Morag Mackenzie is a student and shelter worker residing in Ottawa, Ontario. Morag feels a lot, which has led her to the cathartic practice of writing poetry. Regularly, she is gripped by climate-anxiety, an unhealthy dose of shame, anguish over inequality, and a strong sense of love for this life, all which come out in her poetry.
My Internal Homophobe is Killing Me
Fold me up like paper.
Crumple me into a ball.
Shove me into a box that is so small and push me down the steps into water.
Until I am shrivelled and no one can read the pronouns written in my love poems.
Because I don’t want to be one of them.
Those paper people with pride, but often ripped.
I don’t want to be one of them.
Cringing and running and cutting,
That’s how I feel when I see you.
A tension tearing my journals in two.
Stuck In between the
God, I realllyy don’t want to seem like you,
Or like me.
Talking about “this” makes me feel dramatic.
Like a heathen millennial back at it.
My eyes glued to the ground when it comes up.
And I still have to force the words out.
Every time I see you I want to fall into your arms,
and put my head on your shoulder and tell you I’ve missed you.
Like I miss the stars,
The nights on the swings,
Runny noses sitting on the fire escape,
Jumping for leaves and sprinting for the hell of it.
You taking my hand and dragging me to bed when
I felt too alive to sleep.
When you tried to teach me piano but I was too distracted by how close your lips were to listen.
I miss you.
When I hugged you-
Did you hear my heart crack, as I cracked your spine?
Do you know that your smile is not helping?
That it makes me wince
Because I am so tired of hiding.
Being found in between the lines.
Attempting to cut it out, tear it up, erase any evidence.
I am done crying about this, and if I can’t rejoice about this, then I am just going to…
I am just going to stop writing.