⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide and self-harm ⚠
----------------------
May 30th, 2018
These wayward breaths
lead me to
the Dead Sea.
"This is where you belong;"
whisper the spirits
of The Deep--
"this is where all
broken things
come to die."
The Dead Sea
is my bathtub-
ramshackle tiles,
contorted shower rod
bowing under the weight
of the fraying curtain.
The water sprints
in a scalding race
from the tap,
its gurgling clamour
veiling the sound
of Billie Eilish
playing on the speaker
(isn't it lovely all alone?)
I stare at the Exacto Knife
clutched between my
water-pruned fingertips.
And
the moment you pick
up a knife instead of a
shoddy razor blade
from a dollar store
pencil sharpener,
you know you've
hit rock bottom
(did you know
the Dead Sea is
the lowest
point on earth?;
have you ever experienced
the remarkable plummet
of that kind of low?)
I trace the patterns
of invisible
constellations
on the terrain of
my flesh;
at first,
I am too afraid
to press down
but when I do--
my god,
when I do--
I draw blood
with the same artistry
borne from a
painter's hand,
each laceration
a brush stroke closer
to someplace beyond this
sadness.
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 10:14 PM UTC
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide and self-harm ⚠
----------------------
May 30th, 2018
These wayward breaths
lead me to
the Dead Sea.
"This is where you belong;"
whisper the spirits
of The Deep--
"this is where all
broken things
come to die."
The Dead Sea
is my bathtub-
ramshackle tiles,
contorted shower rod
bowing under the weight
of the fraying curtain.
The water sprints
in a scalding race
from the tap,
its gurgling clamour
veiling the sound
of Billie Eilish
playing on the speaker
(isn't it lovely all alone?)
I stare at the Exacto Knife
clutched between my
water-pruned fingertips.
And
the moment you pick
up a knife instead of a
shoddy razor blade
from a dollar store
pencil sharpener,
you know you've
hit rock bottom
(did you know
the Dead Sea is
the lowest
point on earth?;
have you ever experienced
the remarkable plummet
of that kind of low?)
I trace the patterns
of invisible
constellations
on the terrain of
my flesh;
at first,
I am too afraid
to press down
but when I do--
my god,
when I do--
I draw blood
with the same artistry
borne from a
painter's hand,
each laceration
a brush stroke closer
to someplace beyond this
sadness.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!
jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple
(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
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