There’s a light on
Inside your eyes
But are you home?"
"Please come home, so I can disappoint you in person."
I fold my doctor’s receipts into
bookmarks and tuck them between my
ribs but I still keep losing my place between
visits. When you asked why I stopped taking
my pills, I said because if anyone got close enough
to kiss me, they’d taste the residue against my
teeth and only stick around out of fear I’d take
eight more once they leave;
I left my diagnosis on the table at home before I
went out today because I’d been doing better, I’d
been feeling better, doc; but I want the next Hurricane
to be named after Hope because it can wreck all I’ve
come to terms with over years in a matter of minutes.
It’s a false sense of peace before the next wave. So, do
you think we could do that? Do you? If so, then I’d
like to ask for a scale to measure my tremors, too. If so,
I’d like to know when to tell the ones I love to take cover
and find shelter because all they’ve ever known of home in
me will turn to acres of empty land and darkness soon. Can
you label me a storm warning, doc? Please, can you?
You need to understand that I am rain, and a broken
compass, pain: dressed up with a heavy smile and aching
muscles from standing back up so many times.
I have reminders of this fight tattooed on my body
and even still, I keep slipping on things that overwhelm
me, until I stand again, and even still, I’m unsteady.
I just, I think I need better traction.
But doc, I don’t know if I’m ready. I
don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t know
where to go. I do know that this makes me
hard to be with. I do know that this turns my
name into a biohazard for upbeat environments;
So yesterday I tried swallowing your evaluation of me
so it would stop coming up in my conversations as an
excuse, but the ink stained your sentences onto my
tongue and now every time I speak it shows through.
I just desperately want all of this to stop showing through."
"I Wrote My Psychologist a Poem So She’d Stop Asking How I Was Feeling" (via theseoverusedwords)
At age five my mother would braid my hair and tell me I was her beautiful baby girl.
At age eleven my friends were all worried about the right clothes to buy, and that their mother wouldn’t let them wear make-up.
At age sixteen I kissed the boy who tasted like cigaret smoke and stopped eating so maybe my mother would start to call me beautiful again.
At age eighteen I bleed out on the bathroom floor after the boy I loved slept with my best friend.
At age nineteen I picked up my shattered pieces and mended my cracked ribs without the words or love of the people who broke me."