Meredith Scribbles

I sat down to write with my White Chocolate Cardamom latte and a go-get-’em attitude. After receiving an unexpected request to drive my brother to school, I found myself up before the crack of dawn and sat down to write at 7:30, earlier than I’d written in months. The morning stretched before me like empty canvas. I knew my goal—I would finish editing and rewriting Chapter 6 of Street Survivors, and maybe even working ahead to Chapter 7. Instead, as if separate from my mind, my hands started typing on a blank document, playing around with a line I’d written in my phone notes weeks ago:

“I wanted danger because I needed the intensity. Pack your bags and run.”

Instantly I was struck by the memory of a night in November and how much I had wanted a thrilling adventure since the place I was in felt stale. I dreamed of running from danger, living out of a bug-out bag, and sleeping in the back of my car in a mad race north. At the time, and even now, I wanted those things, but when I actually imagined it . . . it wasn’t with him. The realization creates a will they/won’t they tension as the poet realizes their time is running out.

I started jotting down some lines and notes, mostly in iambic meter without a clear structure or rhyme scheme. When I had a draft I liked, I went back and was planning on just editing it when I realized I could make the first stanza rhyme. Then my mind seemed to whisper the challenge, what if you could make the whole poem rhyme?

The game was on.

Five hours later, I emerged from the deep, wondering what time it was and how on earth I was supposed to pack all the emotions I had felt into the final stanza. I got some feedback from a writing friend, slept on it, and woke up with a new rhyming couplet. After playing around with a few rhymes, I found a combination that felt right and finally declared it finished. That being said, I’d love to share it with you! So with no further ado, straight from the writing desk of Meredith Mead, I give you, “Swing State:”

“Swing State” by Meredith Mead

Songs spark the crowded atrium alive.

Our waltz awaits the verdict of democracy’s survival

but secretly, I’m wishing for our city to unravel—

I want to see how long we could survive.

You said if the apocalypse came early, you’d stuff your bag

with scripture, snacks, and stories that I scribbled in.

It’s sweet and sentimental, but my notes in the margins

show I vote for someone strong, someone substantial, so I drag

you out the back door, and we’re dancing in the darkness

of an alley soaked in raindrops and you dip me down and kiss me

as a passing couple whistles and it’s straight out of a movie

except—I’m craving dumpster fires and a mad sprint for the car.

You say that you’ll protect me, but if a war is coming,

it’s me who’ll spread my arms apart to shield you from

a bullet to the heart, because what else is love

but sacrifice and passion I can’t summon?

It’s not relief, I tell myself, when someone different leads me to the floor.

I just prefer the unpredictable, the style variation,

over steps performed in meaningless succession,

a dream solidified into obligatory chore.

I brought books to your Window, but now we’re throwing hands,

stretching like a loaded Bow and Arrow: I push, you pull me back.

I never lean as far as you could hold me. Truth is, I’m on the deck

of the Titanic, sliding toward a shipwreck that we can’t withstand.

The highway’s calm before us as I grip the wheel—no riots, no one’s shot,

and yet, each exit ramp seduces me to seize the thrill of running for our lives.

This senseless call to danger is a warning indicator

breaking through the premonitions I’ve attempted to disguise—

that loyalty does not equate to feelings of the heart.

I’d die to keep you breathing, but love you, I do not.