national poetry slam

“Mckenzie”

text w/audio

She saunters in the gas station, all 5 foot three inches of defiance
Wearing pink tube top, cut off jean shorts, and a smile,
Taking her place in line, she leans ever so slightly into the “notice me” pose,

The man in front of me turns slow, like pedophiles on Ferris wheels, salivating over her skin, as mine cringes,

“Hey baby, how you doing”
She giggles, “I’m good”
her words bubbling in a short burst,

He asked for her name and she blushes out,
“McKenzie, At least that’s what I go by”

She drops her identity with more ease than the keys
that fall at her perfectly pedicured feet, She bends ,
His laughter creeps into the air between them

“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
She wears pubescence with more pride than the freshly tattooed butterfly on her left side

He pulls out his bouquet of twenty’s,
thumbed thickly between blunt fingers,
Asks for her number
McKenzie erupts with uncertainty,

I recognize his hungry teeth hiding behind lips unconsciously spreading,
reminiscent of ex-boyfriend pictures tucked under my mattress,
I could feel her heartbeat skip, saw this flat line coming from a mile away,
Watched him slink into the parking lot and linger

I want to shake her, tell her I’d played this game and lost,
more days then she’s been legal
Could smell the dust her young legs kicked from my footprints,
Force her to witness my scars as evidence
knees cracked under the weight of bad decisions,
a road-map of tears to something she’s not ready for,

I know how it feels to be absent of affection,
To run blind into arms of any man who show you the slightest attention,
Even strangers wearing expectations lower than their sagging pants,
So disrespectful,
As to holler with an audience

she deserved better, we all do,
before we get so comfortable forgetting who we are,
That we struggle to remember what our own voices sound like,
stretching vocal cords around sexy practiced in mirrors,
screaming random names in bedrooms too dark to catch
a glimpse of our beauty,
Balancing our self worth against
how good we give head,

“You suck dick like a pro” is NOT a compliment.

I wanted to show her how to wrap her lips around love,
To hold her until she no longer seeks comfort in men
who are only interested in how thin
she can spread herself
between bed sheets McKenzie,

I should have warned you

How lonely it is to sit on shelves
Waiting to get picked up in convenience stores

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Megan Rickman is a nationally touring spoken word artist from Richmond, Va.  I was there the first time she touched stage.  It was 3 years ago, I still remember the poem she did and how no one in the audience could believe it was her first time to the microphone. From that point forward she has  Performed for crowds New York to California and everywhere in between. Her freshman recorded release “All That I Am” is nothing less than impressive. Megan is the reigning Grand Slam Champion in the city of Richmond, National Slam Poet, and columnist for Magazine 33.

You can reach Megan Rickman on:
Facebook as well as Twitter @meganrickman