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May 4 · 75
Untitled
Jade May 4
It’s tough “love”
not
tough love
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Apr 30 · 72
Poetica
Jade Apr 30
written across my anatomy,
a brilliant Poetica:

lips part/
line breaks

the dimple in my jaw

an

a
c
r
o
s
t
i
c

clavicles
mere sisters of verse

fingerprints are but
whirlpools
of apostrophe and quotation

the trellis of my ribs
composed of
stanza

behind

my papyrus heart
dwells

every beat
a turning page--

and this is my story
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Apr 24 · 310
Untitled
Jade Apr 24
The ****
is mightier than the
sword
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Jade Apr 24
⚠Trigger Warning:
The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to ****** assault and misogyny. ⚠
~
you call the ******

*****:

because the hair between my legs reminds you of a cat's fur? reminds you of an animal that is frightened by the simplest of matters--yes, you call me weak.

but that is just the way you prefer us, isn't it?

with our backs arched (but not too high).

forbidden to leave room for a man to crawl under our bodies.

a man is not meant to lie beneath a womxn, no;  

for, a womxn's place is between the man and the mattress.
___________________
***­:

is that all we are good for?
__________________­
box:

many things can be put inside a womxn, an empty vessel that you believe it is your role to make full again.

storage locker where you keep your **** rent-free.

slab of cardboard collecting filth in the attic.
__________________
bea­ver:

another animal analogy.
_________________­_
cookie. cupcake. ****(in). bean:

to butter up. to Flick.

inhaled, not savoured;

nothing more than a midnight fast-food run.
___________________

min­k:

skinned and sold and worn-- a notch in your belt (and your bedpost).
_________________­
cherry:

popped(!)
____________­_____
clam:

stolen treasure.
_________________­
kipper:

in the staff room, someone has left an unopened bag of shrimp crisps. A man I work with walks in and says it smells “like bad ***** in here.”


i laughed.


why the **** did I laugh?
__________________
flo­wer:

plucked from the garden of eden.
__________________­
*******:

blackout.
_____________­____
hoo-ha:

a battle cry.
___________________­
****:

a word i was taught never to say aloud

(i do it anyways.)
_________________­
***:

you abbreviate our bodies.

our voices, too.

will we never make it to four letters?

(love)
__________________­
whispering eye:

a whisper is but a gateway to silence.
__________________
­_
You call the ******

*****.
***.
box.
******.
cookie.
cupcake.
****(in).
bean.
mink.
cherry.
clam.
kipper.
flower.
*******.
hoo-ha.
****.
***.
whispering eye.

but never what it truly is:

Beautiful.
____________________

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Jade Apr 24
There is a fine line
between
selflessness and self-deprecation

(and I have crossed it)
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Apr 20 · 369
Blue In The Flames
Jade Apr 20
The fire in my soul
has started to die.

It shrinks down
the trellis of my ribs
like sun-burned flower petals;

wanes itself
to but a simmer

until it is
blue in the flames

Fire needs oxygen
to burn

but

My lungs thin
into icicles

frost congeals
around my chapped
lips

veins freeze over

(and so does this inferno)
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Jade Apr 20
~
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide and self-harm⚠️
~

I am the prodigal daughter
of Hestia,
Goddess of the hearth.

But this time,
I will not be returning
home.

Don't you get it?

I've burned it down
already.

Perhaps there shall exist no
redemption
for my incendiarism.

Perhaps there is no saving
a pyromaniac

from

her pyromantic sins

from getting drunk
off molotov cocktails

to baptizing her
melancholic fingers
in candle wax

to thrusting her head
in the oven,
where carbon monoxide
steals away her remaining
strands of breath.

Tell me is it still arson
if it is yourself you are
setting on fire?--

I wear lighter fluid
atop my collar bone
like it is fragrance

rouge my lips
with gunpowder,
every word an angry bullet
ricocheting off my teeth
and back down my throat.

I am circus act of a girl,
swallowing my own fire
just to survive

Ironic, isn't it?

Because for me,
survival entails
burning myself alive.

Soon,
I will have no teeth left
to bite these bullets:

This sadness.

This anger

rises from the
chasms of my soul
like bile.

Strange--

I always thought
myself to be the
epitome
of darkness.

Perhaps I simply
lured
the darkness towards me
like an eclipse of moths--

and you know
what everyone says about
moths & flames,
don't you?

It's funny now
that I think about it:

how the stars also
inhabit darkness,

how when I wish upon them,
I am really only wishing on
fire.

And where there is fire,
destruction is sure to
follow.

It is no wonder
all of my dreams--

those of

love.

magic.

verse.

have shuddered to
ash.

I make snow angels
in these ashes,
stretching my tongue out,
the remnants of
desire
scorching my tastebuds.

Here I lie,
like an extinguished
cigarette,
my use fulfilled and discarded.

But the stars
aren't too fond of
nicotine

even though
the very atoms
that comprise my essence
contain the stuff of galaxies.

But, oh , how these galaxies have
evaded
my brooding grasp.

When my fire
begins to dwindle,
I do whatever it takes
to re-ignite what has been
lost--

lap at the iridescent
gasoline puddles
that wade along
lonely
street corners;

sear campfire stories
across my palm lines
(I try to read
my future,
but the smoke
hangs too heavy);

strike matches across
my petrified wrists

just to feel something.

After all,
what am I without
my hellfire--

they could not
save me from it;

they could not
save me
from burning.

But perhaps the
true peril
was never in burning,
but in

burning out.
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Jade Apr 10
⚠️Trigger Warning: the Following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm and suicide. ⚠️
~
This piece is an emulation of Aesop's fable "The Boy Who Cried Wolf". Any similarities, as a result, are purely intentional, and I am thus giving credit where credit is due.
~
There once was a girl
who cut herself,
a plan by which she could get
a little company
and
some excitement.

(Or so it was presumed)

She rushed out from the
school washroom
after tearing herself open
and called out,
"suicide, suicide!”

And her teachers and classmates
came out to meet her,
and some of them stopped
with her for a considerable time.

This pleased the girl
so much,
that a few days afterwards,
she tried the same trick,
and again her
teachers and classmates
came to help.


This pleased the girl
so much,
that a few days afterwards,
she tried the same trick,
and again her
teachers and classmates
came to help.



This pleased the girl
so much,
that a few days afterwards,
she tried the same trick,
and again her
teachers and classmates
came to help—

But instead of
trying to understand
the chronic illness
that plagued her,

they resorted to an archaic stigma
to inform their judgments
on the subject of mental illness.

They believed
that she only bled
to receive attention,
and was therefore named
The Girl Who Cried Suicide
after The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

Eventually,
she wasn't allowed
to use the school washroom
at all anymore

even if she had to
take a ******* ****

cuz
it would only encourage

"maladaptive
attention
seeking
behaviours.”

Despite them never
saying this to her face,
the girl was not
stupid

and

discovered

the defamations
that had fallen from the
tongues of these
black sheep.

The Girl was so
profoundly hurt
by this betrayal

that a few years
afterwards,
as she attempted
to bleed herself dry
in the bathtub
at 3 Am
on a stormy
May 30th,

she dared not
tell a soul

for she knew
they would think
this to be an act
of deceit

a freak show
she put on just
for the ******
hell of it—

crowned

liar

in some sick,
crimson pageant.

But this was not
a game of
make-believe


no—

the wolves
had always been
there

rabid

&

howling

to the blood moon
of her mind's eye

every beautiful thought

disembowelled

the fabric of her sanity
torn from her skull

(And the veins torn from her flesh)

the wolves’ cry
a siren song

leading the lamb
to her slaughter.

~
Don’t you understand?

I am not playing dress-up

I am not the wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing
I am not the wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing
I am not the wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing

I  am

the lamb to this slaughter
~
Tell me

If it was all just for

*******

attention,

then why did I feel the need

to hide my cuts
with long-sleeved shirts

during gym class

in the summer?

Why did I start
cutting in places
Where no one would ever
think
of looking?

Why did I tell everyone I
stopped
when I hadn’t?

~
Did you really care about me?

Or did you care about
What would happen to
You
if the liability killed herself?
~
You cut me in ways
a razor
never could.
~
How could you
How could you
How could you
~
Honestly?

Go **** yourselves,
You uneducated
*****
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Apr 9 · 248
Bile
Jade Apr 9
I have never been one
to eat my words,
no—

I regurgitate
and spit them
back into your eye.
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Jade Apr 8
I cut off my feet
at the ankles


so as to ensure
they never set foot
in my mouth again.
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Jade Apr 3
Dancin' with the devil,

(always stepping on his toes)
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Apr 2 · 69
Untitled
Jade Apr 2
Oh
horrendous
Delilah—

You’ve cut away
the most
poetic
parts of me.
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Apr 2 · 168
I Won't Forget Either
Jade Apr 2
I will not forgive

I will not let bygones be bygones

I will not bury the hatchet

(how can I bury a weapon
when it is still embedded in my spine?)

no--

I will write poetry instead.
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Mar 30 · 551
Inseherity
Jade Mar 30
When someone calls me
beautiful

I never know how to
believe them.
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Mar 30 · 176
Tranqs
Jade Mar 30
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to substance abuse⚠️
~

A benzo
A day keeps the
nerves
at bay
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Mar 30 · 100
Ati Girl
Jade Mar 30
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to substance abuse⚠️
~


Dear Billie Eilish,


I wish I could make you proud


it's just


I DO


need a


Xanny


to feel better
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Mar 28 · 168
Well, Now You Know
Jade Mar 28
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicidal ideation⚠️
~

Hey,

Remember that time
you went to the bathroom

and you found the words

“I wish I was dead”

written on the stall
in purple marker?


Yeah,
That was me.


And before you
say anything
insensitive

(and you will say something
insensitive)


let me just cut to the chase:

if I did it for attention
I would have signed my name.

So don’t even *******
start with me.

~


But
to whoever wrote back,


“Don’t end your life—it’s precious”:


thank you for actually
caring

even if you didn't
know who I was.

And I guess
I hope you read this,
too.
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Jade Mar 26
Trial i: Crimson


By: The Mad Poetess


Purpose:

I shall birth
a new colour.

Sprung from the womb
of passion & rage--

cacophonous.

The name of the labour:
The Crimsoning

after the spawn:

Crimson.

Hypothesis:

from the quill
baptized in crimson ink

to the torn parchment

poetry shall hail down

like a meteor shower.

Materials:

- Sewing needle
- Blood
- Berries harvested from the Belladonna plant (devil's cherry)
- Teardrops
- Artist's palette
- Inkwell
- Bunsen burner
- Quill pen
- Parchment


Procedure:

1. With the needle, ***** finger; remove needle at the first dewdrop of blood
2.  Crush and mix devil's cherries with teardrops upon artist's palette
3. Add dewdrop and rest of concoction on to palette and mix using whatever is convenient (fingers, paint brush, hair, etc)
4. Transfer Crimson to inkwell
5. Place in well above bunsen burner
6. Burn for 40 days and 40 nights until Crimson is matured
7. Dip quill into ink
5. Press quill to parchment
6. Write poetry


Observations:

The parchment kindles
beneath the ink

pages curl up
at the corners
like Medusa’s hissing serpents

every gawking
letter
a petrification of
what could have been

every lowercase t
crucified

every serif
a burning branch.

Is this the context
of a self-fulfilling prophecy?

To write poems about forest fires
and then

burn?

~

My poems and I:

on the cusp of extinction.

I throw my head back
at a ghastly angle

like the ancient
Ornithomimus.
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Mar 26 · 269
Cat Got Your Tongue?
Jade Mar 26
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicidal ideation⚠️
~

When one cat is dying
the other cats in the household
will sometimes keep their distance
from the dying cat

because they cannot bear
the smell of
death.


I wonder if that’s
why
so many of you
had abandoned me at my
most terminal.


Could you smell the murmur of
death
I wore above my collar bone
like Eau de Parfum?

Could you smell
the impending suicide?

You couldn’t wait to
put me down—

not for the sake of my
suffering

but

for the sake of yours.

{bad luck}
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Oct 2020 · 585
Ode to My Itsy Bitsy Titsy
Jade Oct 2020
left cup runneth over/

right cup half empty/

if I add my left cup size to my right cup size what will I get/ DD + D = DDD/I've never been great at math/but this is no/miscalculation/

I am 36 DD confined to a 36 D bra/

(D)Disgorges over the underwire/

D--you flaccid beach ball/I wish I could reinflate you/part my mouth around your ******/and/
breathe/

no one can tell/unless I wear a tight bodice/then/you are/obnoxiously evident/

I am afraid of introducing you to my future boyfriend/will he still want to undress me/will he still want to make love to me/

will he still want to touch you/

you/

sea urch/in/the palm of my hand/

even I am hesitant to hold you close to me/

you/

strangulated bagpipe/

moulting pompom/ B-O-O-B/
what's that spell/
what's that spel/
what's that spe/
what's that sp/
what's that s/
what's that/

what is that/

what/

who are you/

you/

waning gibbous/

my metaphors wane, also/it turns out there are only so many euphemisms that can be assigned to an/ill-proportioned breast/

itsy bitsy titsy/

you make me/

sad/

you/

teardrop defying the laws of gravity/

or/
is it the laws of gravity that defy the teardrop/so that it never falls into/
place/

I've noticed only/beautiful/things/
fall/

shooting stars/

autumn/

my left *****
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Aug 2020 · 221
UR A GEM II
Jade Aug 2020
I've grown to love
the sound of my name

swaddled in the contour
of my cupid's bow;

rolling off the tides
of my tongue;

humming
like earthquakes
in my vocal cords

my name--

Jade,
after the precious gemstone.

~

A girl named Jade
beckons the moon
so that it sits
between her palms
brings it closer to earth
through her camera lens,

photographing celestial portraits,
each crater immaculately reproduced.

She grows bouquets
of bluebells in her lungs,
poetic eidos
ringing
from her mouth,

fingers pulsing
against the typewriter
like the oscillation
of a butterfly's wings.

The soft hiss of verse
dissolves on the reader's taste buds,

each stanza an exhalation of
profundity--

unforgettable.

Maybe you were the one
to walk away
but
there will always be
a part of you
that mourns.

Her name etched
onto the surface of your ribs
like they are tombstones

(and they are tombstones).

You lie in wait to be
haunted

(because that's the only way
you'll ever see her again.)


A girl named Jade--

ferociously loyal

but she also declares
her own worth,
recognizing those who will only
abbreviate it.

She is a melodic composition
of sunflower petals and stardust--

but that does not make her fragile;

for her bones
are cast with iron;

mind the crown of
Athenian wisdom;

heart a pounding sea

where water lilies float
and leaches drown;

And of her soul?

A girl named Jade
wears her soul
in an aurora borealis
of purple light

(just as she was always meant to).
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Jade Aug 2020
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm ⚠️
~

The inconquerable crusade
of the razor

plucking at my nerves
like they are violin strings.

My fingers go numb.

I promise myself
this is a song
I will never sing again

(but, oh, how I love the music).
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Jade Jul 2020
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to ****** harassment ⚠️

~
Wearing mirrored sunglasses
is not a fashion statement
but a statement of
*******.

Did you think
they would bury
your sinful leer?

That I would not
catch you staring at me
as I walked
through the parking lot?

That I would happen upon
my own fearfully contorted
reflection
instead of your
girl-hungry glare?

That I would be silent?

For silence is a language
I discarded long ago.

Later,
after blowing me
an array of kisses
through yellowing teeth,
you yell from
your car window
and accuse me of
staring first

when we both know
I just stared back,
my eyes arranged into dog fights.

Lick your lips
at me
like I am prey
and you will
unveil both the She-Beast
and her bite.

I will not be stalked--

Instead,
I stalk away,
spitting the word
"creep"
over my shoulder.

Behind me,
comes the snicker
of a hyena--

but I know
that hyenas
snicker even when they
have been wounded.

I ensnare you
in these words
like the animal
you are.

Remember--

my poetry cuts deeper
than the teeth
of any carnivore.

The poem is
Mightier than the

pervert.
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Jun 2020 · 261
Graffiti
Jade Jun 2020
How I'd love
to spray paint the words
"*******!"
upon your white picket fence.

I will destroy
your every
perception
of
p̶e̶r̶f̶e̶c̶t̶i̶o̶n̶.

Oh,
pardon me.

I retract my statement--

we don't rhyme
where I'm from.
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May 2020 · 295
Atlantis Shall Rise Again
Jade May 2020
Atlantis shall rise again.

She will spear through the currents,
until the helms of her cityscapes
cleave the tides
that have entombed her.

In the beginning,
it hurts
as she guillotines
the barnacles
and bottom feeders
congealed upon her brow.

In the beginning,
she bleeds--

she bleeds--

but

she heals.

Shrugs the brine
from her rooftops
and hails over
the men and women
who sunk her Queendom
all those millennia ago.

As the moonlight
crescendos through
the stained glass,
timeworn prophecies
written in the jagged contours
of greek lettering
reveal themselves upon the pillars:

Atlantis shall rise again.

Ophelia's throne reclaimed
only by the one
who has treaded
The Great Deluge
and survived it

only by the one
who is fluent in
the language of drowning
but has not bowed
to the hurricanes

by the one
with hair like raven feathers
and dark eyes spun to gold
when they look into the sunset

by the one
who is named
after a gemstone,
the most precious
of them all--

Atlantis shall rise again

and

I shall rise with Her.
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May 2020 · 401
Shhh
Jade May 2020
Sometimes,
I fear
there will come a day
when he will use my
secrets
against me.

But then I remember:

I know all of his
secrets,
too.

{Try me, Darlin'}
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Jade Apr 2020
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm, suicide, and voluntary psychiatric hospitalization⚠️
~

This is not my first heartbreak.

I've had many,
and I've certainly had worse.

Although,
at the time,
my heart would have plead
irreparable.

(If only I knew
what was to come
two years later--

but there's a poem
for another day.

In fact,
I believe
you've read it.)

This is the first heartbreak
I feel everywhere--
a cataclysmic aching
that I am certain  
will reduce my pulse to  
flatlines.  

This is my first anxiety attack.

My fingernails scrape violently
at my collarbone
as if they are looking to fulfill
some distant, unadulterated urge
to tear myself apart.

(They are digging
for what whispers beneath--

a dying thing.)

But I cannot
escape
this Incarceration;

I cannot
escape
the shuddering confines
of my own body.

So
I tear away
my clothes
until I am left
in just my underwear.
rocking myself back and forth
like the mad girls
do in the movies.

(Is it true?

Have I gone mad?)


I run the shower
even though I don't have
any intention of showering.

I do this only so my mum
doesn't hear me sobbing,
the sounds of which
are concealed by
the water's blaze.

The room fogs over--

and all the world
is a mist.

and suddenly,
I don't know
what to do with myself.

and suddenly,
I don't give
an absolute ****
about what happens to me
anymore.

For this simple reason, I decide to go to the hospital.

Take away my  
dignity.

Take away my
independence.

Just promise-
******* promise me--
you'll take away the
pain too.

You don't
(of course).

"Please don't tell me you're here because of a boy."

This is one of the first things--
perhaps even the first thing--
the doctor says to me.

"What? Did you think the two of you would ride off into the sunset and live out the rest of your days on some faraway island?"

(Something to this extent,
yet still not an exaggeration.)

See,
to doctors,
broken hearts
are a ridiculous waste of time.

They prefer to deal
in broken things
they can easily
cast and bandage
in fluorescent colours
upon which all the people
you know can then sign,

"Get well soon."

But there is no one to sign
get well soon
across the
war-torn
latitude of my chest.

Because no one truly believes
there is anything for me
to recover from--

they can't see it,
so it mustn't be real

(right?)

Thanks
for cutting a girl down
when she's already bleeding,

(literally,
and I've got the scars
to prove it.)

Doc,
don't ya know
it was never about
just a boy?

It was about
yet another instance of
rejection
I was forced to add
to my repertoire
of not-good-enoughs,
yet another loss
magnified
by my ailing brain.

(what came first--
the plague,
or the boy?

Do I even have to
provide a ******* answer
to such an obvious question?)


Doc--
I know what
type of person you are:

an egotistical *** hat
who thinks mental illness
is inferior
to Physical Illness

cuz

it's all in my head
it's all in my head
it's all in my head

right?

Doc,
what if I told ya
"It"
is always trying to **** me?

What if I told you
"It"
wants nothing more
than to reduce my pulse--
my broken heart--
to flatlines?

Would you take back what you said?

(probably not).
#abuse #asylum #betrayal #blogger #blogging #broken #darkness #depression #destruction #emotion #freeverse #inferiority #lost #love #madness #mentalhealth #pain #past #prejudice #poetry #sadness #scars #time #tragic #tragedy #truth #writing
Jade Apr 2020
⚠Trigger Warning: the following poem contains religious allusions that some might find offensive⚠

Memories belittled by dust,
preserved, taxidermal fashion
inside an anthology
of vintage photographs.

Though,
I am aware that  
"vintage"
is only a euphemism  
for a possession
that was once beautiful.  

Your treason
has turned all the photographs
ugly,  
their corners curling up  
like the spiral of a chameleon's tail.  

Vivacious colours devolve
into lacklustre,  
sepia tones,
blending in with  
the palette of my
surrounding melancholy.  

Ensnared in a dilemma:  


Do I miss you?  


or  


Do I hate you?  


(perhaps a bit of both,

but never

I love you--


not anymore.)  


Apertures mewl,
bruising the gallery walls
with tears.  

I frame your
betrayals
with gold and
garlands of daisies
in an attempt to soften  
our past  


(it never works).  


These
vacant
hallways
trap your phantom footprints
beneath the cobblestone.  

Was it really  
such a guiltless task  
to walk away from me?

Embedded  
across the rungs of my spine
are the scuff marks  
from where you wiped the dirt  
off your boots only after
wrenching the welcome mat
from underneath me.  

I have accepted that
our friendship was
merely transactional
to you;  

I served up  
all the love I had to  
give
like John the Baptist's head
was served up upon a silver platter.  


You feasted  


while


I starved.  


Yet,
full is this menagerie
of lost things.  

I know
I should burn  
the polaroids
in the name of closure.  

Perhaps
I am just afraid there will be no art--
no poetry--
left to sculpt
from the cinders that
remain.
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Jade Apr 2020
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm⚠

~

I can't remember
whether or not
I was getting my
eyebrows waxed or
my ****** waxed that day,
just that the esthetician
noticed the scars peeking out
from beneath the hem of my shorts.

"What are those from?"
she asked me.

"Oh,"
came my reply,
"They're just from a long time ago."--

A line I had rehearsed
in anticipation of moments like this.

Despite the brutal awkwardness
of the conversation,
I've gotta say
she really is great
at waxing eyebrows
(and vaginas).
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Apr 2020 · 306
U R A GEM
Jade Apr 2020
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to graphic language, substance abuse, suicidal ideation and opinions on religion that some might find offensive⚠

~

I do not
deserve
the name I was given--

Jade,
after the (semi) precious gemstone.

Girls named Jade
are not supposed to
give strangers the finger
more often than
they hug their mothers
or
say the word
f  u  c  k
more often than
they tell their fathers
that they love them--

are not supposed
to say
(or write)
the word
*******

at all.

And here I am,
having banged out
the word
*******

t̶w̶i̶c̶e̶

thrice
upon my typewriter.

Real charmer,
aren't I?

******* in front
of open windows
just for the ******* i n g sake of it.

(four times.)

Pounding tequila shots
as I grind against the moonlight,
Lana Del Rey's lyrics
throbbing from the speakers:

"My *******tastes like Pepsi Cola..."


Girls named Jade
are not supposed to
get plastered on school nights
(and tipsy before class)
or listen to music

(and the music is
always
too loud.)

about p u s s y.

They don't say
(or write)
the word
*******br>
either.

I've always had a ***** mouth--
this is what a man from church
had told me at eight years old
when I said "****" in front of him.

Girls named Jade
are supposed to go
to church every Sunday--
are supposed to believe in god.

Instead,
I outgrow religion
by the time I am sixteen
(perhaps even before then),

only ever consulting the bible
when I need inspiration
for some tragic poem
narrating the pangs of betrayal.


(It was not Womankind
who betrayed god,
but god who betrayed Womankind

just like I have betrayed
my own name.)


The only thing
I have ever truly believed in is
poetry.


Girls named Jade
are not supposed to
write poetry the way
I write poetry--

all *** & drugs & rock n' roll
tundras & hurricanes
infernos & molten lava
blood & violent minds
suicide & broken hearts

& broken hearts
& broken hearts
& broken hearts

& purple souls--

Girls named Jade
are supposed to
wear their souls
in the colour green.
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Jade Apr 2020
Spinal column
a stairwell of books,
rungs of untouched vertebrae
avoided by the bibliophile herself

[myself].

Brain is wired differently
than the rest of them.

At first,
I thought it was a matter of being
****-retentive.
A veteran perfectionist
who strives to imagine every detail
as intricately and accurately
as the author must have intended.

Character's faces morph into
sloppy, patchwork collages,
features copied and pasted from
beautiful strangers and
celebrities who played
in the movie adaptations.

Their appearances are both
cliche
and
incomprehensible.

I am told a character is pale,
but can only manage to visualize a complexion
the colour of notebook paper,
penetrating blue eyes mere apparitions
against a wintry terrain--
her ears
nose
lips
misplaced beneath the tundra.

I lay the book atop my collarbone,
its cover pitched into a make-shift tent.

(Cautiously).

Almost as if I am
afraid to disturb
the seriffed constellations
that flicker above my heart.

I stare up at the ceiling
(vacant, as am I),
my eyebrows scrunched
into nooses of concentration,
several minutes passing before
her cheeks gradually begin to thaw,
warming over in an ombre
of pinks and olives.

And I rejoice!

Strike down the tent,
pupils hungry for prose.

But there is always
another character.

In Valley of the Dolls,
a handsome man,
whose hairline I cannot
properly envision

(this makes him less handsome).

This time,
when I lay my book down,
I do not proceed with caution,
the corners of its pages
dog-earing against my body.

Google:

men's hairstyles, 1940's

(I need to commit to memory
three different styles
so the three different males
I am working with
are not trite clones of each other).

I can only manage three pages
at a time
before having to take a break.

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is an exponential task,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting
Jaqueline Susanne's vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

on the first
(second...
third...
I don't know...)

try.

Turns out
this is more than just
being ****-retentive.

This is Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

I yearn for times of old
junior high
when I could finish a novel
in a day--
ramona and beezus
butterfly lion
the silver donkey.

But even then,
the obsessions were there,
one substituted for another:

the ceaseless gushing
of the soap pump
and dizzying rotation
of the faucet taps.

Could barely hold literature
between my palms
without aggravating
the rosettes of eczema
that had sprout
along my hands,
scoured clean and raw.

Eventually,
I outgrew these harrowing baptisms.

Am still waiting to outgrow
the laborious nature of my readings.

My only antidote poetry,
for it heals me in
every way
fiction could not
[cannot].

The poems do not trouble me,
do not burden me
with overwhelming arrangements
of ink and letters.

Instead,
I confront the English language
line by line,
sedated by the simple
fragmentation
of each stanza.

Because even when fragmented,
these stanzas offer up to me
the written word
like it is ambrosia
when I am starving
for intellect
but cannot feast.

I am spoon-fed words
until I am full--
am reminded that
I am not the stupid girl
I believe I am,
courtesy of my
obsessive, compulsive short circuits.

I do not relate to the cohesion of prose,
cannot deny the brilliant likeness
that exists between the reader
and her enjambment--
both fractured mosaics of metaphor.

I am
as broken
as these verses.

But

it is only as
I shatter
that I am freed.
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Jade Apr 2020
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicidal ideation and self-harm ⚠
~
A note to any friends who read this post: while this poem is written in the present tense, please be aware that it is merely a memory I write of--not a present circumstance.

~
They say

cut

d
o
w
n

the

road

if

you

wanna

off

yourself

not across the street

but
  

         I
                          
                      j walk,  slashing
                                                 ­    d
                                                        i
     ­                                                     a
          ­                                                  g
             ­                                                 o
              ­                                                  n        
     ­                                                              a
                                                                ­      l
                                                         ­             

onto thighs like lightning bolts

                     caught in the storm
                                   of this limbo
                                                           ­     cuz
                                                        ­              i don't wanna live
                     but
                            i don't wanna die


either.
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Apr 2020 · 347
A Spoonful of Sugar
Jade Apr 2020
The girl wreathes
the perimeter of her mattress  
in salt
that has
fallen
like meteors from her stormy eyes.

Surely,
this ritual
will keep the nightmares away.

But her tears
lack resilience.
lack the necessary sting
of healing
as brine enters wound;

instead,
her tears
are broken compositions
of fragility and sugar--

a spoonful
helps the medicine go down
but cannot antidote
the parasitic demons
hosted by the traumas of her past.
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Apr 2020 · 165
Sugarcoated
Jade Apr 2020
I bite rabbit holes
into my tongue
before my confrontations
have the opportunity
to race past my teeth
and infuriate your
superiority complex
upon impact.

These confrontations
stick to the roof of my mouth
like burned marshmallows
dandruffed in black shavings
that taste of regret and fire

(I swallow them anyway).

Turns out
I was so preoccupied with
these suppressed campfire stories
that I did not notice
when my own lips caught flame,
kindled by all the words.
I've never had the courage to speak aloud.

Of course,
things are different now.
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Apr 2020 · 366
By The Book
Jade Apr 2020
Without the navigation
of a bookmark
a dog eared corner
or a memory of where I left off,

I turn to the correct page
on the first try--

these words know
my fingerprints well.
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Apr 2020 · 843
Olly Olly Oxen Free
Jade Apr 2020
The other day,
I unblocked you from
Instagram.

Not because I miss you.

Not because I am inviting you
back into my life
after a year and a half--

Because I refuse
to remain in hiding.

*
Olly Olly Oxen Free,
Darlin'.

You're playing my game now.
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Mar 2020 · 257
Ctrl.Alt.Delete
Jade Mar 2020
Archaic superstitions
have convinced the masses
that the girl who lives on the
13th floor is bad luck.

Her tears seep
from the hardwood
to the floors below,
electrocuting the dining room chandeliers
and burning out the sconces.

There just aren't
enough pots and pans
to contain her storm.

Furious,
the people downstairs
seem to forget
how there was once a time
when she would let them drink from
the fractured chalices of her palms,
sewing her fingers together
with cobwebs so that not a drop
evaded their thirsty lips.

Their hands do not reciprocate,
while hers do nothing but
give
give
give.

She yearns for the sight
of the number 13,
encircled like a new moon
amongst the rows
of elevator buttons.

Instead, they've
erased
her.

Burned
the letters & books & poems
she'd given them
over the years,
using the ashes
to rouge their egos.

Excavated the pixie dust
from her fingertips

(Do you recall
the death of Tinker Bell--
how her light went dark
after they stopped
believing in fairies--
after they stopped
beliving in her?)


Broke through the
stained glass of her irises,
plundering every
brilliantly-coloured fragment.

Bridging the longitude
of her spine, a laceration
from where the shards
were  punctured and

d
r
a
g
g
e
d.

Basically,
they destroyed
every beautiful part of her
before hiding her in the attic
like a secret


(she has many secrets,
but so do they).


You should see her now:

The way she wears her loneliness so
elegantly.

(Then again,
did she ever really
have any other choice?)

Now,
she'll do anything
she can to keep
the cold from
permeating her lungs.

So she fills the tub
to a scald,
it's gnarled feet
caving beneath the gravity
of her sadness.

Matches smoulder
until the candelabras
are starved of their wax,
wicks frayed like
unravelling
spool of her heartstrings.

Memories both
kind & cruel play tug-o-war
with her capillaries,
some gliding
across her heartstrings
like a violin bow,
birthing symphonic renditions of
inside jokes;
chlorine braided
like ribbons
in the hair of best friends;
walks along sun-strewn culdesacs;
the scent of used bookstores--
something like vanilla and earth.

If only the girl
on the 13th floor
could deteriorate as gracefully
as the pages of worn books.

Each recollection of
betrayal
plucks at heartstrings
with calloused fingers
until they snap.

Ears are severed Julienne style
across the cutting board of her skull,
cuz maybe then she won't hear
the defamations that sit atop
their salivating tongues like pop rocks.

Don't they know their attempts at secrecy are futile?

That she can still
feel the explosive slanders
as they tremble against
the roofs of their unloyal mouths?

The roof of her own
fortress collapses,
shingles thundering down
in percussive eruptions.

Devastated,
she tries to create her own luck,
gathering charms to ward off the
skeletons quaking in the closet.

No rabbit's feet,
just her own paws
cleaved from her ankles,
by way of bread knife,
serrated and adorned in rust
from where her eyes
have  hurricaned over steel.

No clovers,
only dead rose petals,
withered and cliche,
glued in fours
using whatever is salvageable:
stale candle wax
old chewing gum
brine.

No acorns to kiss
because tokens of love
have no place
on the 13th floor

(neither do fairy tales).


No ink.

Instead,
she writes
with her blood,
morbidly inspired
by the carnage.

(because carnage is all she has ever known.)

And despite their
archaic superstitions,
they still read her poetry,
stanzas stacked
like tarantula legs

(and perhaps just as lethal).


Keys are pried from the keyboard.

[ 1 ]   [ 3 ]
              
                 [ E ]  [ R ] [T]
                                                             ­ [ I ]
                                           [ H ]

                                                       [ N ]

Her words attempt to crawl
past blue monitor screens,
caught in a vortex of robotic actions.

                                           [ Delete ]

[ Alt ]      [Ctrl]


                                           [ Delete


                                            

          ­                                 [ Delet




                                          [ Dele




                                          [ Del




                                          [ De




                                          [ D




                                          [





          ­                               |
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Feb 2020 · 2.4k
Hot & Bothered
Jade Feb 2020
I wish I was the type of
woman

that pendulates from bedposts,
body glittering under the neon starlight,
hips careening
like the manes of willow trees
caught in a storm/

that grinds against
the sultry moans
of night club music/

that disrupts the sleep of men
when they awake
at midnight aroused,
so hard
they touch themselves
while thinking of her.
(from behind the mist,
the moon's cratered eyes
watch what their fingers do in
secret)/

that begs
to be undressed
by fantasy
and pupils
and hands/

that bites necks
and licks collar bones
(other places, too)/

that spreads thighs
across silk linens,
flesh pulsating like
drunk maraschino cherries/

I wish I was the type of
woman

that doesn't have to wear
virginity,
concealing the shame
felt in its presence
by writing poems about

that type of woman.
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Jade Feb 2020
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm ⚠
~

I would make tally marks
on my wrists
in ballpoint pen
every time something
unfortunate happened.

Got a bad grade?

|

Said the wrong thing?

||

Mistreated by a friend?

|||

Loved someone too hard
(but not be loved back)?

||||

And It was only
under the cover of
privacy
in a washroom stall during class
or under the scalding pour of the shower
or after midnight atop white bed sheets

that I would trace the ink
with a razor blade.



**
"What are those marks," he asked her.

"Oh," she whispered, "Just reminders for something I need to do later."
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Jade Feb 2020
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm ⚠
~

"These violent delights have violent ends."
~William Shakespeare

~

When the crevices
on my wrists
solder themselves together
and the rich, crimson stanzas
become illegible,
I unsheathe my quill--

melancholy's scribe.

The ink clots,
driblets of red
bleeding through these pages

but I keep writing

until
this parchment lies
sweetly torn

and

I smile.

Now,
that's what I call

poetry.

**
How violently delightful.
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Jade Feb 2020
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm ⚠

~

One afternoon
in the tenth grade,
I am sent home from school for
cutting myself.

When I walk through the front door,
I crouch down to pet my dog.
She burrows her nose
against my thighs,
sniffs at them
in gentle bursts of air.

I know she can smell the blood
that has so
stubbornly
fused my nylons
to the lacerations on my flesh.

She stares up at me
with her spacious brown eyes.

In this moment,
she is the only one
who comprehends my sadness
without judgment--

there is only
love.
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Jade Feb 2020
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm ⚠

~

Even when we have Phys Ed outside,
and it is 30 degrees,
I wear a long-sleeved shirt
to class to
bury
the truth of my flesh.

I wonder if this is
what it means to hide
something
in plain sight.
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Jade Feb 2020
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm ⚠

~

I am sitting in
ninth grade English class
(or maybe it was Social Studies?)

My fingers creep
beneath the desk,
past a mausoleum
of stale chewing gum
until they grasp at
something frigid and metal.

Kilt pin unhooked,
plaid parted,
I reach for mid-thigh.

Pulse hammering in my veins,
and my countenance an
exhibition of nonchalance,
I probe-gouge-drag
it across my skin.

From my mouth,
a quiet yelp.

The girl next to me asks,
"are you okay?"
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Jade Jan 2020
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm⚠️

~


In the beginning,

I used Bic pen caps
safety pins
jagged remnants of plastic
salvaged from a broken mechanical pencil
the serrated edge
of a paper towel dispenser--

gateways to razors
and Exacto knives.

Objects that were too dull
to split skin
but were still sharp enough
to leave their mark--
puffy, red scratches
accompanied by the
occasional pearl of blood,
dark rarities
that blossomed in rosy drops
upon the dominion of my flesh.

At the time,
I deemed my attempts
at self-harming
pathetic substitutions,
euphemisms in lieu of
the real thing:

deep lacerations from which
reservoirs of Crismon
were birthed.

Sometimes,
I still believe this,
even though it is
terribly unkind
to abbreviate my experience.

If my ninth grade
guidance counsellor
were to read this,
she would tell me that
it's not about the
depth of the wound,
or the means by which
the wound was acquired, but
rather
the existence of the wound

(the existence of the
hurting).
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Jade Aug 2019
volume i
A Portrait of My Sixth-Grade Self
___________________­

Eleven-year-old fingers
swollen with baby fat
dig into the gaudy shimmer
of turquoise eyeshadow
encased in its shattered compact.

I apply the pigment,
erratic smudges extending
from my lash line
to just below my untamed brows.

The blue powder accentuates the swirls
of my fingerprints in dizzy figure eights.

But you can't quit your own skin
like you can quit ice skating lessons.

I am in the sixth grade
when the Popular Girls
in my class tell me that,
if I want to get a boy to like me,
I have to change the way I look.

I abide by the rules of the
Unofficial Mean Girl Doctrine:

{no. 1}

I mustn't wear sweat pants,
these sloppy Old Navy rags
that I have owned for three years.

See,
denim is superior to cotton
even though it leaves
cavernous indentations
on my stomach.

Sweat pants forgive
the extra swell of your waist line.

Denim punishes you
for what you don't have,
more specifically
for what you have too much of.

I ask my mom for skinny jeans
because perhaps if I can
shrink all that I am
into this blue, unyielding fabric
I will feel thinner than I actually am.

We buy the skinny jeans from Old Navy.

{no. 2}

My signature high pony tail is
unacceptable.

I should wear my hair down,
they profess.

I am not sure if this is
because of the tufts of frizz
that loom over my scalp
like wasted dandelion seeds

(I wish... I wish... I wish...)

or if this is just a necessary ritual
in the abandonment of my girlhood.  

After I unsheathe my curls
from their rubber-band Bastille,
their trial commences.

My ringlets slither
in hostile circulations,
executing frequent detours away
from anyone who might scoff
at their animalistic bedlam.

If only I could will
my spectators to stone.

Cuz no one ever dared
**** with Medusa
and her curls.

Instead,
I settle for a flat iron.

{no. 3}

Do everything in your power to be
Beautiful
including, but not limited to,
the laws indicated above.

Yet,
despite my grandest efforts,
it is never enough.

I am never enough.

I am the Walmart Edition
of what the Popular Girls
want me to be.

With my gaudy eyeshadow and the
cheap Dollar Store bracelets
that I wear around my wrists,
plastic flowers blooming
upon threaded stems
that nip at the hair on my arms.

One day on the bus ride home,
a boy from my class tells me
I am too hairy.

"Huh?" I ask,
pretending I haven't heard him.

"Nothing," he mumbles back to me.

See,
little girls are supposed to play with
jump ropes and Barbie Dolls.

They are not supposed to
play with razors as they strip away
every misplaced hair on their body
or consult Teen Vogue
for the latest beauty hacks
like they are Gospel.

This year of 2011/2012
has been engraved  into
the historical road map
of my every insecurity.
The legend of this map,
depicted in smeared globules
of sugar cookie lipgloss,
deliver me to my destination:

self hatred.

Mascara stains the
topography of my flesh
in inky, dotted lines

I follow.

I plummet
like the eternal run
in my stockings.

One way plane ride
non-stop
never to return
from this perception of ugliness
and then--

flight


down.
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Jade Aug 2019
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm, suicide, and involuntary psychiatric hospitalization⚠️
______________­____

Tenth grade:

I am standing in the foyer
with my friends
before the bell rings.

From my sailor's mouth:
a bluster of salt and curse words.

My friends are so used
to hearing me swear,
that I believe they have become
desensitized to the variations of "****"
that whistle through my teeth.

Today, I use a
word
I have never said in front of them before.

Their eyes flash
with holier-than-thou
disapproval.

I understand how my language
may be construed as being offensive.

And, truly, I mean no harm.

But truly,
does that make me less than?

(Maybe it does.)

I've never been like them.

I am not pristine.

I am all edge.

Cut from sea glass,
composed of atoms having split
and drowned in their
self-perpetuated monsoons.  

My voice is not a siren song.

It is the stuff
of brine and hurricane.

I ask:
are you mad at me?

"I mean--I don't like hearing it..."

(Yes.)

"It's just sort of disrespectful."

(So you are mad at me.)

This type of shame
can only be alleviated
through means of punishment.

During English class,
I go to the bathroom.

Into my left forearm,
I carve the word
*****,
its lines written
in barbed-wire cursive.
Like a trigger-happy Etch A Sketch,
I create haphazardly.

When I get home that evening,
my parents, having received a phone call
from the school that afternoon,
tell me we are going to the hospital.

(Clarification:
I am going to the hospital,
they are only taking me there.)

Post phone call,
my father had contacted
Alberta Health Services.
The representative he had spoken to
told him that it was necessary
that I go to the hospital
and that if I didn't comply,
he should call 911,
wherein the paramedics
would take me by force.

I am in awe that
this stranger has the power
to tell me where I must go
before I am even aware
of their existence.

After screaming
and sobbing
and swearing--
one of the words being
the cuss that initiated
this series of events
in the first place--
I finally surrender.

On the ride to the hospital,
I listen to "A Car, a Torch, a Death"
by Twenty One Pilots.

"The air begins to feel a little thin
As I start the car, and then I begin
To add the miles piled up behind me
I barely feel a smile deep inside me
And I begin to envy the headlights driving south
I want to crack the door so I can just fall out"


I cinch the vinyl of the seatbelt
between my fingers the entire way there.
Because, in this instance,
the seatbelt is my enemy
so I keep her closer
to me than my own skin.

(But I am not sure
if I really did this
or if my emotion
exploits my memory.)

We arrive.

Still hysterical,
I grab a fistful of snow
before we pass through the doors.

A guffaw verging on maniacal
escapes from my chapped lips:

What if this is my
last chance
to touch snow,
to inhale the crispness of November
before I am locked up?

(What if they lock me up?)

I step out of the queue
and into the nurse's station.
My parents explain
what I've done to myself
and the nurse asks me how I feel.

"Angry,"
I say.

"Why are you angry?"

"Because I've been brought here against my will."

When the ER doctor
has finished her interrogation,
she says that a psychologist
will be with me shortly.

"I'm going to do homework while I wait,"
I tell her, defiance tugging at my vocal cords,
"Because I AM going to school tomorrow."

I ******* my way through
the rest of my assessment
with the psychologist,
try to sound the least suicidal as possible
while also making it exponentially clear
that admitting me involuntarily--
isolating me from the rest of society--
would only intensify my depression.

They let me go.

One of the doctors--
or maybe it was a nurse--
makes a comment
that I can't fully remember.

All I know is that I reply:
"No, I'm still pretty ******,"
to which the doctor (nurse?)
tells me that my parents did the right thing
and that my anger is unwarranted.

And I am just so ******* exhausted
with these people who treat me
like I'm some backward,
music box ballerina.

I figure eight in the direction
opposite of the world
spinning on its axis.

They do not like
this backward girl--
this warped record
whose lyrics seem unfathomable.

So they close
the top of the music box
and I no longer play
the leading role of my own life--
I am just some small, porcelain thing
collecting dust in the fissures of her
silence.
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Jade Aug 2019
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm, suicide, and involuntary psychiatric hospitalization⚠️

I don't recall a whole lot
about my first hospital visit.

I know only the
fleeting
keynotes of the experience.

And I'm not just referring to my first...
psychiatric (?) visit.

(I'm not sure if psychiatric is
the right word,
but I find that I often struggle
to find the right words
when I attempt to describe hospitals
and the time I've spent in them.


I'll do my best.)


See,
I had never been to the
Emergency Room for anything before.

(Well,
except for that one time
I tumbled off the changing table as a baby.
But I'm not sure that really counts,
my only knowledge of the event
having come from second-hand stories.)

Surprisingly enough,
being the clumsy child I was,
I had never sustained
any significant injuries
while growing up,
especially in comparison to my sister
who had a daunting repertoire.

When she was a toddler,
she executed a daredevil jump
from the top of the staircase,
breaking her arm as she crash-landed
onto the basement carpet.

While we were waiting
for her to be fitted with a cast,
I remember her doctor told me
to stop misbehaving.

While I can't remember
exactly how I was misbehaving,
I'm sure it had something to do
with the chaos of my temperament,
a chaos that has churned inside me
for as long as I have known.

Over the course
of my high school years,
when I would make several
appearances at the hospital
due to my own brokenness--
the very brokenness that persuaded
the lacerations on my wrists
and my lust for death--
the doctors would,
in their clinical, roundabout ways,
tell me the same thing:

to stop misbehaving.

In the ninth grade--
this here. this is the first visit--
my guidance counsellor and English teacher
had driven me to the Children's Hospital,
which was only up the road from my high school.

Oddly enough,
I had been relatively compliant.

I had gone quietly,
devoid of the defiant uproar
that seethed under my skin.

Perhaps I acted as I did to prove that,
despite, my darkness,
isolating me from the world I knew
would be a grand disservice to me.

Or perhaps I feared
what would happen
if I was to purposely disobey,
that, upon arriving at the hospital,
I would be treated like the rebel I was,
promptly disrobed of my independence.

The remaining details of the visit
have been resolved to vagueness
as time has passed.

I only know my father  
came straight from work to pick me up.
Before we left,
the doctor gave us pamphlets--
crisis hotlines,
accessing resources
within my quadrant of the city,
alternatives to self-harm.

The doctor dwelled on this last subject;

if I felt like cutting myself,
I could still satisfy the urge
without actually drawing blood.

I could press ice to my skin
or write on myself with markers--
markers not pens--
or snap a rubber band against my wrist,
which was the method
he had particularly fixated on.

He explained he wasn't too keen
on me snapping myself
all the time, either,
but that it was a preferable
alternative until I improved.

"Doc,"
I wish I'd said,
"If only you knew
how lovely it is to bleed."
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Aug 2019 · 267
Untitled
Jade Aug 2019
404

ERROR

this girl no longer exists
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Jade Aug 2019
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm, suicide, and involuntary psychiatric hospitalization⚠️

Over the duration of high school,
there is one fear that eclipses
the daily rumination of my thoughts.

Behind sepulchred eyelids,
burn the imaginings

of wasp-needled syringes

straitjackets curling around bodies
with noose-like exactness

a padded room
absorbing brain-curdling screams
into its pink insulation.

At the time,
I was petrified that my newly-discovered
flirtation with self-harm
would land me a permanent stay in an asylum.

The rational part of me knew
that they don't call them
asylums anymore.

The rational part of me knew
there would be no syringes
or straitjackets
or pink, padded rooms.

It was the principle

If it was decided that I was
"an immediate risk to myself"--
a decision that would
incorporate the voices
of the people who barely knew me
but deny me my own voice--
I would be admitted
to a psychiatric ward,
and it would be against my will.

It wouldn't matter
if it was at the Children's Hospital or not--
It wouldn't matter if the walls
were coated with those
sickeningly bright colours
or if there was an Xbox
in the common area.

You can dress up a prison cell
as vibrant as you'd like.
But, by principle,
it's still a prison cell.

When they strip you
of your clothes,
and force you into
their bleak hospital gowns,
they also strip you
of your independence.

(You aren't even allowed
to wear your school cardigan,
the one whose soft, green fabric
you nestle against your fingertips
when you need comforting.

What makes you think
you can leave when you want to?)

See,
doc keeps ya locked up
until he's snuffed the
crazy outta you.

They don't like using
the word
crazy
anymore, either.

So,
like the prison cell,
they play dress up
with your "crazy",
draping it in euphemisms like

unstable.

erratic.

incapacitated.

suicidal--

Once this word is used to label you,
you are never quite able to
abandon its connotation of
madness--
a reputation of inferiority.

And everyone believes
that they are only doing what's best for you,
that hospitalization is the only thing
that will save you from yourself,
when, in fact, it's the ultimatums
and the countless visits to the ER
and the way you are treated--
like a poor ***** lying in wait
to be put down--
that destroys you.

The memories still
bleed fresh most nights.

I seethe at
the mistreatment and
the betrayal and
the destruction
like an army of bees
whose hive has been kicked in,
a snow-globe convulsing
between careless hands.

I was kinder
before they stole away
the last moon-slivers of hope
I held between heart and ribs,
between lips and flower petals.

The nectar has been
exorcised from my soul,
leaving only infestation behind.


(and there is no escaping this swarm)
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Jul 2019 · 259
Opa!
Jade Jul 2019
You say the rain is
beautiful,
yet you judge me for crying.

If I went to school with you,
chances are
you've probably seen me cry
(and I cry a lot).

I would like to thank those
who consoled me during
my epoch of sadness,
one that reached out before me
like bubblegum stretched
to ligaments between nervous fingers
(I don't chew gum often,
but those fingers belonged to me).

Your kindness.
is remembered warmly.

But to those of you who
criticized me incessantly.
Called me
cry baby. overdramatic. weak.  
behind my back;

to those of you
who deliberately concealed
the truth from me--
unfortunate truths, they were
but truths that concerned
my reputation, nonetheless--
because you felt the need to
spare yourselves from the
"discomfort" and "annoyance"
my tears would bring you;

to those of you who
labelled me as if I were a
cardboard delivery box
containing fine china--
FRAGILE,
HANDLE WITH CARE

(REFRAIN FROM HONESTY):

your remarkable lack of compassion
serves you no purpose.
There is nothing noble
about making a satire of
other people's sorrow.
Being a stoic does not make
you stronger than me.

You cannot possibly comprehend
the strength I carry:

Many times I have shattered
and many times--
every time--
I have put myself back together again.

I conquer the Olympus of jigsaw pieces
that my heart has crumbled to,
place each fragment of myself
between my teeth,
letting the cardboard and paint
melt against my tongue
like Listerine breath strips.

Despite the bitter aftertaste of broken,
I feast until I am whole again.

I cry.

I lick my wounds.

And then I heal--

I always heal.

And my dreaded stoics,
you could heal too
if it weren't for your
self-righteous denial of
the deluge.

Watch me drink from its waters,
toast in acknowledgement to the pain.

I let myself feel
as I am meant to feel.

I let myself break
as I am meant to break.

I hope one day you come to learn
that there is
nothing
braver than that.

~

Whenever I shatter,
the Gods scream
"Opa!"
in celebration.

Because they know very well that
broken I shall not remain.
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