Maybe Thoughts | Teen Ink

Maybe Thoughts

December 18, 2014
By megan_lynne DIAMOND, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
megan_lynne DIAMOND, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
59 articles 0 photos 19 comments

Favorite Quote:
"You have no control who lives, who dies, who tells your story."


I threw stones at the sky,

and all the stars fell.

Tied up, empty, desolate earth girl

who has tasted Heaven and Hell.

Yet, I harbor no hard feelings-

I grew strong in the flame,

In tip-top shape with lips

that burned and crackled like coals

and words that spit like sparks.

I nurtured the wildfire in my throat,

let it fill my chest cavities and inhaled deeply.

I grew young in the light,

tick-tock drip-drop thoughts that invigorate me but

I didn't grow tall like the other girls,

I grew into myself.

I planted a garden in my body,

lined my lungs with flowerbeds and 

watered them with Lousianna sweet tea

and long day dark memory vodka,

burning the nights away.

 

I shook strong and victorious above

New York City,

a bottle in hand and a masterpiece in my eyes.

I streaked the skyline of our world,

and licked up lost lovers who 

just wanted to find their way home.

I smeared yellow taxi cabs into 

the street and warped skyscrapers 

with one touch of my icicle fingertips.

I grasped the injustice and the agony of our world,

and planted it deep in the soles of my feet;

my rage will be my undoing, 

fire and ice fighting in my chest.

I have developed a cough,

hacking and dry like the desert inside of me

that battles the tundra in the pit of my stomach.

I am girl, reinvented:

like a gentle dettachment to m childhood,

an easy disregard for youth,

lost in the nostalgia for her hand.

I want her fingertips on my desert-dry diseased lips

one last time, 

one last hit of heaven before I go home,

to broken bottle barbed wire beds and hallways 

dripping with unsaid words.

I have tattoed tales inside my lips,

and locked soliloquoies under my tounge,

waiting to be discovered;

but no one is looking

for a broken home, a haunted house, a shack rattled from 

an earthquake and left decrepit in shambles,

enduring the aftershocks in some 

eternal scuff mark.

 

Each time I shift, 

I feel the dirt between my ribs loosen.

It compacts when I right myself,

and I choke on the realization

I am being buried alive.

I am just holding on for tonight,

in sleepy Pittsburgh twilight with 

nowhere to hide.

I wake up with more stale poem broken promise empty eyed words

and less sanity.

But I pour paint on my face to make myself pretty,

practice keeping my voice normal and breathing in deeply,

rehearse blinking like I can tell the difference between light and dark

and walk out into my world,

my acres of twilight stretched taut over a city.



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