Meagan McQuien


For starters, I was born in Hobbs, NM on April 3th, 1998. Any time I have an issue of any kind, my family blames it on me not being a native Texan. How dare I. Though I have always excelled at writing academically, I discovered my passion for writing after it was introduced to me by my Junior English teacher. His influence helped me express myself as I coped with mental illness; he read my frantic emails littered with angsty poetry and narratives every night my senior year. It was nice having a fan and someone to tell me that I was a talented writer. My current works are centered around my experiences with abuse, being a part of the LGBT+, and mental illness. After I finish my current project, I want to write a children’s book that presents themes of emotions, coping skills, and respect as well as features my artwork. I want to teach children the values that prevent abusive relationships and promote cooperative existence while also giving children fun and abstract imagery to engage with. Also, shout out to my cat, Stevie, and my mare, Consuela. I would highly suggest to everyone to include animals in their life; my lovely fur children have brought me a lot of healing.

I Fear Dark Places Feb. 18


Where was the light?

When I was tucked behind

A rack of coats and

Stood in line with a row of rainboots


because they were out of season.


because they were crusted in dirt.


because I wasn’t quite right for the weather.


Where was the light?

When the crest of the sunset

Couldn’t reach above

The solid brick walls

That lined the alley ways

Of the quiet historic neighborhood


where the windows of the houses didn’t peak.


So no one could notice him “fixing me”...

but breaking me.


Where was the light?

When my stomach scraped against

The top of the rotting wooden gate

And startled scavenging birds

That landed where the bird of brighter colors sat

And started to pick the little bird apart


because the feathers and meat were gone.


because they kicked the bones over with dirt


because the bird could no longer make a sound




Who can attest to the life and death of those whose life is made in the dark where the witness are blind?


What is the word of someone who said they heard but could not see the wrong?


If the bird is made silent, it dies in the darkness…


I don’t look at the Heaven’s when the sun has

dipped below the line of the trees and the ground,

for while you boast of your witness to the

scatter of the cosmos and the pull of the moon

as it sways the waters and the winds slowly,

you don’t dare say they were a

witness to the evil you can’t see when

the homes, and the streets, and the allies

are hidden by the dark


When he’s man, you look into the eyes of darkness too lightly.

© The Acentos Review 2017