But this is not the kind of poem I want to be writing.

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Photo by Scott Broome on Unsplash

I can’t think
and so I can’t write
about anything but you.

You’re everywhere now.

You’re in my kitchen,
on my couch,
between my sheets,
at my beach,
in my fucking Target.
Twice.

You’re inside of me now.

You’re in my breaths when
our mouths are pressed together,
your fingers wrap perfectly
between mine, and have
since that very first day.

You’ve tangled yourself deep
into a heart I’d kept locked up
before you.

You’re a part of me now.

You’re what I see in my mind
whenever I close my eyes, and
you’re the one I want to lay eyes on
and wake up to every day. …


Friday Fiction: A short, erotic story.

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Photo by Emiliano Vittoriosi on Unsplash

Greta stared over her Cosmopolitan at the man at the other end of the dining car, hoping he would look back over at her again.

He was leaning against the bar, tall, thick blond hair, wearing a grey linen suit and shiny blue tie.

She had accidentally brushed up against him when she entered the dining car of the train over an hour ago and had looked up into his eyes as they touched — they were a deep, clear, piercing blue, and she’d instantly felt a tingle of attraction and warmth spread through her body.

She took another sip of her fourth Cosmo — Greta was almost drunk, but it was a long train ride and this would help her sleep in the uncomfortable train car she’d booked for herself. …


You don’t realize how important that contact is until you can’t have it.

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My sweet baby, 2006

That is one of only two pictures I took of my daughter Elise in her full spica cast when she was a baby.

Everything about it was sad, and I’ve always been good at trying to block out the things that make me sad, so I cropped the cast out of every other photo for four months of her life.

Elise was born with bilateral hip dysplasia, which essentially means the ball of her femur was displaced outside of the socket of her hip joint.

We found this out at her two week checkup at the pediatrician’s office, something that could have been caught at birth but wasn’t for some reason, and I’m glad for that because at least I got to hold my baby like a mother should be able to for the first couple weeks of her life. …


And trying so hard to find my way back to the beginning again.

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Photo by Gia Oris on Unsplash

I haven’t been writing because I haven’t known where to begin.

If I were to begin at the beginning, those first memories coming through the haze of the years, it would be about that weird little white house in Bozrah, the only place I remember living with my mom alone.

I would write about the orange corduroy couch that I only remember sitting on when I was getting yelled at, the galley kitchen that was so narrow I had to crawl between my mother’s legs if I were to get anywhere, and the porcelain clawfoot tub in the bathroom that I loved in the summer and hated in the winter, when the bottom didn’t get warm even when it was filled with steaming hot water. …


That was before I had anyone who wanted to hug me all the time.

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Photo by henri meilhac on Unsplash

When you’re online dating and you’re filling out questionnaires to help you find your best match, you’re often asked how much physical touch means to you.

Are you a hugger? A cuddler? A spooner in bed? A hand holder?

I used to say no, no, no, and no.

But I was wrong.

I am all of those things, and I probably always have been — but it hasn’t been brought out until now, now that I’ve have someone so perfect to share them with.

I think, for the most part, my ex hated to be touched.

If I stood behind him and wrapped my arms around him in the kitchen while we were cooking he would turn in my arms to kiss my forehead and find an excuse to move away. …


When will I know where my meds stop and I begin?

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Photo by pina messina on Unsplash

Every morning I take a handful of pills — yes, a whole handful.

Klonopin, Viibrid, Abilify, Wellbutrin, and Deplin to make my body metabolize them all properly, and I’ve been on this particular regimen for about three years now, since one of those times in my life when I started crying and just couldn’t stop.

That, essentially, is my problem.

I over-emote.

I can’t keep control of my emotions, and I spent months going back and forth between crying in bed for days and having panic attacks that kept me up all night before I finally got the help I needed. …


I think my sex writing days are over for now.

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Photo by Dmitry Schemelev on Unsplash

I used to write every day.

I had a routine.

I would get up, talk to my boyfriend for an hour, take my pills, make my coffee, sit in my office/chair and get down to the business of writing.

Because writing is my business.

Was my business.

Is my business.

I feel like I have no business being here anymore, like I don’t have a single interesting or important thing to say.

Sure, I might be able to churn out a little piece of flash erotica every day, I might be able to still fulfill my commissions and deliver for my Patrons, but my heart’s not in it, and nothing, not even writing, feels like it matters right now. …


And I can’t write about anything but this.

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Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

Ten and a half months ago I was scrolling through Twitter and saw a photo that would change my life forever.

It was just some relative stranger on the internet, some guy who read and commented on my articles, but then suddenly there he was in full color — an adorable, kind face, the most perfect ass I’ve ever seen, a hopeful smile and dorky socks.

“You dirty distractor!” was the first thing I said to him in my DMs, and we haven’t stopped talking since.

It’s kind of an incredible thing to fall in love with someone before you even meet face to face. …


So you really can’t always blame the other woman, IMO.

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Photo by Andre Hunter on Unsplash

I was my best friend’s Maid of Honor, I stood next to her when she got married on a rainy June afternoon, watched them both take vows — vows that’d she’d already broken weeks before — vows that he would break within hours.

Marie had cheated on Nathan about a month before their wedding, and he found out about it.

It’s a small city, a big group of friends, and rumors swirled about her until they reached Nathan, and when he confronted her she told the truth.

She’d cheated on him, repeatedly and with different men, during their engagement.

Later, Nathan would tell me that the only reason he went through with the marriage was because he was too embarrassed to cancel his wedding four weeks prior. …


And my profile picture… what’s up with that?

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Photo by Naomi Suzuki on Unsplash

Hey look, it’s me!

Nope, just kidding, it’s just some chick from Unsplash.

Thanks, Unsplash, for giving me the face of my secret identity, the face everyone always wonders belongs to me.

It doesn’t.

“Is that really you in the profile picture?” is probably the most common question I get from readers.

“Nope,” I tell them. “I have better hair, and bigger boobs.”

(It’s true, I do.)

But I wonder — why do you care so much?

Is it because you want to put a face to the the words that you read on these screens? Well, you can take her face. …

About

Meaghan Ward

I’m the girl your parents warned you about. Stay in touch: http://meaghanward.substack.com + http://meaghanward.com

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