Even You'd Commit Me If You Read This

Poem by: Kathleen Megquier


What it's like to think like me, at my darkest, at my most prestige. Enjoy


Submitted: May 07, 2012

A A A | A A A


Submitted: May 07, 2012



I whisper to his sleeping body, he doesn’t move.

His breathing is rhythmic, while my head lays upon his chest.

I think to myself, “How did I ever get so comfortable, so safe in this place of solitude, which merely allows me to seek such profound grace within myself?”

I don’t answer my brain’s question, I just allow my skin to bask in the heat that is his.

He’s not real though, only figment.

I elaborate such pretty pictures when I stay awake in my bed after one.

Bad dreams I have summoned, good dreams I yearn for.

I just want to dream of something, malicious or noble.

Staying here in a conscious state only allows me to fantasize to pretend.

The wind blows softly, unlike it’s rough exterior, it decides to be gentle to me this evening.

I take my walk solemnly, I sense danger afoot.

Memories of you and all that have come before you have manifested within the park’s confinement, alarming me, making me want to run.

I walk.

No need to fear, I’ve endured all sorts of pain from all these colorfully sculpted characters of my past.

No matter how fast or quick I run, they’ll catch up.

All of them, shadowing my footsteps, taking away from the peace of mind I beg for each passing day.

I know it’s silly to decay over men, but I feel my skin flaking, dissipating.

I search for better times, when the only one I needed, the only man I ever sought out for was here.

No questions, no answers, just blunt visualization of what use to be my substantial source of growing and living health.

With big arms to encase me, strong words to entice me, he was my world.

My blood.

He took credit, care, and consideration of me.

Falling asleep on this chest was not a sin, not even provocative in any sense.

Legal and kind, my father protected me.

Didn’t provoke me into transforming into something ugly.

Though as time passed, so did he.

I no longer have that protection, nor that security.

I wander from place to place, hoping to arouse a face, just so he’ll keep me, keep me for one night, maybe two.

Depending on how well I do.

The kisses are cold, the affection brief.

Whatever it is that keeps me breathing, I hope something silences it.

I don’t want to hear it, I don’t want to feel it ether.

I take pity in all that’s consumed me, they wanted something pretty, engulfed something toxic.

The cynical side of me will just laugh, laugh until the sun comes up, cackles till the stars arise.

Thinking of what kept me going for so long only minimizes this laughter into a barely audible sigh.

What’s the point?

How do people keep their drive?

My mother knows how to keep it well, very, very well.

My sister conquers most everything in her path.

My brother so small, so miniscule to the World’s consciousness.

He can hide for now, but who knows when the Universe will unwrap him like some sort of package addressed just to it.

I long for only the best for him.

His bright blue eyes hold promise, but for how long?

His smile holds far too much innocence, but for how long?

His skin so pristine and clear, when will it develop this place’s bacteria?

Something so beautiful doesn’t belong here, something so secret will not survive here unscathed.

The blood it dribbles, the tears fall freely, this is what anyone would do to find clarity within the barriers known as skin.

I take big breaths, open my eyes to see the ceiling glowering back at me.

Though it lacks real eyes, it’s inherited senses, senses by me and all that stare up at it.

It can smell the blood on my shirt, taste the salt in my tears.

I can only hope that it draws near enough to envelope my entire soul, my being at it’s most utter control.

When taking out little parts of me, handcrafted, I feel at ease, almost sane in this transaction.

I give the world my blood, it in return gives me the deal, the deal to withhold power over my body’s fate.

Could I die tomorrow, shall I live before it’s too late?

© Copyright 2016 Kathleen Megquier. All rights reserved.

Even You'd Commit Me If You Read This Even You'd Commit Me If You Read This

Status: Finished

Genre: Poetry



Status: Finished

Genre: Poetry



What it's like to think like me, at my darkest, at my most prestige. Enjoy
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