~
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm and voluntary psychiatric hospitalization⚠️
~
"Can I borrow a jacket?"
I ask him in the hallway
before the start of second period.
"What for?"
His eyes narrow quizically.
"I'm going somewhere."
Through the school field;
up the hill;
past the weather-battered
chain link fence;
down the road;
across the street;
Destination:
Asylum
"Where are you going?"
"To the hospital."
"Why?"
(But something tells me
he already knows why.)
My mouth parts hesitantly--
"I'm bleeding."
I've run out of
words
to describe
all the ways
I've bled.
Haven't any metaphors to
bandage
the wounds of my past.
Nothing new to say about it,
really.
I cut myself
in the same spot
I'd always had--
on the front of my thighs,
spanning
from just below my pelvis
to a few inches above
my perpetually bruised knees.
Yes;
Clumsy girl.
Always careening
into bed posts
(and razor blades).
"I'm bleeding."
" "
(I can't remember what he says next)
"So, can I borrow your jacket?"
"All I have is this--"
he gestures
to a tight, grey button-down sweater
worn in dress code violation
over the school uniform.
"Can I borrow it?"
"It's not that cold out."
" "
(I can't remember what I say next.)
Only,
it is cold.
So cold, in fact,
that the screen of my cell phone,
which is fully charged,
blacks out.
The temperature drops
like every pinprick of blood
leaching from my veins
after having exerted myself
from the trek
through the school field;
up the hill;
past the weather-battered
chain-link fence;
down the road;
across the street;
Destination:
Asylum
When the nurse
sees that I've cut myself,
I am denied access
to my every possession.
lunch box & contents
I wonder:
do they think
I will willingly swallow
obscenely
large pieces of bread crust
in an attempt to
choke myself;
that I've poisoned my apple slices,
dooming myself to rot
like Snow White?
I am told a cafeteria lunch
will be brought to me
soon
(I am left for three hours
on an empty stomach).
backpack & contents
I wonder:
do they expect
I'll strangle myself
with my earbuds;
that I will use my phone
to live broadcast
my suicide;
that I will stab at my wrists
with dollar store pens--
Of course
now
I've got nothing to write with.
And the books--
tell me of the books
and how their poetry
shall bring me harm?
Tell me--
why is the young boy
across the hall
with the broken bone
allowed to have his book?
Why I am offered
an extra book of his to read
while I have been
denied
poetry as if it were
contraband?
Tell me how
mentally ill patients
are treated no different than
physically ill patients.
Tell me how
after admitting myself voluntarily,
I am still looked upon
as though I am criminal.
Tell me
again
what the definition of equality is.
Tell me
why
I should be punished
for being sick.
school uniform
I can't even
wear my own clothes--
instead,
I must dress up in a
revealing
hospital gown.
The only personal belongings
I am left with
are my undergarments
socks &
skin.
I think of his sweater
and how it was not
about keeping warm
but
about keeping him
close|to|me.
I think of his sweater
and how they would have
confiscated that, too.
I wonder
I wonder
I wonder
I̶ ̶f̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶w̶o̶n̶d̶e̶r̶if ̶
this is discrimination.
On the way home,
I send him a text:
You seem mad at me.
He replies with a universal cliche
that never fails
to make one feel like
crap:
I'm not mad. I'm disappointed.
I gouge the wool
from my
eyes
(and my heartstrings).
Image Source:
Coraline opening scene gif (n.d.). [image] Available at: https://aminoapps.com/c/coraline/page/blog/miss-lovats-twin-doll/8X2q_reTmujLBVDRB1jPnJj1kJqqwEZ4dd/ [Accessed 25 Apr. 2020]
Comments