The last time I saw you, I was the splitting image of the Butterfly Project.
I thought pen could save me.
In middle school, they impress upon you so much about ink poisoning,
But not enough about what to use besides ink.
I need the butterflies on my wrist, I say.
*I’ve been doing some research, and I found that
Butterflies can see the color red.*
I tell you they tumbled down my arms.
The butterflies, they somersault
Over red crevices in my wrist and palm;
Bat their wings like eyelashes holding back tears;
Rush air over wounds with their wings
Because oxygen heals.
I never said I didn’t like the taste of oxygen.
It just wasn’t my flavor yet.
Maybe the reason I like film photography so much
Is because an author named Janet Fitch once said she felt like
*An underdeveloped photograph,
Her image rising to the surface.*
Maybe my photograph is overexposed.
My photograph is of the whiteness in my mind when I hurt myself,
And I need chemicals like fixer
To bring an image to the front and center.
The rule of thirds divided me into two parts self-hatred
And one part hatred for hating myself:
Perhaps there’s one chemical I need to soak my brain in;
Perhaps I missed the perma-wash step
And I didn’t fully rinse away the negative solution on my film.
And if I am to talk about steps,
Then I am a spiral staircase that hasn’t had the steps built in yet
Because I don’t understand how to attach them.
I’ve forgotten how to hold onto railings.
My palms are splintered because I land on them when I fall.
Now I never said I wasn’t worth recovery.
I just couldn’t say that I was.
I am the embodiment of not wanting to get on the roller coaster because I’m scared,
but also being the roller coaster myself.
I just don’t know how to stop.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
The last time I saw you, I was the splitting image of the Butterfly Project.
I thought pen could save me.
In middle school, they impress upon you so much about ink poisoning,
But not enough about what to use besides ink.
I need the butterflies on my wrist, I say.
*I’ve been doing some research, and I found that
Butterflies can see the color red.*
I tell you they tumbled down my arms.
The butterflies, they somersault
Over red crevices in my wrist and palm;
Bat their wings like eyelashes holding back tears;
Rush air over wounds with their wings
Because oxygen heals.
I never said I didn’t like the taste of oxygen.
It just wasn’t my flavor yet.
Maybe the reason I like film photography so much
Is because an author named Janet Fitch once said she felt like
*An underdeveloped photograph,
Her image rising to the surface.*
Maybe my photograph is overexposed.
My photograph is of the whiteness in my mind when I hurt myself,
And I need chemicals like fixer
To bring an image to the front and center.
The rule of thirds divided me into two parts self-hatred
And one part hatred for hating myself:
Perhaps there’s one chemical I need to soak my brain in;
Perhaps I missed the perma-wash step
And I didn’t fully rinse away the negative solution on my film.
And if I am to talk about steps,
Then I am a spiral staircase that hasn’t had the steps built in yet
Because I don’t understand how to attach them.
I’ve forgotten how to hold onto railings.
My palms are splintered because I land on them when I fall.
Now I never said I wasn’t worth recovery.
I just couldn’t say that I was.
I am the embodiment of not wanting to get on the roller coaster because I’m scared,
but also being the roller coaster myself.
I just don’t know how to stop.
Prompt: write a poem about a time when you hit rock bottom.
