Stingrays.
In my eyes, stingrays.
Stabbing me under the droopy lids,
splashing salty water over my pupils.
A shaky voice,
a whispered “I’m sorry,”
footsteps on the stairs,
escaping,
a door thunders closed from a hand—
Was that my hand?
Cold, bloody hand,
monster hand,
dry, cracked, throat-grabbing hand—
Was that my hand?
How did I get here?
Cold tiles all around,
all alone,
cold tiles freeze my feet to match my frozen heart.
A small window, yes,
look outside.
Whirling wind, unsteady wind,
angry, hurt wind;
or is that just my breath?
A cry through blood-red lips,
a wordless cry,
wordless wind to match wordless sorrow.
Raindrops take their place upon my warm cheeks,
dancing down their given paths as always.
A tornado takes my head,
my brain, my vision, all rationality—
gone to a tornado.
I’m spinning,
not sure which way is up or which way is down,
but I feel cold tiles on my back, my face, my heart…
must be down.
With blade in hand, I ease the pain:
blue ink smears across crisp white paper,
I don’t know what I’m writing—
I can’t tell yet—
an apology letter, a poem, both?
I bleed blue ink on the crisp white paper.
Words take form,
head still whirling,
tears still dancing,
wind still crying,
stingrays still stinging.
I see words now:
“I’m sorry I’m not perfect.”
Crumple it up. Throw it away.
Move on.
Water runs—
down my face, outside, from the hot shower.
Drown myself in steam…
can’t breathe, don’t care—
gasping for air assures me I’m alive.
People say big girls don’t cry,
mamma says it’s weak;
mamma says…mamma says…
I get paranoid now.
Outside the door, a noise, a voice!
They’re watching me.
My tornado brain spits emotions,
the mirror reflects them playing across my red face.
Anger, for they are intruders.
Fear; they will see I am weak.
Happy; maybe they care.
The door thunders open from a cold hand,
monster hand,
no one there but the tears dancing down my face.
Indifference, I don’t care.
The stingrays are leaving,
good sign.
I grasp my blade yet again,
send ink running onto crisp white paper.
Tears begin dancing on the page—
my cheeks are free.
Slowly, slowly,
the tornado stops;
thoughts almost straight,
I can see which way is up.
Good sign.
Gripping the pen harder,
blood begins to wash off my monster hand,
soft fingertips return under unpolished nails.
Frozen hearts start to thaw—
maybe in a year or two,
they will be warm.
In my eyes, stingrays.
Stabbing me under the droopy lids,
splashing salty water over my pupils.
A shaky voice,
a whispered “I’m sorry,”
footsteps on the stairs,
escaping,
a door thunders closed from a hand—
Was that my hand?
Cold, bloody hand,
monster hand,
dry, cracked, throat-grabbing hand—
Was that my hand?
How did I get here?
Cold tiles all around,
all alone,
cold tiles freeze my feet to match my frozen heart.
A small window, yes,
look outside.
Whirling wind, unsteady wind,
angry, hurt wind;
or is that just my breath?
A cry through blood-red lips,
a wordless cry,
wordless wind to match wordless sorrow.
Raindrops take their place upon my warm cheeks,
dancing down their given paths as always.
A tornado takes my head,
my brain, my vision, all rationality—
gone to a tornado.
I’m spinning,
not sure which way is up or which way is down,
but I feel cold tiles on my back, my face, my heart…
must be down.
With blade in hand, I ease the pain:
blue ink smears across crisp white paper,
I don’t know what I’m writing—
I can’t tell yet—
an apology letter, a poem, both?
I bleed blue ink on the crisp white paper.
Words take form,
head still whirling,
tears still dancing,
wind still crying,
stingrays still stinging.
I see words now:
“I’m sorry I’m not perfect.”
Crumple it up. Throw it away.
Move on.
Water runs—
down my face, outside, from the hot shower.
Drown myself in steam…
can’t breathe, don’t care—
gasping for air assures me I’m alive.
People say big girls don’t cry,
mamma says it’s weak;
mamma says…mamma says…
I get paranoid now.
Outside the door, a noise, a voice!
They’re watching me.
My tornado brain spits emotions,
the mirror reflects them playing across my red face.
Anger, for they are intruders.
Fear; they will see I am weak.
Happy; maybe they care.
The door thunders open from a cold hand,
monster hand,
no one there but the tears dancing down my face.
Indifference, I don’t care.
The stingrays are leaving,
good sign.
I grasp my blade yet again,
send ink running onto crisp white paper.
Tears begin dancing on the page—
my cheeks are free.
Slowly, slowly,
the tornado stops;
thoughts almost straight,
I can see which way is up.
Good sign.
Gripping the pen harder,
blood begins to wash off my monster hand,
soft fingertips return under unpolished nails.
Frozen hearts start to thaw—
maybe in a year or two,
they will be warm.
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