I Would Regret It
A girl peers captive into a glowing screen,
scanning his pressuring letters
illuminating the soft clean features
of her smooth, uncarressed face.
“You won’t regret it.”
She ponders the spoken unloving thoughts
that he has planted deep within her brain,
grasping towards the revealing choice
he claims she may never hear again.
“You won’t regret it.”
She knows she is worthy,
worthy of one who will choose to embrace
her mind, her soul, and her body
rather than use her pretty face.
“You won’t regret it.”
She attempts to walk the path of sanity
to protect the lovely lit soul, lurking
deep within the smooth bare skin
of her pure and precious body.
“You won’t regret it.”
He reaches; and pries; and pulls
to claim the frame of an assumed young naive doll,
to become a king; to victoriously claim the throne
as the first to fully own the girl with the absence her clothes.
“You won’t regret it.”
Little does he know, she stands firmly alone,
refusing the role of the marionette he believes he can control.
She slices through propositions with a sturdy sword of steel
concluding his conquest; for this Valkyrie refuses to yield.
I would regret it.
Sweet, Little, (Un)Forgettable Thing, After Bea Miller
Irritation festers from wounding statements
directed towards low cut tops,
smirking, plump, crimson red lips,
winged eyeliner and curled lashes,
the poised and proud posture
in which I carry myself
through the crowds.
The way I am viewed upon
is anything but sweet.
I became defined
solely by my features;
black cocktail dresses accentuating
the confident way hips sway
in sync with smooth, bare legs
treading down towering hallways
to my own mythic symphony
The way I am treated
makes me feel little.
Gawking eyes of hatred or admiration
sear the vulnerable exposed skin,
yet, not as much as the words
that escape associate’s lips
at an attempt to shatter
my thriving physique and mind.
To bring me down.
The way I am spoken about,
doors open or closed, is unforgettable.
While heels click courageously
against cool marble floors,
they echo in a rapid thunderous rhythm
drawing forth towards an inevitable battle.
Fangs strike at an attempt to latch,
deep into my enduring ego
and spew venomous, hostile judgements.
The way I am, you wouldn’t think I was bothered
by such a ridiculous thing.
I remain uninfluenced by
such cynical individuals.
The dread lurking in darkness
will never fully consume or corrupt me.
I will never feel ashamed nor deny
the unique person I am:
A sweet, little, (un)forgettable thing.
About the Author: Abigail Gillam is a senior Creative Writing major with a minor in Multimedia Productions at Ohio Northern University. While she has always been an Ohioan, she has spent most of her time living a fantasy life in her own mind. She currently works as a Writing Center general tutor and as the Art and Design Editor for Polaris Literary Magazine. This will be her second publication. You can find her poem “Fall Round-Up” in the 72nd edition of Polaris Literary Magazine along with her design work for the magazine’s 71st and 72nd edition.
