Live. In. Your. Hand.

By , Walpole, MA
The feeling was so raw and real,
I fear that my pen’s ink cannot portray,
The feelings which I had inside,
Emerging from such a dark place.

Every second was torture,
And every drum beat acted as a hammer,
Crushing my heart slower and slower.

You didn’t want it,
True I didn’t either,
But rather be you than me.

I needed an escape,
I needed to be able to breathe,
I sought for music,
And I learned every little thing was going to be alright.

Quickly that release faded,
I was again stuck with my harsh reality.

If anyone had given me a sharp object,
I’d be just like you.
Cutting myself to find peace,
Tearing open my skin,
A cry for help,
A way out.

I wouldn’t have paused,
I would have just sliced until I bleed out.
Then I would be taken away,
That was my only wish.

I needed relief,
Left marks that is familiar to my skin,
Those of a hand contorted.

My childhood friends used to,
You did when I stopped you from hurting yourself,
And now it was my own turn.

I curved my hand into a fist,
Shaking with emotion,
The one thing that kept me alive,
I lived in my hand.

My fingers crushed into the sweaty palm,
Muscles straining to push harder,
Distracting me from the world.

Music told me no one would miss me,
But I didn’t even mind,
I was no longer inside the stands,
But breathing only to feel the pain.

Not one person saw my small world,
But you did see the marks,
Tiny red lines upon my hand.
I showed you,
You said you saw them,
But you didn’t ask …
You didn’t see.

This poem is to let the world know,
That when I can’t live here,
I live in my fist,
And this ending is to let you know,
Without you,
I’d never have had the idea,
And I’d have never needed it.
If anyone ever needs a hand,
I’ll gladly let them live in mine.





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