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Mess

12/19/2014

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She wanted to pull him
tight to her body.
Like warm Sunday morning
covers in the winter.
But these covers
belonged to someone else
at the laundry mat.
Why is that?
The perfectly colored,
form fitted duvet
she had looked for
her whole fucking life...
of course she'd find it
while she was someone else's wife.
So she kept geography,
and geometry in the way.
Parallel unilaterals of
hurdles between their bodies.
But every moment
her eyes found his,
she melted into a gooey mess
that screamed "YES"
on the inside.
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Christmas Dinner with the Folks

12/18/2014

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Music accompanied the
twinkling lights on the lawn.
Santa was gingerly tacking
the reins on the rooftop,
and the snow glistened on the walk.
Sleigh bells ring, are ya listenin?
But, there were no
footprints on the porch.
Newspaper lay at the doorstep,
still in its cellophane.
How odd, I thought.
A knock and no answer.
A smell of roasting meats
infested my nose
as I dug for the keys.
Baby Jesus under the eaves
glared at me…
a forewarning.
Around to the back
where the garden gnome
hides Mom’s key…and there she was.
Stone silent as the sirens bellowed
down the street.
In the windows, the flames blazed.
Dad had been dead for days
they told me.
Crazy, it wasn’t the roast I smelled
cooking.

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Liquid Beast

12/16/2014

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That booze is a beast,
right when you expect it least,
it slashes your throat
bleeding you to the floor
always taking more than
you're ready to set free.
Is it best to part ways?
That booze is a beast
that eats you alive
from the insides of your gut,
dumb fucking luck
pretending its not there.
Coursing through the
bloodstream..fucking up
all of your dreams and
ambitions.
Letting loose, stripping
societal inhibitions
and destroying families.
That booze is a beast
and it wakes the kids at night.
Shags em out of bed
with visions of Mom's head
banging on the walls.
Disturbing baby's sleep
with drunken bullshit
that screams and calls
for fucking up their halls
of precious memories.
Responsibilities?
Booze has but one...
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Condemned

12/14/2014

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She sat on her porch,
all knock-kneed and fruitless.
Her skin was folded
with edges of not so nice
tomfoolery of time.
Flesh like origami...
without the pretty swans.
Her freshly pressed
garments hung
from her bones..
flying buttresses of
days gone by.
The city folk shuttered
the walls her long dead
daddy had built.
Sticky notes flapped
upon her doors and
window panes - declaring
her departure,
but she wouldn't read them.
The chaperones came.
Parcels neatly stacked
by her feet,
draped with a sheet,
looked easy enough to move.

"We can only take two"
the chaperones said.

She believed differently.

"Oh, then I have one for
each of you" she stated.

Her lanky arms reached
tenderly under the sheet,
and drew double steel barrels,
the ones her long
dead daddy used on the farm.
Many a head of cattle met
this fate,
landing on the family table
in slabs of steak mixed
with potatoes and gravy.
Ah, that was memories ago.

"We can only take two"
the chaperones had said.
So there, on her porch,
she shot them dually dead.

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Dance of Webs

12/11/2014

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Wet and stringy webs
that cling to our faces
as we dance.
No matter how fast
we clear them off,
more pile on.
Our maid skills will
never be enough
to remove them.
We continue our waltz.
We salsa through the webs
with our trusty Sawzall,
broom heads and dusters.
We can do this.
We can meringue well
enough to help our
children grow,
well enough to help
them know
that we love them...
and show them
how healthy love can be.
You and me.
We dance, our
Samba so steamy
that it melts the webs away.
Someday our kids
will be grown, and we?
We will grow old
and continue the rhythm
gifted to us by chance.
We will dance.
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Barbie Doll

12/8/2014

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I am not a pampered girl.
I'm not in need
of the finer items
that make others feel
important.
I am not riddled with
fairy tales and runway dress.
Every single morning,
my hair is a mess and
I dare not speak till I've
had my fucking coffee.
Feelings will get hurt if
I blurt out decaffeinated thoughts.
I am not a pampered girl,
and I do not filter well.
But I love immensely
and I can build a fire
like nobody's business.
I can turn wrenches
get muddy
digging trenches
and build benches,
the kind that last forever.
I am not a Barbie doll
that hangs upon the arm.
I can carry heavy loads
and kiss warty toads
without complaint at all.
But I am not a Barbie doll.

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Serenading Thoughts of a Stalker

12/5/2014

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***I have found that many times, people will consider the works of a writer as the writers personal feelings or thoughts. This is not always the case. For me, I find inspiration in many places, and most of those places seem to be situated in the darker places of life, such as this following perspective piece. No, I am NOT a stalker.***

I love you so much,
I want to crawl inside
your throat.
Your beauty overthrows
my will
to not cut you,
and my longing to
squeeze your breath
till your lungs are dry
is a stinging nettle
of obsession
in my side.
I love you so much,
I know your every footstep
and I yearn to dig
every one of them
into the ground
where I can keep
all of you safe and sound.
I love you so much,
I want to rip you open
and die inside of you.
Can't you see this
immense love that I have?
Aren't you happy to
have it?
You are the pedestal
of my affection.
You are my infection,
filled with hypnotic toxin.
I love you so much.
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Time Is A Bitch

12/3/2014

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My heart weeps for her.
Stiff legs and a cane
under a scruffy navy blue parka.
She hobbles, more fragile now
than ever before.
She has no one left.
No one that gives a
good God damn.
Cold nights, no lights,
all of her cats dead and gone.
Time can be such a bitch.
It slips away and takes
all the love and memories
with it.
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Tethered

12/3/2014

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Familiar souls staring out
through frosty windows
that face each other.
Aching from the inside
out.
Longing to make the leap,
but the tethers never break.
So they exist, only inches apart.
To see...to watch and listen.
To feel that kindred warmth
disembodied between them,
radiating.
But they never touch.
Dimensional bliss is
someone else's twisted
dream.
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    Author

    Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.

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  • Home
  • Showcase
  • Audrie Bretl Roelf
  • Molly Roland
  • Wicked Stories Showcase
  • What We're Looking For
  • About
  • Wicked Events
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  • Writer Bios
  • Hear Ye, Hear Ye!
  • Contact
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