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Best Poems Written by Molly Matchett

Below are the all-time best Molly Matchett poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Molly Matchett Poem

Nonsense to you

Do you think I had forgotten about you?

You carried me home when I drank too much.

Hoisted me over your shoulder, drowning delicately in laughter.

It was late but we didn’t care, we’d laugh some more in the bathroom as you pried open my mouth for kisses and toothpaste.

Dropping me on to the bed, sliding off my jeans. Kissing up my thighs with nothing but innocence, touch so soft I wouldn’t have felt it if I hadn’t seen it.

Blue eyes gazing over me, as if I were the tallest sunflower in the field. With a smile so bright I winced at the light.

Covering my face to hide the blush, I think this is what they meant when they talk about young love.

Wiped the tears off my face, licking the salty liquid up.

I crawled through the clouds for you, I knew you’d save me from myself until you didn’t.

Would we live on the hill or in the port?

Kysste dig med ditt modersmål.

Cigarettes burning at both ends, scarring my fingers when I caught the ash.

Taking my hand through the crowded train, pinned me up against the wall on the tube.

The bus route will never make me feel the same, cursed with a sugary sentimental heart.

Swiftly listened to seven and made you your juice, but it wouldn’t feel the same as 05 because how could it not be all about you?

Crossed my heart with a pinky promise. Blowing my high into your mouth, swallowing another pill.

Heavy was the bear in my body.

You took 75 from me and it will always sting when I skip.

Oh, what I’d do, to drown with you, again.

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I wish the smoking would hurry up and kill me.
Too much of a coward to hold the revolver to my head and pull.
I wish the cancer would drool through my veins like the scattered kisses I’d give his face.

I wish my antipsychotics tasted like strawberries and the assessments were an hour shorter.
I wish talking about it wasn’t so hard and nobody would see me as a victim.
I wish my love would stay my own.

I wish the moon didn’t remind me of you. I wish I didn’t have to shout at the stars to hide my memories.
Hormonal acne but no menstruation.
Gave my heart to be slapped across the face.

I wish my friends would understand that I’m not being difficult on purpose.
Messages left on read only make me beg harder for friendship.

I’ll swallow my pills with a mouth full of straight vodka.
Pass out in my dirty sheets, clutching my own heart whimpering like an injured dog.
Oh miserable existence please come to an end.

Cigarette burns on my scalp and rotting lungs, please take me.
Let me grow my wings and fly from a world that lets innocence be taken.
My girlhood gone and he still holds it in the palm of his hand like a sacred jewel with the answers to all of his sexual desires.

The gemini sun sets in the east.
Shedded my cherry hair in your shower and it clogged the plug hole like my deepest secrets in my soul.
Touch feels unnatural. I know there’s nothing to worry about but now kisses feel like violence and taste like poison from your lips.

When it’s my time, take my ashes and burn them again.
I don’t want any part of me left in this freak show.
So tonight I’ll pray to be set free, a ritual that I’ve been completing for months.
Bruised knees from talking to a god I don’t believe in.
There’s no part of me that hasn’t been burnt.

Details | Molly Matchett Poem

Insect innocence

Drink the poison from my blood, breathe the rot from my lungs.
Take all that has been decaying inside me and nurse it to health like an injured bird.
A child who was once pure, turned sour like a piece of fruit rotting under the summer sun.
Ice in her veins, frozen over from fear.
Her days numbered, belief she is dying.
Can’t speak her through, his seed on her school uniform.
A child should be safe in her own home, her own room, her own body.

Absent from class, lying on top of him, crying into daddy’s chest.
Begging mama to take the pain from my chest.
It hurts she says. I feel guilty she bleeds.
He takes her innocence and scatters it into his evening memories, his aged hand around his part.
Pigtails no longer feel safe, pulling the hair ties out.
A child looking in the mirror, she can’t see her girlhood. She sees him. His hands. His warm breath on a cold day in December. The front seat of his car with her booster seat set up. She was too young to be in a moving vehicle without a height adjustment, justify that to yourself as a sign that she was ready for her cherry to be lost in the sea of you.

Dancing with the enemy, holding her breath as the bond with intimacy is pried from her tiny fingers.
She tries to fill the hole, bridge the gap with liquor.
Take the thoughts away with men who portray safety.

I’m here at twenty one, but I’m still that eight year old girl. I want to give her a pearl necklace, feed her ripe fruits and tell her she was never rotting.
The decaying feeling wasn’t her fault.
It was never her fault.
She doesn’t feel guilt. She feels shame, but the preteen princess has nothing to be ashamed about.
There is no crime in being a victim.
Twenty one, unable to remember most of the adolescence.
She sees the infestation in her wrists, cutting them open to bleed out cockroaches. The violence is an outcry, they say you mustn’t hurt yourself.
Why didn’t they care when he hurt her?

Tell me father above, how can I speak when I want to shout? Because I have lived thirteen years in whispers and my roar is aching to be heard.
How can I heal when I want to hurt?
How can I forget when I want to remember?
He’s on his knees, repenting. You’ll forgive him though right? His deceit is acceptable if he tells you he’s sorry.
‘Sorry’ is for accidentally sleeping in, it’s for missing your curfew and forgetting to give your friend’s shirt back.
It’s not for stealing my childhood.
Embezzle me in enlightenment lord.

His doleful first wife, painted in purple.
The burn in my chest, searing through the skin in my back. Can you smell the rotting flesh or the smoke? The millipedes crawl through my seared skin.
The worms in my brain quiver at my quietness. They chew at my frontal lobe, eating what was left of any chance of a normal life.
When the nausea overpowers me like a tidal wave I take a deep breath, silently scream letting out the insects. Free to roam as you are.

Details | Molly Matchett Poem

The simplicity of yearning

The simplicity of yearning. It burns softly, like a hand grazing over a candle. A mouth full of sweet nothings to be spilled onto the damp from your tears pillow, alone. To be alone feels so excruciatingly bittersweet, for who doesn’t love their own space. The house empty, discarded of ghosts and all spirits and souls. The backing track playing whatever melody inspires you this month, falling asleep to the buzzing static sound of the late-night television show with guests you’d never heard of.

Beaming orange light travels through the open curtains, sunrise comes to you like a gentle kiss on your forehead. When you’re with him, the bottles shatter to the floor, you watch them drop in slow motion. Lay yourself down on the shards and taste the earth, the soil of a graveyard for you believe you will be reborn.

Strands of hair dancing over face, pull them aside as the morning calls for you. The alarm clock is a ticking time bomb, waiting for the absence of sleep to drive you further into an eternity of rest.

You replace caresses with a hand clamped around your throat. A sweet teenage dream of desire, virginity intact, a cherry uneaten. Bruised wrists you wear like accessories, secrets dripped into your ears like poison. But I am still infatuated, more so when you show me the seventh wonder of the world. There’s pleasure in pain, even if I had never felt it.

Conflate our bodies in the early hours, hidden from the sun but the moon sees our dalliance. Deceive your morals for what is an urge not a right. I am the spider, stalking you like prey until you plunge into the spiral of my gossamer. Struck by the innocent ideation of what it means to be a woman, gentle and delicate. I am a force, and you quiver in phobia, beads of sweat dampen my grasp. Pulled apart by heat, run. Sprint from consequences.

The half shadow of your silhouette haunts the minimal memories I have. Breathe in your gasps for air, I swallow your desperation. She is eternal, and who am I to compare? Architype of an angel, the treasure you seek.

Pain ripples through me, a tidal wave of yearning. For there is nothing simplistic about the ache, a longing for passion.

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Numbered

I am not the nightlight, nor am I the monster under my bed that my father would tell me to fear. I never feared the unknown, just reality. Daunting, inexplicable reality. Reality was the shadow on my walls, the hand around my wrist and the conversations near the backdoor. My nightmares flooded with the wrinkles on his hand and the ticking of his pacemaker, every beat collided with mine and his continued, mine slowed. I felt in deep in my chest, my lungs collapsing and refusing to continue, for what is left to see? The horrors life had provided me, his hand on my thigh hidden under a Disney duvet that still had the price tag on and I felt comfort in that. I too still had my price tag on, worn like a shaming sign from history my tag just said eight. Whilst it's not visible to everyone else I still wear it daily, it's impossible to take off. It wears me, proudly. I tried to scratch the words out and replace it with eighteen but there's no hiding from the purity number, you are a slave to the number indefinitely. Nobody counted the freckles on my back and traced them like constellations, nobody told me they loved me with beads of sweat dripping from their foreheads. I can’t see their numbers, but they don’t carry the shame of eight.

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bpd relationships

I don’t want my love to be violent. 

  

But when I love, I rip my organs out of my chest, I take my knitting needles and make you a scarf out of my intestines to keep you warm while I bleed out freezing. 

  

When I love, I see your trail of fingerprints, heart shaped kisses and scars. When love passes it doesn’t feel like it’s mine, it still belongs to you. 

  

I wince at the thought of someone else erasing your mark, taking your property.  

  

When I love, I mentally change my last name to yours, hell I'd even change my first name. anything to feel closer to you, I want to feel you, be you, touch you, if I'm not everything to you I'm nothing, I'm worthless. 

  

When I love, I brush my teeth stood next you every night. I take hold of your toothbrush and playfully brush for you. when I'm alone I'm scared I'm going to get dental decay because brushing my teeth without you next to me, i just don’t feel clean.

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linger

I ripped the skin off my fingers, I didn’t want a fingerprint that had touched you to linger. 

You could never deserve the feeling that my fingers could grace your skin, spat out your kisses as if I didn’t love the taste of toxicity that dribbled down my chin. 

Never known a love to stay, they always crack and crumble to my dismay.

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Hypothalamus

My hypothalamus is haunting me.

An empty crib.

A bump that will never grow.

Love authenticity, you will always be a part of me.
A ghost in the hallways.

Your heart beat in my deepest quetiapine dreams.

A scan that will never show your sweetest echo.

Father, why would you make me bleed the love so pure?
I lost my voice from speaking you into existence.

He runs his fingers over my stomach my breath hitching, hoping yours is too.

My hypothalamus is haunting me.

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useful body

Erasing your fingertips. 

  

Painting over your love. 

  

The bruises no longer hurt, but the memories do. 

  

Picked me up at 2, dropped me home at 11. Of course, I’m only useful in the evening. At night you don’t want my presence. Sharing a bed for the night would be admitting I was a person. 

  

You spoke in whispers, never saying what I needed to hear.  

  

Scars will fade and I will forget.

Best Poems Written by Molly Matchett

Fire Truck Red

Nonsense to you

Endings are the best part

Insect innocence

The simplicity of yearning

Numbered

bpd relationships

linger

Hypothalamus

useful body