The 365 Meghanarchy Project

Day 282: First Draft: Confessions from Tent City

I have laid with a man
Who has killed more people
Than he has loved.

His square shoulders protected me
On days
He could get out of bed.
But on nights
Where he could hardly move,
He crumpled himself
Among the cans
Strewn about his front porch.

He sobbed into my bosom,
Crushing my ribs
As he begged forgiveness.
Pleading innocence
To a forgotten body count.

He temporarily transmits his nightmares,
As I use his arm as a pillow.
The images rotate on the ceiling
Of blood soaked cloth,
Flies buzzing about women and children,
Sand covering outstretched arms.
“They just wanted water,”
He had told me.

A shot of him,
Posed as he showed me,
Looking through the scope of his gun.
The clueless child on the other end.
Next second, lifeless.
“They just wanted water.”

By morning,
His guilt and memory
Has vanished.
He denies me the common decency
Of resolution.

My eyes are sunken with insomnia,
My heart unsettled with grief.

I carried his torment for him.
I buried his secrets
With my tolerance.

This can be found at my other blog http://soakupthesea.wordpress.com/

Day 281: Prose: I like writing about holding hands.

If we held hands with brass knuckles, it wouldn’t make it any less romantic. 
Just us.
In our raggedy tshirts
And calloused feet
Trespassing over lines we didn’t think possible.
Waited years to find them,
And dove At the chance.
We are young.
Meeting somewhere in the middle of broken hearted 
And hearts on our forearms
So much so,
That we are rocking in rhythm.




Shut up. I haven’t written in a while.

Dear Followers,

I went on vacation to Austin, TX about a week ago. It was quite the earned holiday. I have overworked myself this summer. I’m still taking photos, but never uploading any of them. I have a lot of catch up to do in terms of writing.

As soon as I got back, I started my Fall semester of uni. It is quite the overwhelming workload. And of course still working my 2 regular jobs.

I have not given up on my 365 project.

I am still alive.

Just give me a minute to catch up with life.

Day 227: Prose: Hey Frickin Sweetheart.

I am not your key to alternative lifestyles.
To groups of people with illustrations lining their body
Or jewelry adorning their skin.
I’m not some token white girl with an attitude.
Or the girl I want you to take home to mama.
I’m not your ticket to underground poetry scenes
Or obscure music communities.
Just let me be the cute girl
With a dimple and curly hair. 

Day 226: Prose: Conejos.

They let me call them mis conejos.

And the more I do,

the more they seem to like it. 

Some of them call me colocha

Or corazon.

We know our boundaries.  

But when they call me novia,

I get a little violent.

Day 225: Prose: Somewhere Someone

Somewhere someone is knocking on the last door they will every touch.
Prepared with a speech they came up with in the shower that day.
And little do they know they won’t say more than a few words,
Before it’s all swept away in front of their faces.
Their eyelids will be covered in soil,
Shovel-full by shovel-full.