I want to take apart my skin
when the sun is too bright
and the world is too full
of people who will never know me.
I want to open the rivers
inside my wrists and empty them;
to pour myself away
the way I pour whisky
into my empty stomach,
and my hypothermic limbs
into stranger's beds.
©Nicola-Isobel H. 10.04.2019
The world is made of crisp clear lines.
It’s nice when things are clear and clean, but
Sometimes the lights brighten and the lines grow sharp.
Sharp enough to cut.
When the world is made of sharp and bright lines,
Things start to hurt.
Everything is too loud.
It’s not crisp or clear because everyone is talking
And it hurts.
My head feels fuzzy and the lights are still too bright.
When everything is sharp and fuzzy and loud and bad,
I take off my glasses.
It doesn’t stop the lights from glaring,
Or the people from talking,
But it makes the lines a bit less sharp.
living makes me want to die
while the sound of the river keeps playing,
and my privilege will soon drown it out
as the river trickles down my ears,
but i keep hearing the same song.
I dance in the rain
people start to believe my lies
and I splash in a puddle.
i laugh with grief
there is no me anywhere, anymore
My clothes are soaked with protection.
I run and run and scream and play,
Waist deep in my little river,
must be the polution
no one hears my calls or wishes.
I let myself float care free.
I hold my breath everyday
I feel it slosh in my brain
I won't wake up from this dream
I hear the river stream
as it moves past my body
as it moves through my body
it goes on
it goes on
it goes on
what goes on when i can't?
the two parts me and end together
as grasses leap forth
and emerald hues are added to the landscape,
with wildflowers peeking up from the
The world smells
fresh like worms and earth,
while birds drift down to finish last year’s
Yellow rain boots hop
out of shelves and into the puddles,
while mud gathers and plays in the road,
gurgling with mirth at passers by.
The badminton net is resurrected,
regally looming over the lawn,
as the swings squeak joyfully in the breeze.
The fireplace gives a sooty yawn
and falls to sleep.
And in the kitchen, fiddleheads unfurl upon
a hot pan
as the old and sour scent of the earth
settles upon our plates,
spring steps lightly
onto the world.
May 6, 2008
This is an old poem I dug out of my computer's memory. Even though I wrote this in middle school I still really like the imagery little me came up with.
— The End —