Hi I'm Mollie and I have a paralysing addiction to The Walking Dead, American Horror Story, Hannibal and Prison Break
It’s really a wonder that I haven’t dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.
Yesterday, I sat on a street bench.
I bought a book earlier that day
composed entirely of love poems.
I flicked my thumb inside it
and slit it on a paper’s edge
until a red thread was pulled
from my flesh. I didn’t know
what to say as I sucked the sting.
Maybe I deserved it, I thought.
I bite the softest part of the lip.
I offer trembling hands, ravenous eyes,
pulsing, hot belly. Sometimes I come
unsheathed, dress and panties
tossed in desperate heaps.
I open wide. I try to look dangerous,
but I get angry when someone says
that they love me.
This kind of poetry
never sat well with me.
Then I bled. I bled tiny beads
strung down the crevice in my finger.
I bled for the ink, dashed
in lowercase letters, bound in my hand.
I bled because I couldn’t believe.
I was too wild.
I was too bitter.
I buy love poems and say I hate them,
but my eyes burn like wounds
when I lose myself
in their folds
and close them
as if in prayer.