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The Death of You

Poetry By: Kathleen Megquier

If I could kill what is so strangely attached to my heart.

Submitted:Aug 19, 2012    Reads: 14    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   

Eyes a simplistic blue.

Nose sculpted to an average extent, a definition of normal sized.

Lips a luscious brand.

Skin transparent with a tint of red at the cheeks.

Voice a bit grotesque.

Words impressively precise.

Easy to hate every single way he makes me feel.

Tempting, evil, sadistic hill of mundane sex, and the malicious pests that seem to reveal their heads at night.

I can no longer take flight on my nameless ambitions alone.

I simply rely on your call, for you to phone.

I've sang this song half a dozen times, it comes out different each which way, but the meaning always seems to stay the same.

Irritation beneath my skin is you prickling, over and over and over again.


I cannot stand it, I can't seem to shake it.

The creatures with colorful crafted masks, all smile, they ask me to befriend.

I do with a mutual grin.

Things seem to spiral.

I'm betrayed again.

Not only can I not trust you, but it seems that every single breathing organism in this town is your devoted minion.

They all pulse and reverberate for you.

I need to escape this cult.

This praise, this tribe, all fixated on you.

If I die here, I want to be buried deep inside the ground, so far under that even you, you cannot blunder my afterlife.

The blood, the rations you deal out, you're such a generous leader.

Than why I do I fantasize of you warm in your bed?

Rhythmic breathing, I come near your post, a sharp object in tote.

I reveal it's bright shinning smile, and then SLICE, your spell his broken just like your head's attachment to your neck.

I splash in the blood and think miraculously, how the fuck did it come to this?

I leave town anyway, my few things packed away in the back of my getaway car.

The authority of all that adore you will be coming for me soon.

But I laugh anyway, free from your lure, your false endorsement for my dwindling happiness.

You, my dear lovely, a dissipated memory.


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