Apr 2018
The trees seemed to close in on me as I laid in the middle of a clearing, my eyes staring up at the star-filled sky above. My breathing ragged from running to this secluded spot in the woods.
I felt the prickly pine cones under my back, letting silent tears run down my ink-stained face.
I had fought too hard, I wrote everything that I could have possibly done.
“Sing me down from the sky,” I sang to the sky, “All the way from death’s ledge. ” My chest felt heavy, whether it was my asthma or my anxiety didn’t matter anymore. I felt the scars on my wrist itch again, underneath my skin in a way I couldn’t relieve.
The trees were shadows, I could consider them demons but they really aren’t, they’re my home.
The only place I can feel satisfied with who I am.
I spent so many nights lingering in this forest, thinking the cure would be here. A mission for a purpose that would be found inside my head. Of course, I sometimes forget that my head is the most dangerous place to be.
I sat up and pulled my notebook out of the ground, along with a glowing pen. A symbol of my pent up creativity.
Maybe by writing a few poems, I’ll feel better about myself. I know that it won’t work, I need more. I need to have a name for myself, even if it’s just a few people. I want to sing to the forest and watch it sway in joy instead of pity.
I imagine myself on a stage made of bent over trees, the bark is slippery but I’m able to stand.
The people surround me, they are calling all our names. So, the ground holds me up, as I sing my heart out onto the makeshift microphone. My voice echoes and bounces through the greens, I’m finally outside my head, I’ve made it through every night and stood in a place I thought I never would.
Unfortunately, that’s not how life works. I wake up, my eyes once again looking towards the sky.
Again, words begin to spill out of my mouth in a tune, “I talk to myself and the dark grey sky beyond…”
Nothing answers, as per usual. It’s okay, I reassure myself, I don’t need a voice.
I wrap my hands in leaves and pretend that it’s a disguise.
Suddenly- I am home. My ceiling fan above me, whirring softly. My pen and paper laying on my chest. The night was sinking in and I am just as scared as I was the last night...
I felt the prickly pine cones under my back, letting silent tears run down my ink-stained face.
I had fought too hard, I wrote everything that I could have possibly done.
“Sing me down from the sky,” I sang to the sky, “All the way from death’s ledge. ” My chest felt heavy, whether it was my asthma or my anxiety didn’t matter anymore. I felt the scars on my wrist itch again, underneath my skin in a way I couldn’t relieve.
The trees were shadows, I could consider them demons but they really aren’t, they’re my home.
The only place I can feel satisfied with who I am.
I spent so many nights lingering in this forest, thinking the cure would be here. A mission for a purpose that would be found inside my head. Of course, I sometimes forget that my head is the most dangerous place to be.
I sat up and pulled my notebook out of the ground, along with a glowing pen. A symbol of my pent up creativity.
Maybe by writing a few poems, I’ll feel better about myself. I know that it won’t work, I need more. I need to have a name for myself, even if it’s just a few people. I want to sing to the forest and watch it sway in joy instead of pity.
I imagine myself on a stage made of bent over trees, the bark is slippery but I’m able to stand.
The people surround me, they are calling all our names. So, the ground holds me up, as I sing my heart out onto the makeshift microphone. My voice echoes and bounces through the greens, I’m finally outside my head, I’ve made it through every night and stood in a place I thought I never would.
Unfortunately, that’s not how life works. I wake up, my eyes once again looking towards the sky.
Again, words begin to spill out of my mouth in a tune, “I talk to myself and the dark grey sky beyond…”
Nothing answers, as per usual. It’s okay, I reassure myself, I don’t need a voice.
I wrap my hands in leaves and pretend that it’s a disguise.
Suddenly- I am home. My ceiling fan above me, whirring softly. My pen and paper laying on my chest. The night was sinking in and I am just as scared as I was the last night...
