The girl with the eyes
And red stripes for sleeves
They left her alone
And that's how she pleased.
She had not a face
But red screaming eyes.
She stared people down
Until they would cry.
She was like a disease,
More creature than not.
Cold flesh for skin
Eyes burning hot.
Don't look at her now
She'll give you the eye
And watch as you burn
She'll watch as you die.
And if you ignore
The fact that she's there.
She won't even know.
IT'S NOT LIKE SHE'D CARE.
Before freaking out or being disturbed by the context of this poem, I'd like to give some back story. I was rummaging through my room and came across this poem. The date at the top of the paper seemed significantly familiar. I then realized that this poem was written the day before I was admitted into mental health care. It's hard to recall or even to comprehend what may have been going through my mind at the time. It's clear, however, that I was in a completely unhealthy state of mind and was a threat to myself and possibly (without the intense care I received) to others. I am no where near 100% these days, and I'm not sure I ever will be. But I am also no where near the state of mind I was at the time this poem was written. I'm not suicidal and am considered mentally stable. I'm so thankful for the help I received despite how painful it was. Thank you Dr. Walker, Dr. Weisman, and the legacy of Patch Adams.