by Megan Bealer
He said my fingertips were like lilies,
so pure and pale.
He wanted to get them wet.
I hated the idea of becoming a garden,
because gardens look beautiful,
but they only become that way
after they’re dug at, and ripped apart,
their insides rearranged,
and foreign bodies taught to grow within them.
They don’t get beautiful without being hurt;
and he wanted to make me beautiful.
At first, I loved the attention of being
viewed like a bouquet.
Then he wanted to touch me, and my petals
grew stained with each grope.
To him, I was a glamorous face atop a simple spine,
a bud atop a stem, a plaything to be contorted
into whatever accented his lapel.
I grew weak, but I did not know why.
He tried to replant me between his legs;
My roots whimpered, and he growled
when I refused.
Eventually he decided he had no green thumb,
and that I had become colorless.
But I am not a fucking flower.
And I will rise with the next season.
Button up, slut.
Your humanity’s on the line.
It’s calling to say
it’s drowning in oppression.
Treat me like
a bag of skin and bone
just because a little skin’s shown.
Find more ways to leash me,
use my own anatomy
Go ahead, I already hate it
because you taught me to hate it.
It’s hard enough to breathe
when your power’s coiled
’round my throat
and my aspirations
are thrown in the gutter–
the victim of my genitalia.
So go ahead, violate me,
collar me, zip me up,
idolize me for my sex,
refute me for my words.
I’ve listened too long
and we’ve been screaming
Can you not hear us?
Your ignorance will not
I’ll just scream louder.
Jump the Gun
My temple bites the barrel
of a cold, steely gun
while my teeth trap my tongue
and make it squeal.
The pressure pounds my skull,
thumps around my brain stem,
and shuttles blotchy thoughts to the patch
of skin being tattooed by
I’m imagining what I’ll look like
in pieces, on the floor,
dip-dyed red and soaked through
like a festering, pus-filled wound.
Will they take my childhood flower crown
and fit it snug around my head?
(Will there be a whole head left
My hand shakes, rocking the metal
back and forth between the top of my cheekbone
and the beginning of my headbone,
and I can smell the rotting flavors of temptation
calling to my ears.
My index finger jumps, almost makes it,
I shake. I watch my reflection. I dare her.
I squeeze down, close my eyes.
The smoke clears.
Shattered glass lies on the ground.
I stare at the window.
I’m going to have to fix that.
About The Author
Megan Bealer is the author of many poems, prose pieces, and novels. She has written for both high school and college magazines. Currently, she’s studying English and Liberal Arts at Montgomery County Community College and plans to keep writing and publishing.