, a trap.

I digress.

There's absolutely nothing you can find substantial from that mess.

Not now or ever.

My round eyes close, and I see the curved lips of yours shaking, and all I want to say is "Honestly, you should of known better, how am I suppose to feel sorry?"

You're beautiful in a lot of ways, but you hold the betrayal of the stupid girl I killed long long ago.

I lay my head on the clouds and the grass says goodbye to my feet, and I almost feel as if I've reached some point of subconscious.

A thing I can always relish in.

I love the feeling of not feeling what you normally feel, a place you're only allow to visit temporarily.

It's a comfort that will never cease boredom.

My lashes curl, my eyebrows rest in the belief that they'll never have to raise a question again.

I no longer welcome provisions.

I'm this solid, immobile, derision.

No one will take me seriously again.

I've humiliated myself time and time again.

The thought of speaking out something serious only makes the audience in my mind laugh until the clocks stop producing accurate forms of time.

I have no memory of love, and I seek no company for the emotions it arises.

I just want to take small breaths, take the action the lungs are providing and think most broodingly the day it all stops.

I'll die distrustfully.

All my professions a pure mockery.

My true lover wandering aimlessly.

You'll be cackling in the far distance, my bloody providence a tortured slave in your clenched hand.





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