quiet child

it’s hanging in my closet,
on the rail that I’m
afraid to touch, lest
the metal burns me.

maybe it’s me, maybe
it’s a little scary to me.
the desk is a mess
just like my broken chest.

I’m already tired, the
sunshine and chemistry
bores me. shall we
look at the moon instead?

odds and ends of the
rotting things I kept.
I should’ve been a
drinker, full of roses.

winter

dark circles in sunken pearls,
the iris shapes and blows.
with tinted purple lips,
the early morning shakes
set in.

beyond the frosted windows
the mould and mildew creeps
like a diseased ivy,
the snowdrops open and
shake the dew off.

a haunted oak that twists,
aches and splits open
at the bark. the grass is
encrusted with ice, they
crack under the gravity.

quarantine

my hands and knuckles
are dried and cracking
open. my bones surface
against the skin, poised
and tinted violet.
skin smells of aloe vera
and alcohol, how many
songs do I sing while
I burn my hands on
scalding water and
vanilla soap? the aisle
are empty, people are
heaving into elbows and
wiping pearls of snot
from cold nostrils.
close the doors and
paint them with the blood
of the lamb, the end
is neigh.

bad habits

dried skin and clipped
fingernails. clumps of
broken fingertips that
burn, pink from the cold.

skin so abused it
grows red and
purple. teeth bite
and rip what’s left.

blood seeps downward
like an unsure stream,
staining the nail bed
and crevices of skin.

it stings deeply,
like a knife that
slices meat, filling
my lungs with breath.

they call it autocannibalism.

Nonsense (2)

I think too much.
vague hope, everyone I love
is simple and happy.
I feel empty, days pass by
like a forest fire. what did
you think? your life is ending
and i used to be seventeen.
it’s getting colder, and I can
feel myself slipping. I cry,
nobody would listen.
after the good stuff,
everything will change.
when it hurt the most,
I wanna put my hand in
the fireplace. there’s an
ache in my chest, I need
to teach myself to handle
whatever comes my way.
I don’t matter to anyone.

[Author’s Note: This is a collage poem, compiled of images and texts from mental health posts on Tumblr.]

Nonsense (1)

our joy was, by touch,
by smell, so nice before.
what happened?
sometimes, it’s hard to
move on. my head hurts,
to love is to endure.
everything went into
a coma. homesick from
attachment. i hope i melt.
i wonder what it feels like
to love myself. i know
loneliness, it’s meant to hurt.
this is bad timing, my hands
are clean. you said you
loved me. i sedated myself,
i am my own ghost.
the years go by, I should
be happy. I don’t want
to be alone.

[Author’s Note: This is a collage poem, compiled of images and texts from mental health posts on Tumblr.]

the girl with magic in her hands

the girl believed she had magic
in the palm of her hands.

the forest could bend
to her will. sparks flying
from her fingertips.
at night, she joined the
stars, climbing the roof and
feeling the wind in her hair.

the spheres smiled upon her
and caressed the glow of
her moonlit skin. the girl
whispered secrets, sharing
her gift until it could
no longer breathe.

the magic drained itself,
the light in her eyes snuffed
like a candle, smoke flows
past her lips. her ribs
were crushed, and she bled
from her heart. the magic
was gone, as was her
child-like body.