by Megan Mealor 

I allowed you

to sail me over lake beds,

pull me up cliffs,

across broken bridges.

But I could not kiss you

with any trace of thunder,

even when the sun was

sinking into so many oceans.

You told me once

that there would never be

enough sky, but always,

always too many stars.

You wished you could

count them with your heart.

Love was the sacks

of luminous, worthless stones

you made me carry

up and down

blue mountains.

Megan Denese Mealor has been writing her whole life. Her poems and short stories have appeared in more than two dozen publications since 2012, most recently Sick Lit Magazine, The Scarlet Leaf Review, and Zombie Logic Review, as well as upcoming issues of The Dying Dahlia Review, Jersey Devil Press, and Down in the Dirt. Diagnosed with bipolar disorder at fifteen, she hopes to inspire others suffering from mental illness. She resides in Jacksonville, Florida with her fiancé and son.  

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