Megan Whitt
Eyes of betrayal
It’s the whiplash of the ties that bind.
And with every waking morning,
I’ll close my eyes and I’ll wish I was blind
To each and every moment I mourn.
History repressed: the joke of humankind.
Halls of aching memory rest behind lids-
Of seeing organs that cannot see.
Behind the lying mind, you hid
Characters of me that live in others’ minds:
Lies. I’ve found I do not exist to you,
Not really. In the morning noon or evening
In the burning embers that go up smoking, reeking broken trust.
You go on crying wolf unseeing of your unkindness
You’ve burned my gentleness, another bridge to you, wasted to rust, ash, and dust.
Ghosts in the halls
I wonder what they’ve seen behind my back?
It’s not the bloody mess that wets the flesh of me,
or the way I want to lay my heart out on some metal tracks,
But instead what they see that you’ve made me out to be.
Phantoms I’ve never met that have my name
And speak out of my mouth in words only your tongue would make,
A language I do not speak. We are not the same.
My image is crushed by your teeth and spit out of your lips.
A rage I’ve never felt took hold of me, how much can I take?
I’m just here to feed your ranting habit, just one more sip?
An addict of being right, with suppliers of fake bliss;
Lies in syringes, validation they put into your veins.
They’re your friends, your enablers?
You go to them daily: your coddlers.
The Unkindness of Minds in Calm Waters
Atlantis is down
Eyes on the big blue sky above
Life gone by below
The Clouded Vision of Lovers Looking in Fridges
I put the peanuts in the fridge.
I PUT the PEANUTS in the freaking fridge.
Call me an idiot, call me stupid
But if my mind stayed on you
Your big brown eyes,
The ideas of your big mind,
The expanse of your palms,
And the rhythm that we dance,
The fridge would be filled with peanuts
Peanut butter, cellphones, keys, and wallets.
My eyes would glaze over once more
It would take a hundred hornets
To pull me out of the trance
Your memory is like a hypnotic chant.
No Longer Friends
Who do people think I am through the lens of your lips?
Reflections, shards of mirrors in people’s minds, me
a hollow-eyed demon, a coward scared of confrontation,
a clinical, overly- honest truth-teller. Fragments of me, me
a reckless careless idiot, according to my shrapnel,
Driving too fast, 130 on empty straightaways, me
a love sick-dog who laps up attention from the worst men,
Even the baker who talks with you about your dreams. Me,
explosive angry bitch, that collects rages
Like fireflies in jars, playing childish games, me
lazy- stupid idiot with an insufficient GPA,
Harboring habits of sleeping through too many alarms. me,
sharp in their minds, rigid and jagged. I am dogged.
I am a muggy humid haze behind so many eyelashes, me
Megan Whitt, give me a name, am a shattered jar
That let the fireflies rot. I drip blood and glowing goo. Me.
BIO
Megan Whitt is an English and Creative Writing student at the University of Central Missouri. She works as Co-Editor-in-Chief and is a Creative Nonfiction Editor at Arcade magazine. After gaining a strong love and appreciation for poetry and all sorts of writing through the positive influence of her professors and teachers, upon graduation, she plans to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing. She plans to lean into the track of becoming a professor of English, dabble in publishing and editing, and write her own works of fiction and poetry. Outside of the academic sphere, you can find Megan reading and writing somewhere in the sun, hosting little dinner parties for her loved ones, walking her dog, sewing, listening to immense amounts of music, and teaching herself to be at least mediocre at rollerblading.